I fucking hate Mondays.

And I already know what you’re thinking.

“Sure, don’t we all?” but you don’t understand. My job is hell, literally.

I clock in at 8:57 every morning to my job. The place is called Bartholomew & Jones. It sounds like a boring law office or something benign, but it’s so much worse than you could imagine.

If you walked onto the main floor, you might think it was the New York stock exchange in the 80s. Men in stiff suits pace angrily around the edges of the room while charts with a live feed violently rise and fall. But at Bartholomew & Jones, we’re not trading stocks. We’re trading souls.

“Victor!” an ugly woman with a raspy smoker's voice shouts my name as she taps on my desk, “the boss wants to talk to you.”

“Thanks, Linda,” I force a smile as she limps off. Linda was a part of “the family” here at B&J. She has been employed since the late 50s, making her at least 80 years old. I suspect she hasn’t quit because, for some reason or another, she still wants to live.

I get up from my uncomfortable chair and make a bee-line towards the boss’ office. These people were cheap on furniture, and the starting pay was shit, but, I’m about a year, I was able to work myself up to a pretty decent salary, making twice what my friends who worked more “traditional” careers were pulling. Of course, there were certain magical NDAs that I signed which prevented me from telling them what I did, even if I wanted to, I’d immediately burst into flames.

The boss’ office was perched high above everyone on the main floor's head. It was mostly walled off, save for a small window that aligned perfectly with his desk, so while you couldn’t see him, he could most certainly look down and see you.

I picked at a scab on my knuckle anxiously as I made my way up the metal staircase. The sound of my leather shoes clip-clopping on each stair gathered the attention of my coworkers, who, one-by-one began to look up from their desks to watch me. There was Kevin in logistics with a snide grin on his face. Fucking asshole was always trying to sink me by conveniently misplacing the souls I poached on their way to “that place.”

I cast him a glair like daggers. He lost grip of his coffee mug, and it spilled all over the papers on his desk “GoddamnSHIT!” he says, and I enjoy a momentary chuckle before I remember I’m on my way to see the big man: Stephen Jones, the 4th.

The doorknob to his office was a heavy cold steel that looked like it was hammered into a rough shape back in the 1500's. The door was wooden and smelled of cedar & salt. It swung open with a loud creak.

“Stephen, how’s the wife?” I say with a smile as I step into the dark room. The ceiling was impossibly high, with large family portraits on the wall. A single candle lit Stephen’s desk on the opposite end of the room, and between us, there was long fireplace.

“Vvv-ictor, come closer.” came the high hissy voice of Stephen. I gulp and step forward, tripping slightly on a gaudy bear rug.

“Linda said you wanted to see me?” I manage to get out as I step past tall glass containers of petrified tarantulas.

My eyes must have been wide as plates as Stephen began to chuckle his strange whispery snicker.

“S-S-S-SSS, I seeee you’ve noti-s-s-s-ed my collection. What do you think?” came Stephen's voice. Although he was seated, his enormous snake-like head hovered over eight-feet above tbe ground, which forced me to crane my neck in order to meet his slit-shaped glowing yellow eyes.

“Oh, well, it’s a fine collection, Steve. I’m just more of a Dog guy myself.” I laugh it off.

“SSSSSS-S-S-S!” Stephen snickered loudly, his tail rattling somewhere behind his large wooden desk.

“See, that’s what I like about you, Victor! You’re not afraid to sss-speak your mind.”

I let off a sigh of relief as I finally reached the black leather chair for visitors in front of his desk.

“Also, don’t ever call me S-S-Steve, or I'll have you fired before you can sss-say SSS-SAYONARA!”

Stephen raised his three-fingered hand covered in scales and pointed with a large black nail to the seat before his formidable desk.

“Sss-sit” he spoke through his forked tongue.

I sat and found myself in an even more uncomfortable position, forced to look almost straight up to see Stephen’s head bobbing from side to side.

“I’ll get right to the point,” said Stephen, and he reached into the breast pocket of his coat, which was roughly at level with my head.

“Is that what I think it is?” I said in disbelief.

Stephen blinked. There in his hand was a glass vile with a glowing red vapor inside> I immediately recognized, it was a soul. In this modern age of technology, we were trading souls digitally, so it was rare to see a bottled soul in the flesh. Unlike the standard soul case, this one was ornate in every way, with golden designs etched onto the glass and an ornate wooden cap on one end

"Whose is it?"

Stephen pointed back to the large portrait above the fireplace. I turned around to get a better look at it. It was a family of 3 generations of the Jones family, featuring a high school aged of Stephen wearing a tupe, apparently trying to look more human. Behind him stood both his giant snake parents. His father, Stephen Jones the 3rd, with a thin black mustache that must have been drawn on his upper lip, and his mother, whose face was painted with flesh-colored makeup, lipstick and round contact lenses to make her eyes appear more human. However, it had quite the reverse effect making her look like a snake wearing dead skin that hadn’t yet been peeled off.

“Mummy," said Stephen. I gulped as he extended the vile for me to grab.

"I want you to deliver this to deliver this to Morgan & Sss-sons,”

“Our competitors across the road?”

“Preccc-isely, and in return, they’ll have a briefcase for you.”

I wanted to say no. I wanted to run out of the room and not look back, but I couldn't.

“And what should I expect to find in this briefcase."

“You will not need to look in the case, sss-so long as you find this seal on the case unbroken. With his left hand, he sketched what looked like a cross on his notepad, then turned it upside down and pushed it toward me. The hairs on my neck stood straight up, and I stood up from my chair.

“Understood, sir, you can count on me.” I stepped forward to grab the glass-embalmed soul, which pulsed red and pink as I got closer.

“Of course you are.”

I reached for the vile, and just before I could grab it, he pulled it away, forcing my to step forward slightly, almost tripping over his desk. Fast with a whip, Stephen’s head shot down from its high perch until his eyes were just inches away from my own.

“Good luck Victor,” he said with a wink before licking my forhead with his tongue. It was dry and leather, making a rough sound as it passed through my hair.

I gagged but managed to hold it in, slowly turning my back to Stephen and making my way out the door. I stuff the vile into my breast pocket and gasp as I close the office door behind me.

What the fuck have I gotten myself into?