memphis

hidden in his cloak is a red right hand !

[ofdemonic]

#OFDEMONIC : ㅤㅤwriting blog for an original unaffiliated demon character known as mr. memphis ; based on mephistopheles from the legend of “faust” and inspired by american gods, anansi boys and preacher. previously found @monstroum triggering content ahead, please mind your step. sideblog to @ofbizarre , please refer to the main blog for rules.

ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ⁰ carrdㅤ ¹ ch. studyㅤ ² headcanonsㅤ ³ aestheticsㅤ

[willemdafoegif]

[ofdemonic]

‘   The effect I was hoping to have was her death. Mission accomplished.    ‘

"yeah, yeah, yeah, but did ya have to make it so quick?" mr. memphis whined, shaking his head at the bloodied body laying on the floor. twenty-nine years young. baptised too ... his little black book of souls had become increasingly light during these last few weeks. following the vampire lestat's north american tour in hopes of getting a few easy signatures had been a mistake. "that's another perfectly good soul gone to waste! you suck 'em dry so quick i can't even get a word in! you're killin' me over here, my guy!" cried out the demon while gesturing dramatically at the corpse which had been conveniently parked between two toyotas.

how was he supposed to get anyone to sign off their immortal souls to him if lestat de lioncourt kept cutting their lifelines with one quick precise bite? if he made his victims' deaths torturous and extravagant then maybe memphis could at least have a laugh, but this? this was just lazy work. very unlike the creature of the night he had heard so much about.

was lestat down in the dumps? had he lost his edge? no, surely not!

something in the demon's expression suddenly shifted. a light bulb had went on inside mr. memphis' head. "you happy with your manager? they slackin' off? i could get you to perform in sold-out stadiums. could get you a nike sponsorship! i could make sure every screen in the country has your face plastered on it." he wrapped an arm around lestat's shoulders, pulling him in tight. the guy smelled of tobacco, sulfur and, surprisingly, green apples. though there was no cigarette in either of his hands, before beginning his next sentence, the man exhaled smoke. "hell, why stop there? you wanna have your own talkshow, hm? say the words baby, and i can have kimmel dead by tomorrow. hey ---" memphis peeked over both of his shoulders before leaning in and whispering gravely.

"you wanna be president, lestat?"

his terrible red right hand smacked the vampire's chest with unearned familiarity. "i can get you in there! anything you want, on a fuckin' silver plater! i snap of my fingers and your wish is my command les! all you gotta do," his scarred hand was suddenly holding something open. "is give us an autograph." that damned little black book.

[heateron]

tom waits - heartattack and vine (1980)

[talentforlying]

@ofdemonic / continued from ♠

half-melted ice clinks pitifully as an empty mug trades out for a belligerent swig of watered-down highball, a flat stare leveled over the rim of the glass that is, in stern contrast to memphis's unrepentant glee, distinctly unimpressed. 'yunno, good little christian boys are meant to say that bit three times if they really mean it. s'bad form to skimp. makes ye look insincere.'

seems daft now to think how just that morning, picking his suit up from the cleaners, constantine had been telling himself: see, con job, there's a certain silver lining to having your vicious custody battle with hell upgraded into a general war of attrition — you can finally chat a fucker up directly again before they try to rip your heart out. he'd actually been looking forward to doing this like the old days, for a change, all david mamet and that; even cut the obituaries page out of the times, quartered nicely and tucked away beside the hanky on his breast for an olive branch. not that it'll ever leave the pocket now, except on its nicely-folded way to the recycling. since memphis kept him waiting until only cash bribery could get a fresh pot of coffee on within the delicate arsehair of time left between now and closing.

'...you blew me off to fuck with nuns?' despite mounting irritation, one eyebrow twitches mutinously: an outlying symptom of an unchecked morbid intrigue. (complaints of ego aside, he'd pay good money to be there when lauds start at jackson street, come morning.) 'don't bloody kid me, mumps. i thought you were a professional.'

they both are. it's why memphis only needs ten words to knock the breath out of constantine's lungs, old grief flaring new, borrowed blood conspiring with the enemy to chill his veins. why he manages to lock his jaw, unsteady fingers flexing white-knuckled against the side of his glass, instead of leaping across the counter like he wants to. bastard. you bastard.

'fuck yerself.' he says it smiling, good and friendly-like; not the least bit like his eyes, which blaze chin the fucker in stiff, cold semaphore. or his shoulder, shrugging reflexively against a patronizing red right hand. 'you're late and you're pissing me off. the next time you feel like gettin' chatty downstairs, why not g'won and ask his nibs what it's like when i run out've patience with that shit, eh?'

sod these indoor smoking laws — he needs a silk cut if he's going to keep his nerves on the level. the last cigarette from its packet pinches between his back teeth as he talks, absentmindedly patting down his pockets for the lighter to go with it. 'i'm 'ere to discuss business, sunshine. you want what i've got t'say or not?'

[ofdemonic]

he likes the kid. despite all the heartburn, jonathan is never boring. he's got a sharp tongue, bad habits, morals which can be stretched and twisted to fit unethical spaces ... he had great potential for great things. alas, john constantine didn't know when to bow his head and shut up. happened a lot with catholics --- always ready to kneel and open their mouths to take jesus' shlong during holy communion but unwilling to spare any of that love to the folks downstairs.

memphis rested his chin on his hand, grinning from ear to ear as he watched his drinking buddy go through all the fun little stages of grief in a matter of seconds. his nostrils flared. that passing misery was better than any fucking perfume humanity could ever invent. he wanted to bottle it. but that would mean pushing poor constantine's buttons on a daily basis. "tsk, tsk, tsk, so touchy." memphis said feigning offense.

he takes note of the guy's threat. john had left memphis' home in a state of disarray during one of his little visits. but that only made his signature all the more precious --- what he wouldn't give to have constantine sign his soul off to him so that he could crush it beneath his red fingers. play him like a violin before cutting off his strings one by one ... but memphis knows how to play nice. he knows when to lay down and listen. anything for john constantine, oh, anything for the hellblazer, of course, of course!

sharp eyes watched as john looked for a lighter. with a small tilt of his head, a bright flame materialised and licked at the end of jonathan's cigarette, lighting it. "don't get crossed with me now, sonny. i was just teasing you, that's all." the rotten smirk on memphis' face made it difficult to take his word as genuine. still his attention was completely devoted to constantine now. "uncle memphis is aaaall ears."

[ofdemonic]

know that if your character ever does anything dangerous, criminal or just generally shitty, they can count on the support of mr. memphis. he’s really the type of guy who’ll stand behind you going “you gonna let them talk to you like that?” and keep instigating without ever actually getting involved. shrugging after someone committed manslaughter and going “eh it was bound to happen eventually. let’s go get a beer”. if a character is out there living wrong AT THE VERY LEAST they can count on memphis’ support.

[barcarole]

Faust, F. W. Murnau, 1926.

[ofdemonic]

you hear this horrible sound and walk in to find mr. memphis, leaning back in a nice warm bubble bath, relaxing after a long day of work, two slices of cucumber on both of his eyes, he has candles lit up, maybe a bit of incense, everything is nice and calm and zen, he’s got a mimosa in his hand, he is listening to his playlist, it’s called “tunes to chillax to”, he is having a grand old time

[ warning: lower your volume ]

[worldhammerer-old]

im gonna keep it false with you chief. im gonna lie to you.

[ofdemonic]

❛ you are late. the midnight hour has passed. ❜ / for mr. memphis?

" mmmm -- mea culpa, johnny boy. " mr. memphis was hunched over the counter as if he had been the one waiting for john constantine. the little black book which sat comfortably against his breast ( where a heart ought to be ) felt awfully light. it was missing john constantine's signature, neatly written in binding red ink. the creature sucked on his front teeth before turning to face his drinking companion for the evening. "had some business in need of a'tendin'." how long had he been chasing that little shit for an autograph? how many hearts had been crossed, blood pacts been offered, spits been spat?

john had dodged his own fucking funeral and tricked half of memphis' colleagues into letting him walk scot-free out of a deal which ought to be terminal. at this point, SORRY JUST WOULDN'T CUT IT. "left a nice juicy gift for the sisters down in jackson street." memphis rasped while a large grin spread across his wrinkled face. his century-standing vendetta against nuns had taken many shapes. that evening, he had set his sights on the statue depicting mater dolorosa which stood in the main hall. he had drilled a strap-on with a comically large bright red dildo pointing upwards. it'd be all over the news in the morning.

memphis chuckled at the thought and a whisp of smoke escaped from his lips. he had no cigarette in his hand. "they'll have to share but, hey, ain't that what sisterhood's all about? oh, speakin' of sisters," he punctuated the cruel topic change with a small pat on john's shoulder. "we miss you down there, kid-o."

[willemdafoegif]

[ofdemonic]

thinking about how mr. memphis will mostly flirt ( sometimes rather crassly ) when he knows it’ll push people’s buttons. thinking about how he finds more pleasure in people’s anger than through any loving gesture. he feels more attracted to people who show him hatred or despair than to those who actually reciprocate his advances. thinking about how love is never a goal or something he looks forward to. his desires are always attached to negative emotions. memphis stalks and preys upon those who are desperate, lost or furious. he cares not for softness and finds love nauseating.

thinking about how he doesn’t care about anyone’s figure or how pretty they are. he is a creature from the bottomless pit, whatever beauty humanity has to offer never truly touches him. the most beautiful person in the world is as important to him as the most beautiful ant in the world. mr. memphis is only truly left breathless when faced with horror, with monstrous beings that inflict panic upon humans’ hearts. beasts which are 50 feet tall and capable of destroying whole cities, storms which sink ships, a terrible plague...

memphis might do his little dance and make lewd remarks at both women and men, but his small shrivelled heart belongs to all which hurts and maims. he's only interested in seduction if it will result in someone selling their soul / destroying someone's life. after that, he's done with humans.

[ofdemonic]

misc. headcanons on MR. MEMPHIS that no one asked for;

he is left-handed.

house pets are usually very antagonistic towards him, perhaps because they can sense that he’s a bad omen. once he got jumped by seven cats while trying to swindle a senior citizen (he’ll tell you he nearly lost both of his eyes). he will hiss, toss things and even kick the animals when the owners aren’t looking. do not leave your pets alone with memphis. unless they’re rats or snakes or tarantulas. he likes those.

mr. memphis loves apple flavoured things. and he LOVES apple pie. if it’s sugary and has apple in it, he wants it.

he has a distinct and very strong smell of car air freshener mixed with a pungent cologne and tobacco (maybe an attempt to disguise the stench of sulfur which clings to the fibres of his suit to this day).

memphis smokes a lot. a lot. sometimes he breathes smoke without ever having to lighten his cigarette.

mr. memphis’ tongue can look suspiciously long. not long enough to cause concern but...you know...longer than average.

memphis becomes visibly agitated and/or angry every time people mention nuns or if he's anywhere near them. he despises them more than any other religious figure. do not get him started on those nuns.

his right hand is hard to ignore. though it was burned a long time ago, it still looks painful. it’s a deep shade of red, the skin is lumpy and twisted there and it glistens from time to time, suggesting pus or, at the very least, some sort of moistness.

[sludgewizard666]

“what that mouth do” speak falsehoods mostly, but lately i’ve also been really getting into blaspheming before god,

[le-samourai-x]

Sugata Sanshirō (姿三四郎) -1943 Directed by Akira Kurosawa