Ethan was sitting at a desk which was in a small, forgotten looking room. He looked very harassed and mussed. The sign on the door said "COMPLAINTS." That in itself should be enough explination, but in case it isn't we shall go into more depth.

The regular complaints manager had quit. Just hadn't come in to work. So who was it that had been stuck with it, at least temporarily? That's right! Ethan! Already he'd asnwered more phonecalls than he had over the course of his life. At least ten people had been in in the first hour to complain about something, whether it was a misspelling of a name, a misprint of a picture, or just something they felt they had to right on behalf of society.

With his head on the desk, Ethan was beginning to figure out why the previous complaint manager had quit. He was getting ready to quit himself and it wasn't even his job.

No, he couldn't quit though. No, he had to do this and eventually he would get the big story, something good, something that would really get him acclaim. Maybe somethign overseas, away from this damn desk.

He just sat and waited for the next angry consumer to yell.

Oh yes, he had complaints.

Lines were too long.
The sun was too bright.
The air was too clean or not clean enough.
His back itched beneath the folded wing.
You had a stain on your coat sleeve.
I have only two dollars.

So on and so forth.

But no. Only one complaint would be applicable to the current situation. The news situation. It required a face-to-face meeting. Anything less was not legitimate.

Josaiah had dressed neatly for his meeting with destiny. Black pants pressed this time, black shirt tucked in, ivory buttons, black jacket. Nice. Suede? He hadn't checked. His hat was white, so lovely, white, white fedora white. Fedoras overdone? Oh well. Maybe he was a patron of Escher.

Into the offices he strode, hellion king of all he saw. He had a container in one hand and the container had contents contradicting the label. While the label would indicate coffee house supremeo, Josaiah's enjoyment personally indicated all natural grade A milk. The phrase humans are cattle degraded a central food source. He took a rich, only lightly cool sip and made his way down the hall.

"Complaints."

Did he have some complaints for you, you lucky devil. Or angel. Such confusion. Devil worked.

He raised a pale fist and knocked before surveying his black nail lest they come under damage in the face of such strenous work.

Ethan sighed, his forehead resting on his forearm. Blinking a few times, he sat up straight and adjusted his clothing to make it look more presentable. At least this person had the sense and enough manners to knock instead of kicking the door down, the awesome Gun of General Bitching in one hand and the mighty Sword of Offended Parents in the other, screaming a battlecry of 'I'LL SUUUUUUE.'

"Come in," the harassed reporter called, grabbing a pen and trying to look busy by writing his grocery list. Eggs, milk, pizza...

A sip of milk. Let the wee mortal wait. Have a taste of suspense before the delicious, demon-flavoured cream filling that was Josaiah.

Three, two, one, and he was in.

He closed the door with his foot and did not wait to be registered or recognized. He sat and put his left ankle on his right knee, then switched them. He removed his fedora and shook loose the headful of dreadlocks. Piercings gleamed. Then his teeth gleamed.

"I have a complaint."

Or he wouldn't be here. Or would he? However, he liked hearing the pointlessly obvious nature of that phrase.

"Is there a form I fill out or do I just talk to you?"

You lucky, lucky blighter.

"Um, I guess you just talk to me." There was indeed a form that was supposed to be filled out, but Ethan was not told this. So he just wrote down the big complaints and ignored the small ones. For the middle sized complaints he just winged it.

"What was your complaint, sir?" he asked, trying to look interested, but not too interested. Just enough that the complainer would speak his mind and then leave. Idly, Ethan began fiddling with a pencil and a pad of paper. He wasn't exactly writing, but he wasn't just doodling either. Just moving the pencil, looking busy. He had to look busy.

"Marvelous..."

More suspense. He took a deep breath. Smoothed the crease in his trousers.

"What is my complaint, dear boy, you haven't solved it yet."

(Tremor in the suspense's build-up like a sweater snag.)

He reminds the already harrassed individual and then wets his throat with now almost room temperature milk. It was good this way. Josaiah's eyes were riveted on the pen. The twitching pen. He followed the movements. It did not look like tic-tac-toe. It did not look like cognitive sentence structure either.

"I'm addressing a gross undersight in the article on economy deficiencies..."

He cleared his throat for the smiting blow.

"It clearly states that weakness in the government are the root of the evils in the economy but what I fail to see is due credit given to those who put those weaknesses there."

We of Hell are so underappreciated.

There is a vague smell of unpleasantly heated milk wafting from his cup, but he doesn't notice.

Ethan did notice the smell and his nose wrinkled briefly in slight disgust. Then he frowned, unsure of what the man was talking about. He couldn't even remember the article. Quickly, he ran through a mental database, trying to find a match up there.

Ah, there it is. Still don't know what he's talking about.

"What do you mean, sir?" Usually he hated having to call the complainer sir or ma'am, but it seemed to fit this individual. It felt almost like he demanded to be called sir just by being there.

"I... don't understand what you mean." Who should credit be given to? Santa?

Josaiah leans in. This was confidential material.

"Young man, there are hard-working denizens of the Underworld toiling day after day at your weak mortals souls to twist and corrupt them. I know I'm personally very in favour of giving these poor, labouring damned a bit of recognition."

And he can say it all with a straight face and steady eye. The milk smells worse in close quarters.

But Ethan does not have to endure the decreased range for very long. As soon as Josaiah finished his welfare-for-the-wicked speech, he sits back and takes a thoughtful sip.

"I would have thought such a matter would be clear to you. Working in a news office, after all..."

For a few seconds, Ethan can do nothing but blink. At first Ethan thought he was talking about a subway. Then he realized that was the underground. Besides, subway workers don't try to corrupt the souls of mortals.

The pencil stopped moving, as did his hands, and Ethan leaned back. Partly because it was the kind of statement that deserved to have a lean-back, partly because this man scared him for reasons he didn't understand.

He cleared his throat. "Who?" After a few more seconds, he elaborated. "Sorry, sir, but it is unfortunately not very clear to me."

Ethan didn't even notice the milk smell anymore.

Josaiah watches him with the utmost intensity while casually taking regular drinks from his steadily curdling cup. His eyes remained trained on Ethan while his arm moves unchecked to and fro of the chair with the cup.

"Think about it, boy..."

And he can use the word "boy" here because he really is trying to sound superior. He's doing a bang-up job of it too.

"What isn't clear? My complaint? I thought I was being very explicite."

He doesn't want to be overly thorough or the statements will lose the effect, the gravity they hold.

"Never once in my subscription to your paper have I ever seen notice given to the dedicated deceased and childer of Lucifer. Notice of their endless hours of toiling are they thanked for what they give to the mortals. So, so grossly ungrateful."

Ethan should be ashamed for his race.

"You really should be ashamed."

And he frowns like a father admonishing a child for some misdeed.

Ethan did think about it. And thought about. And, just because third time's the charm, he thought about it one more time. Still didn't get it. Was this some underground cult he was talking about?

He was also feeling incredibly inferior. Even if he hadn't been yelled at all morning, Ethan was sure he would be feeling as horrible as he did just because this man had enetered the office.

Time for excuses.

"I'm sorry sir, I've just been overworked. I'm sure if you give me the details we can run a correction in the next edition." He sat with pencil poised to copy said details onto a sheet of paper.

"Excuses are like a dead man recieving a tax form. It isn't doing anyone any good."

He purses his lips and finishes the drink, eyes searching for a trashcan and then brows over those eyes lifting.

"Could I throw this somewhere?"

Or more like, I'm going to throw this away, do I care if you disagree?

"The ratifications I'm requesting are that due credit be given to the damned souls that spend their days making this world bearable. Start thanking them for what they do. The lack of appreciation is unsightly."

He huffs a little.

Ethan copied down the statement, stopping afterward to look it over in disbelief. He couldn't throw it away in front of the man, so he just moved it to one of the large, ever growing piles on the desk.

As for the man's cup: "Yeah, there should be a trashcan on the side of the desk here."

His eyes were drawn back to the paper he had written on. Damned souls?

What?

Josaiah disposed of his cup without leaving his seat. The proverbial "swoosh" and an imaginary two points under the big 'J'.

He reclined back into the chair, sticking his legs out until his soles touched the desk.

"You'll thank me later."

He sounded almost sure of this. His eye trained onto Ethan's puzzled face and his expression dared the other to ask more questions. Just dared him.

Ethan's eyes flickered to the feet, to the trash, and finally to the man's face. Why would he thank him later? His mouth narrowed and his eyebrows rose in the middle, a kind of confused frown.

He wasn't sure whether or not he wanted to ask what he should be thankful for. He was almost afraid the man would say his eternal soul. He asked anyway.

"What'll I thank you for?"

"You'll thank me for pointing this greivious error out. It will be such a comfort for them to finally be recognized."

Of course.

Josaiah sniffed fastidiously.

"I daresay it will save you or this company any mishaps in the future."

Ha. As if he knew anything about such matters. However, Josaiah was capital at making himself seem much more important and knowledgable. He continued to soak in his puddle of inflated ego, cocking his chin to an angle that sent his tinted dreads cascading for his line of sight. A very devious move, and he did say so himself.

He smiled from one corner of his mouth.

((Sorry for taking so long to respond... it was writers block kinda))

That was a new one. Forgetting someone's name never cause any great mishaps in the past. Especially now, since he still wasn't quite sure who they were supposed to be giving credit to.

"Um.. yes, sir. I'm sure it will," he agreed mindlessly like a good employee.

He tried in a not-so-subtle subtle way to get the man to leave. "We'll get right one that sir, once you leave." Cheesy smile, pray it doesn't make the man stay longer...

"Once I leave? Not now?"

He furrowed his brow.

"I really can't feel justified in leaving until I see what you're printing. You're obviously such a bewildered thing... I would hate for something wrong to be printed and it be your fault."

He rested an elbow on the chair arm and then stroked his chin with his forefinger. Watching Ethan. Intently.

I'm on to your game... you just kept playing along.. oh, but I've caught you...

Ethan leaned back. This was uncomfortable. He was sure the man had just insulted him, but there was no yelling, no outrage; just a calm tone of voice people use when talking to a small child.

"Yes, sir, I'm sorry, but I cannot leave this room until my shift is over. At the end of my shift I will take all the complaints to the editor and he will sort them out. I'm sorry, sir, I only take them down, not make sure they are carried out."

If he leaned back any farther, Ethan was sure to topple out of his chair. He tried to relax and shifted his weight forward just a bit.

Josaiah furrowed his high brow and sighed,

"I fear for the safety of my little ratification."

He announced in a most mournful tone.

"What cruel proofreading and laughter must it endure for those of the editor's office to see the gravity of this matter?"

Here, he should have shook his fist in the air. Or perhaps put a knife to his throat and jumped onto the twentieth story windowsill. Such melodrama. But then again, he was fully within his own power to remain in the office for the day. He might as well keep hmself amused with his own antics.

Yet, alas, rather than threats of self-destruction he but smoothed his left sleeve.

"I have no other appointments."

I can stay all day.