She was all over the marketing. The guys in marketing over at CUMX are well aware that Dilly Pringles was the most photogenic host they had by a long shot. She was skinny, with a long swan-like neck and big brown eyes, but she had a big ass, too, and brown hair with a front fringe dyed turquoise, a dated style maybe but she pulled it off because she was so fucking hot. Besides, it was radio. The whole thing was dated.
There was a big billboard of her out by the highway, advertising her evening show. She was wearing a loose, baggy t-shirt with the CUMX logo on it, and she was leaning just right so there was a bit of cleavage showing, and on a billboard that size you could just get lost in it. It was completely deliberate, of course. Every part of her public persona just dripped with sex.
It was in her voice, especially on the late night show she hosted. The songs were slower, sexier, jams for lovemaking, and her voice was low, provocative, intimate. It was like she was whispering in your ear. That she was openly pansexual didn't hurt, either.
So it would come as a surprise to most people who listen to her show that Dilly hadn't been laid in a year, for a very simple reason: she didn't have time. Her last three relationships - two with women, one with a man - had fallen apart because of incompatible schedules, and when everyone else was out at the club, she was at work. And when she wasn't at work, she was at home, asleep. She was a local celebrity, and it was exhausting, and her social life suffered the most for it.
"That was Adina Howard," Dilly said into the mic, "with 'Freak Like Me', one of the great jams of the mid-'90s. Great song. Not too fast, and not too slow." She let the double entendre sit for a moment before pressing on. "I hope you're all nice and cozy tonight, got someone to hold. And if not, well. We can keep each other company, I'm sure. You're listening to the sweet, sensual sounds of CUMX. We got some Billy Paul coming up in a moment, but first, let's see what's going on this week. Yeah, tomorrow at the Braconhill Community Centre, one of my favourite events of the year, the Bizarre Bazaar Flea Market. If you've never been, you're missing out, my dude. Last year I got a taxidermied rattlesnake coiled up in a rum bottle. Great conversation piece. Anyway, I'm definitely planning to check that out. See you there? It's a date. And here's Billy Paul, with one of my all-time favourites, 'Me and Mrs. Jones'."
She turned off the mic, turned up the fader on the music, and leaned back in her chair. "Fuck, I'm lonely," she muttered to herself. She'd forgotten how sad this song was.
Dilly slept in until noon, not especially late, given her standards, and was at the flea market by 2. She'd have to do some remote cut-in on the air between 3 and 5, she knew, two an hour, but she'd actually arrived before the technical operator had, giving her time to walk around and look at what was for sale. She always liked to get a feel of the event before doing the cut-ins, just so she'd know what to say.
She bought an original painting from a local artist and an old jacket from the '70s, and was just about to see if there was any taxidermy this year when a man at an antiques counter caught her gaze. He had a few plates in front of him that were nice enough, but the clear highlight of his collection was a brass oil lamp. Unless it was a teapot.
"You look like a lady who appreciates a good piece of mantlepiece bric-a-brac," he said. An odd observation, though she couldn't deny it was true.
"My mantlepiece is getting a little crowded," Dilly confessed. "I still have some shelf space, though. Is this an oil lamp?"
"Sure is," said the man. "And even in the age of electric lighting, it's a beautiful old historic piece. From the Ottoman Empire, I believe, circa 1700." She could see a certain desperation behind his eyes. Poor guy really needed a sale, she figured. But if it was that valuable and historical, she probably couldn't afford it. Couldn't hurt to ask, though.
"What are you asking for for it?"
"Only six dollars." He smiled.
Dilly considered. If it really was a museum-quality relic, then six bucks was a steal. And if he was wrong or lying, well, it was only six bucks for what was still a very nice old lamp.
"Sure," Dilly shrugged. The man's sigh of - was it relief? - was audible. He packaged up the lamp for her in tissue paper and placed it, gently, in a cardboard box.
She fished in her purse for the money, producing a five dollar bill and a toonie. "Keep the change," she said, picking up the box and turning to go, but she felt a hand grab her wrist a little rougher than she would have liked. She spun around. It was the man, standing up now, his other hand proffering a single dollar.
"I must insist that
you
take the change," he said. He let go of her wrist now, as though realizing what an inappropriate outburst it had been, but dropped the loonie into her hand nonetheless.
Dilly didn't know to say, and walked away without a word.
When she got home that evening, she unwrapped the lamp carefully and set it on top of a bookshelf. It looked pretty good there, but there was a smudge on it that looked like dust. She wet a paper towel and rubbed it against the side of the lamp when suddenly the air was disturbed by a loud crackling noise. Startled, Dilly fell backward, landing roughly on the couch, her long limbs splayed by the fall. The lamp was... glowing?
"Know this mortal," intoned a low, feminine voice with the hint of an accent.
"Are you kidding me?" Dilly asked of the aether. "This is some kind of silly novelty item?"
"You are to be granted three wishes, mortal. No evil may come of a wish made with a pure heart, but a selfish wish can be corrupted to your misery. Should you die with this lamp still in your possession and the spirit still enslaved, your soul shall be cast into the depths of Hell. And it is impossible to pass the lamp on to another mortal, unless selling at a loss."
"Cool," said Dilly. "I've read
The Bottle Imp
. I know the drill." She was just about to wrap it up again, or else try to find the slot to remove the batteries, when a thick purple steam began to pour from the lamp's spout, eventually coalescing into a human form.
"Shit," said Dilly. "Is this for real? Are you an actual genie?"
"I am," said the figure. "I am Sha'adat of the Djinn, Born of Smokeless Fire. Neither mortal nor angel nor demon. Do you understand the terms?"
Now that the smoke had cleared, Dilly had a better look at the spirit standing before her. Sha'adat was tall, probably over six foot, and statuesque, with a beauty Dilly found intimidating. Her skin was a light purple, and masses of silken dark hair framed her narrow face. She was wearing a diaphanous gown of gold and red and white, whirling around her in a breeze of its own, and heavy gold bracelets on each wrist and ankle.
"I guess so," said Dilly. "Three wishes. Don't be selfish. Sell you for under six bucks when I'm done or I go to Hell."
Sha'adat smiled. "You are handling this very well, mortal."
"Thanks," said Dilly. "You can call me 'Dilly', by the way. Things will get very melodramatic in here very quickly if you keep calling me 'mortal'."
"'Dilly'", repeated Sha'adat. "Very well."
"I think I already know what I want for my first wish," said Dilly. "I want all elected officials in the world to lose the ability to lie to the people they're supposed to serve."
"Very public-spirited of you, Dilly," said Sha'adat. She snapped her fingers. "It is done."
