Chapter Text
“Just pull them little strings and I'll sing you a song
I'm your puppet
Make me do right or make me do wrong
I'm your puppet”
I’m Your Puppet, James and Bobby Purify
——————————
Dale leaned and stretched and cursed as he walked off the small, sticky, beer-scented stage. He was getting older, no doubt about it.
“Hey, Daddy Longlegs! Having trouble walking? Gonna get those legs shortened next? Maybe they can tilt them up like they did with your nose!” Brad, asshole extraordinaire and bandmate from Hell, was drunk again. And Brad was bad when he wasn’t drunk.
Dale thought about killing him every night, but maybe that was too cruel.
“Yeah, Brad, and I told the Doc you want your dick lengthened. It’s not going to be cheap, though - we both know you’ll need a big fucking skin graft.” Dale hissed, and Brad just laughed, then belched.
God, thought Dale, if only he’d choke on his own puke one of these nights.
Dale was yet again reminded of getting older when he passed to the dressing room, took off the top hat and the scarf he had worn onstage, and padded at his puffed face with one hand.
His hand, still so slender and his.
His face, so swollen and…not.
He never liked his face as a boy.
Too round.
Too much like Dad’s - like the Reverend’s.
But Dale had to admit it, he had fucked up opting for cheap cutting.
Maybe if he were just slightly younger, he’d heal better - wouldn’t inflate like a fucking blimp.
It wasn’t just his face going up, either.
He’d started to notice a loss in muscle tone shortly after last month’s big failure of a concert, too.
And it came with a few complimentary stretch marks.
Not just that, though.
Looking down at the table in the dressing room, Dale noticed the stack of bills swelling, too.
God only knows why his bandmates found it fitting to leave him to crunch the fucking numbers, while they bounced off to eat out a handful of groupies in some warehouse and get stoned.
Maybe he was just always the easiest to take advantage of.
Or - a pang of jealousy and grief - they knew he was too fucking miserable to get laid.
He’d been with Teresa for five years - Mother-fucking-Teresa, that’s for goddamned certain - such a fucking saint that she kept going to dinner with him after his last surgery left him even more twisted, kept saying it was fine and she could handle it and that she loved him.
Dale was saving up to buy her a ring, actually, when he came to their apartment an hour early, and found her wrapped around the next door neighbor.
If she needed someone else, that was fine.
But she didn’t have to fucking lie. Make him waste his time and money.
One woman who actually seemed to like him - and it was just another trick.
They had done good, though - they had rarely fought, the sex was mind-blowing, and she liked spending time with the band and listening to Dale’s mediocre accomplishments on the guitar.
Dale would still choose the company of a woman like Teresa over any of the shitheads in the band any day. He’d always gotten along better with girls - clung to his mother’s apron for far too long.
That’s why Dad wanted to send him to seminary so fucking bad.
Thought it would make him less of a wimp.
Didn’t work.
He didn’t even go - skipped out of the house as soon as possible.
Oh, sure, Dale found his own way to be tough, with the guitar and the cocaine and the leather shit. Busted out a few blood vessels in a still-healing nose, too.
Maybe that fucked it up even more, gave it that sharp twist.
But no matter where he turned, the music just took him right back down that path that sparkled and sang in the higher pitch. It sounded like Mom - no, it sounded like him, especially since the boys had him sing in fucking falsetto.
Dale sighed and looked in the mirror again.
Not that that would be going on for much longer.
With the bills, the surgeries, the arguments…the band was on its way out weeks and weeks ago.
Just like Dale’s face - escalating, swelling, bulging, until one day…pop!
“Fuck!” He hissed and lunged out a fist, thankfully stopping just before smacking the glass and having to pay for more work.
Really, it wasn’t the possibility of more surgery or the pain of the glass that stopped him.
It was the fucking car salesman behind him.
At least, he looked like a salesman.
Dale was getting used to that type - “you and your band can play here if you buy dinner and hookers first”, “your mother’s insurance won’t cover her medicine - sorry, champ”, “Teresa and I were just discussing her job opportunities in sales, Dale”.
But Dale had never seen a salesman quite like…this.
First of all, the guy must have walked through the fucking wall, as Dale had the door shut and locked. It hadn’t opened the whole time he was lamenting his sorry-ass life.
Secondly, he radiated something…else. Something not a salesman, something…not of this world.
Oh, great, Dale, enjoy living in your nursery rhymes a little longer, why don’t you?
But no, it was true.
Not drugs, not fear, not fantasy.
The salesman sat there, easy as anything, one leg folded over the other all demurely.
And he had a face like fucking Valentino or something - tan, light mustache, toothpaste advertisement smile - one of those old pretty boys Mom always crooned over.
God, if Dale could have had a face like that, he would have been a god.
And before the man said one word to him, Dale realized, with an undeniable amount of shock, that he was rock-hard in his pants.
Okay, that hasn’t happened since Teresa and a few casual Playboy posters, and definitely shouldn’t be happening now.
Not when he should be afraid of a disappearing and reappearing man - not for a man at all!
Dad would insist on prayer.
Dale insists on playing tough.
Playing.
Always playing.
“How the Hell did you get in here? Who are you?” Dale barked, trying to lower that mousy voice as deep as he could get it.
But the salesman just laughed - not like Brad’s laughter, stupid and sodden with alcohol. Gentle, warm - like a summer breeze.
It felt good.
It made Dale feel good.
Safe.
“Well, son,” The salesman began, and Dale felt he could immediately trust him, “You’re not all that far off.”
Dale blinked for a moment before he could remember he had a throbbing erection and was face to face with some trespassing stranger.
“What the fuck does that mean?” Dale said, but it was too curious, too kind.
The salesman chuckled and rose, then walked over to Dale and straightened his shirt collar, almost making him cream his jeans in the process.
“It means,” The salesman murmured, and his breath smelled like coffee and cigarettes, “That I have come a very long way to see you, Dale.”
Dale jumped back, furrowed his brows, gripped a letter opener.
It wasn’t likely, but this fucker could be some sort of stalker, obsessed with him from afar. He couldn’t risk that.
Couldn’t risk the Reverend hearing about it: Dale Ferdinand Kobble, local not-so-young-anymore man, found dead and gay in a ditch, disappointment to his Mom and Dad, more at eleven.
“Do you have a name?” Dale asked, chest heaving, cheap blade still in hand, and it occurs to him that he’s just said the most irrelevant thing possible in this situation.
The salesman sighed, almost dreamy.
“Oh, I’ve had so many goddamned names.” He chuckled, and it was a little raspy - a little like Dale wished he could sound. “Do you have any cigarettes?”
Without really thinking, Dale simply went over to one of the drawers nearby and retrieved a fresh pack - the band always traveled with them - and extended it to the salesman.
The salesman took a cigarette from the pack, popped the end in his mouth, and then lit it with a fingertip.
“Jesus Christ!” Dale yelped.
“No, quite the opposite, actually.” The salesman laughed at having such a receptive audience, and Dale’s stomach fizzled when he realized what the man was saying.
So he had a hard-on for…
“No fucking way.” Dale barked, “No, you can’t be, there’s no way -”
“Do you doubt what you’ve seen, son? ‘Blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed’, or some shit like that.” The salesman quipped, then breathed out a dry cough.
“What do you want from me?” Dale asked, fully convinced now that he was talking to the Devil himself - and fully stunned at his body’s innate reaction to the figure’s presence.
Oh, sure, he’d dabbled in the occult for the last decade or two, as a sort of half-assed rebellion against the Reverend.
Truth be told, Dale liked the occult - the dark - the idea that there was some silken power out there, giving God a run for his fucking money.
But he never thought any of that was…well, real. Where was God when the World Wars broke out, or when his father got real mad and threw things? Where was the Devil when his music just wasn’t right? He could have used some infernal inspiration then.
But now, oh, now, it’s sinking in.
Because Dale’s crossed that line a hundred times before without even realizing it, and now - if his previous hobbies are anything to answer for - he’s bound for Hell and bound to this man currently breathing cigarette smoke in his snipped-up nostrils.
The thought should make him weak in the knees, and it does.
Just…it also makes his cock throb.
“What I want is easy.” The salesman said simply, cooing, no doubt noticing the squirm and twist in Dale’s voice.
Then he produced a newspaper clipping - faded with time, local, unimportant.
Except, when Dale saw it, he blushed, as though he’d been caught trying on his mother’s makeup. Which he had, before - she was fine with it, but the Reverend had made him skip dinner for a week.
But this was worse than that, even, because this was something he liked even more than makeup.
“Is that -” He breathed, instinctively covering one eye and wincing in shame.
“‘Dale Ferdinand Kobble, ten years old, seen posing with his prize-winning bird house. Dale, who is part of the local woodworking club, says that he built the birdhouse for his mother, and plans to become a toy maker when he grows up.’” The salesman read the clipping as easy as anything, but each word was a punch to Dale’s chest.
There’s little Dale, ten years old - with the bird house his father would smash to bits when he saw that same article.
Little round-faced, bright-eyed Dale, who loved his Mommy more than anyone else, even when she didn’t do much to stop the Reverend from calling his son a weakling for the crime of enjoying building things more than breaking them.
Poor little Dale, the future toy maker, who couldn’t stop himself from carving, even if it meant butchering his own face, long after he had done away with the balsa wood and the super glue.
It took a moment, but Dale soon realized he was weeping.
“I want you to do what you were born to do, Dale.” The salesman said gently, massaging Dale’s shoulder and sending shivery sparks of comfort and joy all along his spine, “I want you to make toys.”
Dale looked up, incredulous.
“What?” He said, voice warbling, “What kind of toys could you possibly need?”
He asked a good question, and for a moment, the salesman’s face flashed a proud mystery - the joy and frustration of being asked a very good question.
“Dolls, Dale. I want you to make dolls.” The salesman said softly.
“Dolls?” Dale laughed bleakly, remembering the Reverend’s opinions on dolls, “Are you fucking with me?”
The salesman smiled easily.
“No, son, I’m just seeking to hire you.” He said, grinning and sharp-faced, “Let’s just say I have an interest in…distributing locally.”
Dale felt a shiver run up his spine. That didn’t sound good - especially coming from the literal Devil.
But the erection was steady, his tears were flowing, and his mind was getting hazy.
“So, what, are you gonna draw up a contract? Put me on-call?” Dale chuckled miserably.
“Yeah. Let’s do a contract. That sounds like a good idea.” The salesman hummed, and there was something horrible in it.
But before Dale could argue, a sheet of parchment lay on the dressing room table, all drawn up and within form.
He read it over and over, fifteen times. Dale had heard of Faustian deals before - what child of rock and roll hadn’t? It was the dream, wasn’t it?
But, no matter how many times he read it, Dale couldn’t find anything wrong with it. He would be making dolls - no big feat for him, with that history of woodworking.
And there were more bits to this deal that Dale liked. He would have music on demand - it would flow from him whenever he wanted, and do things it never had before. And Mom would be taken care of. And he’d start liking how he looked - that was maybe the best bit of all. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with the contract at all.
In fact, it seemed he’d be getting anything he could ever want.
So unthinking, unblinking, Dale picked up a pen and got ready to sign.
“No - not with ink.” The salesman advised. “Ink doesn’t hold up in Hell.”
That dreadful shiver ran through Dale again, but he nodded slowly.
The salesman drew near him again, leaned against his back and breathed sweetly in his ear.
“It’ll be a tiny little pinprick.” He reassured, taking the letter opener from where Dale had set it, then nicking the fat between Dale’s thumb and forefinger ever so slightly.
Dale winced, but then set blood to paper, leaving a smeary orange-slice-shape on the page.
He had the most horrible sinking, burning feeling in the center of his chest for about thirty seconds.
Dale cried out, clutched his sternum, and finally reached the explosive climax that had been threatening him for the last hour, ruining his best pair of performing pants.
And then, just like that, it was over.
His soul eaten up by hellfire and his lap stained with cum.
“Fuck.” Dale breathed raggedly, mind finally, deliciously numb, for the first time in months.
The salesman chuckled good-naturedly behind him, as though he hadn’t just inadvertently given Dale the best orgasm of his life.
“There’s more where that came from, now that we’re partners.” He hummed, and Dale wasn’t exactly certain what sense of the word the Devil meant, but he liked it either way.
Before he could say anything, though, the salesman produced a strange, silvery sphere, about the size of a baseball.
“What the fuck is that?” Dale rasped, and received another tinkling laugh in return.
“This is something real special, Dale. This is going inside every doll you’ll make for me. I’ll show you how to build these, and how to use them.” The salesman responded easily.
Dale furrowed his brows, thin and almost unseen as they were.
“Use them? Is it like a battery or something?” He asked.
The salesman hummed and shrugged.
“Sort of, yes. More like a…magic radio.” He reasoned, laughing at something that Dale wasn’t part of.
“A magic radio?” Dale repeated stupidly, as though this whole thing wasn’t the dumbest idea and interaction he’d ever experienced.
“I’ll show you.” The salesman hummed, then twisted the ball gently in his hands. “Brad’s still out there, isn’t he?”
Dale nodded wordlessly, somehow surprised that this strange man also knew the names of his bandmates.
The salesman nodded, then murmured, low, almost hissing, towards the ball.
“Come to the dressing room, Brad.” The salesman said, and his tone was almost Dale’s - it was odd.
For a moment, nothing happened.
“This is fucked up, man - you’ve got me believing all kinds of bullshit -” Dale complained, but the salesman hushed him.
The sound of drunken footsteps outside the door, and then a sound that perhaps a moth flying into a lightbulb again and again would make, only magnified tenfold.
“He needs you to open the door, Dale.” The salesman informed him, and Dale felt stupid.
“Right.” He breathed, then went over to the door and unlocked and opened it.
There stood Brad, drunk as ever, eyes open but posture like a sleepwalker.
Dale felt a strange ripple of power, and the salesman rolled with it.
“He’s completely unaware right now, son. You could make him do anything. Do you want to try it?” The man purred irresistably, and Dale nodded slowly.
He took the metal ball with shaking hands, and laughed nervously to himself.
“Hop on one foot.” He murmured at the thing.
A moment later, and Brad was leaping clumsily around with one leg.
“Shit, this is fantastic! How does it work? Does it work on everybody?” Dale breathed, wide-eyed.
The salesman chuckled lowly.
“Well, a magician never reveals all his secrets, Dale. But I’ll ease a bit of your curiosity. These objects are personalized. They only work on the intended, and will stay active as long as both target and tool are unharmed. When you start making those dolls for me, why, you’ll get to try out all sorts of things.” He said, encouraging, as though Hell was not gaping wide at Dale’s feet, while he was blind to it.
Dale couldn’t see even one day ahead of himself in that moment.
“What else can we make him do?” Dale begged, feeling something like a need to make Brad suffer, for always calling him names.
Daddy Longlegs would get his fill of payback tonight.
“Anything.” The salesman sighed. “Why don’t you take him up on the roof?”
Dale didn’t even consider what that meant.
As he felt his own power grow, something was raising its power over him. Multi-headed, serpentine, ringing and hissing in his ear.
And so he did it. He carried the ball in hand and ordered Brad ahead of him, following behind with the salesman trailing after. Oh, what a parade they made!
Dale should have snapped out of it when the cold rooftop air started playing in his matted mop of hair, but he couldn’t get so many mean, mean words out of his head.
He could feel something slithering through him, something like pride and power and dread.
Why should he let Brad get away with hurting him?
The Reverend got away with it, and Dale swore he’d never let anyone else make him feel so bad again.
But it had happened anyway, hadn’t it?
But now the salesman had come - the salesman with the little ball and the big plan, and Dale would never have to be frightened again.
He noticed after a moment that he had walked Brad to the edge of the roof.
And he was getting hard again.
“What now?” Dale breathed.
“Tell him to jump.” The salesman said, simple but commanding.
Dale didn’t even think twice.
“Brad, jump.” He whispered to the ball.
Without hesitation, without pause, without rescue, Brad leapt off the ledge and did not return to it.
Dale felt a sea of shock and awe welling within him, from his toes to his dick to his chinny-chin-chin.
There goes Brad, Dale thought.
He watched for what was forever as the drunken man sunk faster and faster in the night air. It made such a strange, lonely sound - whoo, whoo - like Mom’s busted-up cuckoo clock.
I’ve never seen him do so many summersaults, Dale thought, and then he laughed - just a little bit.
And then Brad hit the concrete below, and a few late-night screams ripped up from the street.
But what Dale heard most was the bones and the fat and the blood, all thumping and jiggling against the ground like an old shoe full of chewed gum.
Brad was shaped a lot like a wad of gum now, come to think of it.
Somehow the thought pulled Dale back to reality, and he fought down a gag.
“Oh, God, what have I done?” He trembled, already thinking of having to explain this to the police, to his bandmates - to himself. What had overtaken him?
And - with greater horror - Dale realized that he had just signed a contract, in blood, a little while earlier, to do this over and over and over again.
But the salesman gripped his shoulders and then trailed his hands to his cheeks, and then kissed him nice and deep on his bloated, quivering lips.
And suddenly he felt all better again.
“We’re working towards a big picture here, son. Big finish. And you gotta help me get there, alright? Can’t let the man upstairs win, can you? What would the Reverend think of you then?” The salesman said, prickly, and Dale realized just then that the man had claws.
He was right.
Dale would never let the Reverend get the satisfaction of thinking him a wimp again.
He was Dale - he was tough - and it’s so easy to do again once you’ve done it once.
“Okay. Okay, I’ll help you, Master.” Dale breathed, shaking, cock oozing again.
Just dolls, right? Just Dale’s dolls. That’s all there was to it.
“Ooh, please, not so formal. I prefer Father, anyway. Feels more…spiritual.” The salesman hummed and handed Dale a handkerchief, because his hand was bleeding again from signing that contract.
Then the Devil chuckled.
“See you downstairs, Longlegs.”
And then he faded into the night sky.
Dale shivered, lowered a palm to his fly, and spilt in his pants for the second time that night.
He usually hated that name.
What changed?
Somewhere down the street, sirens were wailing.