Chapter 21: The Demonfather

Chapter 21: The Demonfather I couldn't help but stare at Damien Darkflame. The guy looked like he could be Brad Pitt's demonic ancestor. It was uncanny. Truth be told, I'd never paid much attention to demon actors or films. Compared to the human movies, demon cinema felt... lacking. Even the trashiest human films of this world outshone our demonic offerings. It was a hard truth, but there it was. As the celebrities preened and posed, fielding interviews and flashing fangs for the cameras, the festival's opening party kicked into high gear. That's when I noticed them - humans, mingling among the demons. They weren't just any humans, though. These were the big shots, the power players of the global film industry. One of them, a human representative named Hughie Bear from a major film distributor, took the stage. The moment he opened his mouth, I knew we were in for a show. "I'm here today to watch demon films," he drawled, his voice dripping with condescension, "to see if there's anything worth screening in my country. Though I wouldn't be surprised if there's nothing to see." His human colleagues, along with a smattering of dwarves and elves, burst into laughter. The demons in the crowd, however, were a different story. They smiled and nodded, playing along, but I could see the discomfort in their eyes, the way their tails twitched with suppressed anger. I couldn't blame them. As a demon, hearing that kind of talk was humiliating. But it wasn't anything new. We'd lost the war 400 years ago, and we'd been paying for it ever since. First, it was reparations for war damages. Now? We were just considered inferior. Part of me wanted to be outraged on behalf of my fellow demons. But another part - the part of me couldn't help but agree with Hughie. Demon films did kind of suck. "Can you believe that guy?" George muttered, his tiny fists clenched in anger. I shrugged, trying to keep my voice neutral. "He's not entirely wrong, you know." *** As the opening party wound down, the real meat of the festival began. The first film up was "Pure Succubus," a production from the big guns at Demon Pictures. Being part of the competing films ourselves, we scored free seats. Small victories, right? The director and cast gave their spiel, all smiles and false modesty. Then the lights dimmed, and we were off. I settled in, expecting another run-of-the-mill demon flick. The lead actress, a real succubus playing a succubus, was paired with a C-list human actor from Empirica. Their on-screen chemistry was surprisingly compelling. The story followed the succubus as she fell in love and made the decision to change her ways, striving to become "pure" for her beloved. But when they moved to Empirica, things took a dark turn. The succubus caught the eye of her lover's father, leading to a disturbing subplot of secret abuse. The film didn't shy away from the psychological toll this took on her. The real gut punch came when her lover, who had professed his undying love earlier, rejected her after learning about the situation with his father. The film didn't spell it out, but the implication was clear - he blamed her, the victim, rather than standing by her. *** The moment arrived. Our ragtag group - me, my crew, and our cast - stepped onto the stage. I could feel the weight of every eye in the theater on us. Skepticism hung thick in the air, almost as palpable as the ever-present scent of brimstone. I cleared my throat, willing my voice not to shake. "As many of you know, this festival will be screening my first film. And many of you probably doubt this film of mine, but I assure you, you'll be surprised." A voice from the audience cut through the silence. "Surprised? Yeah. We'll be surprised at how bad it is." Laughter erupted, echoing off the walls. I felt my face heat up, but forced myself to keep smiling. "Bad?" I shot back, trying to keep my cool. "You'll be eating your words later. Not only is the story of my film a masterpiece, but it's also in color!" The laughter died down, replaced by a buzz of confusion. "Colored? You mean it's not black and white anymore?" someone asked. A human in the audience spoke up, his voice laced with disbelief. "That can't be... Even in our country, no colored camera has been invented yet." The murmuring grew louder. I thought I'd scored a point, but then a demon's snort cut through the chatter. "Who cares if it's really in color? If it's a trash film, it's a trash film." "You're right..." others agreed. I felt that familiar heat in my eyes, the same feeling I'd had when they changed color before. The urge to let loose, to show them all just how wrong they were, was almost overwhelming. But then I caught George and Rocky's eyes. They gave me subtle nods, silent reminders to keep my cool. I took a deep breath, forcing the heat back down. "Well," I said, somehow managing to keep my voice steady, "I guess you'll just have to see for yourselves. Enjoy the show." As we left the stage and the lights dimmed, I felt a mix of dread and anticipation. This was it. No more talk, no more promises. It was time for The Demonfather to speak for itself. The projector whirred to life, and suddenly, there it was. Our film, larger than life, in glorious color. I heard gasps from the audience as the first scenes unfolded. Even in the dim light, I could see jaws dropping, eyes widening. "Holy hellfire," I heard someone whisper. "It really is in color." As the familiar strains of our Banshee Sisters soundtrack filled the theater, I allowed myself a small smile. We'd gotten their attention. Now it was time to blow their minds.