A Night on the Town: Introducing Asmodeus Prodigious

They say that idle hands are the devil’s workshop. I can assure you, ladies and gentlemen, that these hands are rarely idle and would make the angels furious at the things I’ve done with them. I’m in the business of entertaining, of sleight-of-hand; I live by the agility of my fingers. I am Asmodeus Prodigious, purveyor of prestidigitations and parlor tricks, hobby drunk, and admirer of the female form. I’ve been with Vapuer for 2 years, satiating my wanderlust and a mild case of kleptomania. It’s so fascinating what people keep in their pockets; and in their corsets. So sit back, relax, and ignore that feeling near your wallet, and ladies… please wear something complicated.

***

Asmodeus lay back on the sofa and closed his eyes, allowing his tongue to fully enjoy the complex flavors of the sanguine wine now leaving its near invisible marks down the side of the glass poised leisurely in his hand. Ah, wine, he mused, another reason in favor of my relocation to France. You see, for all its empire building, and technical advances, and war-making prowess, Asmodeus felt Britain was severely lacking in one of the most important aspects of any great civilization: fermented fruit; more precisely, grapes. All the chaps back in London can keep their lagers and stouts; s’like funny tea, gone past its prime. Here there’s wine, with such variety, texture, flavor; so many bottles and, sadly, so little precious time. He gazed at his glass with a Cheshire cat smile, and took another long sip.
The light in the windows slowly waned, as dusk crawled its way into the streets and alleyways. The outside air was filling with sound as fast as the bars and houses of ill-repute. Darkness descending and Asmodeus felt it like an oppressive weight. He reached into the pocket of his purple tailcoat, the snakeskin in terrible conflict with the crimson upholstery. The lid of his watch flipped open, and each tick of the hands reminded him of just how early he had arrived. He never really enjoyed the opium den all that much. It was not really his vice, and seducing women not in a drug-induced haze was so much more rewarding to his ego.
Sighing, Asmodeus returned his watch to its pocket, sat up, and poured himself another glass. He held it up to the light, and smiled. “Another Cotes du Rhone, please?”