Demon who fucks. (Please don't tell anyone that they don't actually fuck.)
Jamdaggu, Earl of Bugs, PCAP™ Certified Associate Python Programmer, Master of Lust, stares into the full-length mirror in his office, smoothing his tie.
"Jamdaggu," he says, clears his throat, starts again. "Jamdaggu, Master of Lust."
He stares into the mirror, makes a distressed face, drinks some water from the permanently frosty carafe on his enormous mahogany desk, and tries again; firming his shoulders, squaring his chin.
"Jamdaggu." He tries out a regal glower. "Master of — ah fuck." He attempts a louche slouch and a smirk instead. "Jamdaggu, Master of — Jamdaggu, Master of Lust—"
There's a knock on the office door. Usually, that would be Mawgull — hyperefficient Mawgull, the best executive assistant this side of the Inner Pit — but she's been on a week-long streak of vicious temper, leaving dozens of succubi sobbing in the toilets and punishing any and every infraction or annoyance that passes her eyes by handing out a punishing load of mandatory professional development courses, to the point that whole columns in Jamdaggu's budget spreadsheet turned an alarming red and he had to ask her very carefully to stop doing that, please, because she's the one who's supposed to know how to fix that.
He thinks she's probably stalking the corridors again, wreathed in St. Elmo's fire, trying to work out who keeps putting post-it notes over her desk nameplate, scribbled with "MALHARAXXUS 2.0". And Jamdaggu's no personnel genius, he'll admit that, but terrorising your staff for comparing you to their old boss whom nobody liked because she terrorised them seems — well, it seems like there are obvious outcomes from that, and they don't seem aligned with whatever Mawgull wants out of it.
Jamdaggu would have sworn she had them all eating out of her hand before this.
"Come in," he yells dismally, and Vozdrammar bustles in to put some files on his desk.
"That's the minutes from this week's team standups," the succubus says, and hesitates. "Everything okay, boss?"
He throws his hands up. "There's a Berlin coven who've got the resources to personally request the attendance of a senior infernal manager to their monthly Dark Rites," he says. "I've managed to get out of it up to now, but it's short straw time, I'm down for six PM our time, and I'm — I didn't get this job on charisma, and we've got a certain public image, and I don't want to let you all down—"
"Are you planning to wear...that," Vozdrammar says, poking a tentative finger in the direction of his suit. "Daggu, honey, boss, no. You're a pimp hat short of no-talent no-budget Wendy's parking lot TikTok white rapper recreation of a nineties rap hoochie music video."
He looks in the mirror. "It's bad?"
She reaches out to gingerly pat him on the shoulder at full arm's length. "It's really bad."
"Nobody fucking told me!"
"Heavy is the ass that warms the Aeron," Vozdrammar says solemnly. "Listen, Frakkamu in 22 is about your height and she rocks the androgynous tux thing, we'll borrow you a good suit, I'll dig the big scary black cast iron and screaming soul furnace sybians out of the Christmas decoration cupboard, you ask the twins from Accounting to oil themselves up with something flammable, we'll give the clients a show, okay? Just smile like you're about to put down a winning poker hand, shake hands like they don't know you just fingered their wives, say as little as possible, and let the twins fill in any silences, they're really good mewlers."
"I gotta shake hands?"
"Daggu. Boss." she shakes him a little by the shoulders. "Shake hands. Grab their junk. Lick their faces. Put your hand out for them to kiss the ring. You're Master of Lust, do what you want, just do it like you mean it."
"Nobody told me this job would involve public appearances," Jamdaggu says sadly.
