Practical Demonkeeping (Pine Cove, #1)

by Christopher Moore

You don’t park in the handicapped space lest the forces of irony give you a reason to, and you don’t speak ill of the dead unless you want to get bagged next.

Everyone stood stunned by the ferocity of the little man’s anger. Had they really seen blue swirls? Were the Arab’s teeth really filed to points? Were, for that moment, his eyes glowing white-hot? It would never be discussed.

The unnatural light in the Arab’s eyes dimmed, and in a humble, obsequious manner he said, “Excuse me, please, but could I trouble you for a small quantity of salt?”

Travis O’Hearn was driving a fifteen-year-old Chevy Impala he had bought in L.A. with money the demon had taken from a pimp.

“Your mother sucks cocks in he-ell, Your mother sucks cocks in he-ell,” in a teasing, childlike way. Then he would spin his head around several times for effect.

The demon had been wired since he had eaten the hitchhiker the night before. The guy must have been on cocaine or speed. Why did drugs affect the demon when poisons did not phase him? It was a mystery. The demon tapped Travis on the shoulder with a long reptilian claw. “I want to ride on the hood,” he said. His voice was like rusty nails rattling in a can. “Enjoy,” Travis said, waving across the dashboard.

“Why, yes, I do,” Travis says. “That’s Catch, he’s a demon. He has to eat someone every couple of days or he gets cranky. I’ve known him for seventy years. I’ll vouch for his lack of character.”

“There’s a city ordinance against eating an elected official without a permit. May I see your permit, please?”

“I’m sorry,” Travis says, “I don’t have a permit, but I’ll be glad to get one if you...

We don’t like strangers eating our mayor around here. I’m afraid I’ll have to cite you.” Travis protests, “But if I get another ticket,

Sleep, at least, should provide some escape from the demon, who had been with him for seventy years, and would be with him forever unless he could find a way to send him back to hell.

For a man of ninety, Travis was remarkably well preserved. In fact, he did not appear to be much over twenty, his age when he had called up the demon. Dark with dark eyes and lean, Travis had sharp features that would have seemed evil if not for the constant look of confusion he wore, as if there were one answer that would make everything in life clear to him if he could only remember the question.

And Travis had learned that there was no evil in being poor; poverty merely opened one up to evil. But over the years he had learned to push aside the remorse, and time and again Catch dined on bums.

“Nice driving, A.J.,” Catch said. “You going to try for Indy next year?”

Catch lifted the car, crawled out, and stood next to Travis in the ditch. “What’s the verdict? Did I pass?” “Are you dead?” “Nope, I feel great.” “Then you have failed miserably. I’m sorry but I’ll have to run you over again.”

“Not with this car,” the demon said, shaking his head.

“We work for a common purpose. You serve the state with your minds and bodies. I serve the state by opposing it. Drinking is an act of civil disobedience. I drink to end world hunger. I drink to protest the United States’ involvement in Central America. I drink to protest nuclear power. I drink…”

A little Arab man in a red stocking cap had come through the door, and the deputies were telling him that he had the wrong room and to please leave.

“Could I trouble you for a small quantity of salt?” the little man asked. Then he blinked off the screen as if the tape had been stopped and he had been edited out.

for Brine believed chaos to be the way of the world,

Despite his belief that the pursuit of order in a chaotic universe was futile, Brine lived a very ordered life, and this paradox, upon reflection, amused him.

(Cholesterol seemed too silent and sneaky to be dangerous, and Brine had decided long ago that until cholesterol gathered its forces and charged him headlong across the plate with Light Brigade abandon, he would ignore it.)

Brine believed, like Epicurus, that a good life was one dedicated to the pursuit of simple pleasures, tempered with justice and prudence. Years

Zen mushin, or no-mind.

The visit of the little Arab man to the store vexed him. Brine did not speak Arabic, yet he had understood every word the little man had said. He had seen the air cut with swirling blue curses, and he had seen the Arab’s eyes glow white with anger. He smoked his pipe, the meerschaum

Startled, Brine looked around. The little Arab man stood about three feet from Brine’s side, drinking from a large styrofoam cup. His red stocking cap was glistening, damp with the morning spray.

“It is a mystery, is it not? How this dashing figure seems to appear out of nowhere? You must be awestruck. Paralyzed with fear perhaps?”

You must be awestruck. Paralyzed with fear perhaps?”

Brine looked at the withered little man ...

flannel suit and silly red hat. “Very close to paralyzed,” he said. “I am Augustus Brine.” He extende...

“Are you not afraid that by touching me you will bu...

“No, but you know how superstitious fishermen are. Perhaps you believe that you will be transformed into a toad. You hid...

Brine smiled. He was baffled and amused; it didn’t occur t...

The Arab drained his cup again, then took Brine’s hand. His skin had the feel of parchment. “I am Gian Hen Gian, King of the Djinn, Ruler of the Netherworld. Do not tremble, I wish you no harm.”

“Do not fall to your knees; there is no need to prostrate yourself before my greatness. I am here in your service.”

The Arab was obviously a nuthouse Napoleon.

But this one had some credentials: he could curse in blue swirls. “It is good that you are

“No, the cursing was fine. Although in Vance’s case the snake might be an improvement. Your curses were in Arabic, though, right?” “A language I prefer for its music.”

“But I don’t speak Arabic. Yet I understood you. You did say, ‘May the IRS find that you deduct your pet sheep as an entertainment expense,’ didn’t you?”

If there was no order in the universe, then why should it be out of order to be sitting on the beach talking to an Arab dwarf who claimed to be king of the Djinn, whatever the hell that was?

Brine took comfort in the fact that this experience was invalidating every assumption he had ever made about the nature of the world. He had tapped into the Zen of ignorance, the enlightenment of absurdity.

“I found you here, Augustus Brine, listening to the noise of the universe, holding in your heart a spark of hope, like all fishermen, but resolved to be disappointed. You have no love, no faith, and no purpose. You shall be my instrument, and in return, you shall gain the things you lack.”

Brine wanted to protest the Arab’s judgment, but he realized that it was true. He’d been enlightened for exactly thirty seconds and already he was back on the path of desire and karma. Postenlightenment depression, he thought.

What is there but stories? Stories are the only truth.

Then he created a race who could not create and so would stand in awe of the Creator.” “Man?” Brine asked.

“Jehovah was sorely angered. He banished Satan to hell, where the angel might have the power he wished, but only over his own army of rebels. To further humiliate Satan, Jehovah created a new race of beings and gave them control over their own destinies, made them masters of their own world. And he made Satan watch it all from hell.

“These beings were parodies of the angels, resembling them physically, but with none of the angels’ grace or intelligence. And because he had made two mistakes before, Jehovah made these creatures mortal to keep them humble.”

“Are you saying,” Brine interrupted, “that the human race was created to irritate Satan?” “That is correct. Jehova...

“I worked slowly, for even under the reign of the thief, my time on Earth was better than the emptiness of the netherworld. After some time I convinced Solomon that I needed help, and I was given slaves to assist me in the construction. Work slowed even more, for while some of them worked, most stood by and chatted about their dreams of freedom. I have seen that such methods are used today in building your highways.” “It’s standard,” Brine said.

“Solomon grew impatient with my progress and called from hell one of the deposed angels, a warrior Seraph named Catch. Thus