The smell of burnt meat

Note: The real Stephen Somerville has nothing to do with this story. His name just popped up in my head as I started to write.
There was a very tense atmosphere in the hallway. Stephen Somerville hadn't even noticed the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, but the fact that he had to strain himself not to let his legs start shaking, could hardly go unnoticed. He looked up at the man standing in front of him. It was as if he was standing face to face with the devil himself. The devil had a black suit with a red tie, and a cigar was in his mouth, stuck there seemingly as hard as concrete. The smoke from it was dancing seductively in the dim light. The bad ventilation caused the aroma of cigar blended with expensive cologne hang in the air, as a fly trapped in a cobweb unable to get out even if it wanted to. The expression on the devil's face was not hard to read; pure satisfaction was reflected in every gleaming tooth of his wide smile.

With a hand that seemed able to easily crush a human skull, had it wanted to, the devil removed the cigar from his mouth and began to speak in a barely audible voice. "So, Mr Somerville" he began, "you have decided to stand above the rules applying to everyone else in my beautiful student villa". It was amazing how that almost silent voice could be born so easily across the hallway. It seemed to glide on the silvery strings of tobacco smoke forming their way toward Somerville. He opened his mouth to respond, but no word came. He hastily moistured his lips with his tongue, but before he could try again he was met with a cold laughter. This too was in that low, close to non-existing voice. The devil raised a finger as if about to speak, and Somerville could feel his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, pretty much like it stuck to the street post outside his house that cold winter so long ago. He felt a sting of horror, pretty much like he did back then. He had been left home alone for the day, with no neighbour around for miles, while his parents had gone to town for shopping. Just like that time, there was no one who could help him now. "What's that smell?" Chuckled the Devil. "I think it must be the scent of regret, seeping out of you, like it would from a dying mouse in a trap. Is that how you feel? That you are dying?" Somerville just stared. Nothing he could say now would turn the situation any more to his favour.

Obviously tired of the game, the devil went straight to business, as he always would when he noticed that there was no way the situation could be a loss to him. "As you may know, you have broken one of my rules. I suppose you would know which one it is?" He did not wait for an answer to come. There would be none, and he knew it. "Indeed" he went on and pointed towards a sign on the wall. It spelled "NO BURNABLE OBJECTS IN THE HALLWAY". The devil turned his attention to his cigar, pretending to study its faint glow while going on, "Mr Somerville, in this context NO means none". He held up the cigar in front of him and seemed to speak to it. "Would I stand here, if I was burnable?" Suddenly a small hissing noise came from behind him, and up stepped another man - or maybe a woman. It could be a big bear walking on two legs for all he knew, it was dressed in a huge metallic suit - who held something that had to be a flamethrower in his hand. It purred gently as a mechanical kitten, as a small flame danced in front of a gaping hole, supposedly where the big fire would come out. Somerville had never seen anything like this in reality, only in the movies. Maybe it was this filmic sensation that suddenly made him feel calm. An icy cold calm, as the 154th bead of sweat started to make its way down his forehead. He opened his mouth and started to form a sentence "I...". It was the breath before the plunge.

Click.

A roar filled his ears, as hellish fire erupted from the orifice and engulfed the devilish man standing in front of him. Somerville threw himself to the ground as the bright beam of flame shot by him. He looked up, terrified and unaware of the crack from his arm that had hit hard on something spiky on the floor. All he could hear was the thumping pulse in his ears and, once again, the gentle purring of the flamethrower. "Glad you decided to join in on our little conversation" said the Devil. Somerville had to blink several times before his eyes got used to the darkness that once again had returned to the hallway. He had not expected the devilish man to be more than a smoldering pile of ashes by now, yet he stood there, seemingly unaffected by the hundreds of degrees that had just swept by him. Small strings of smoke rose from his contour, the ground around him and from his cigar. They mingled and seemed to dance a seductive dance with each other before merging into one solid beam of smoke that made its way up to the ceiling, slowly fading away. Around him the corridor looked untouched, showing no sign of fire damage. It was all just too unreal. The only thing that had been affected seemed to be his shirt sleeve, which had started to smolder. Panicking, He started beating it against the floor to stop it from smoking. He let out a yelp of pain as his already damaged underarm snapped in two pieces against the rough surface of the floor. Far away he could hear an almost silent chuckle in that low, devilish voice. With tired eyes he looked up at the two dark figures, the dancing beams of smoke and the little blue flame on the flamethrower's mouth-piece. He heard the laughter of the Devil, the purring flame thrower and the distant sound of a microwave oven's "ping" merge together as his vision blurred and the world started fading out. "Please" he said, exhausted. The Devil just smiled.

Click.