Demonic

by Jeff Strand

He spat out a large mouthful of blood. “I’m gonna kill you,” he said. “Whatever,” I replied.

“Gold? Jewelry? Anything you can liquidate easily?” “Oh, yeah, I’m always getting compliments on my collection of gold chains.” “And they’re in your apartment?” “I was joking.” “Don’t joke!” Quinn screamed,

So, yeah, that kind of shit existed in the world. I’d do my best to stay sane.

I knew her biggest secret (shit, I hoped that being married to the unkillable Toledo Trasher was her biggest secret),

I almost started to look up the definition of cold-blooded murder on Herschell’s cell phone, but sanity prevailed.

“Are you going to shoot me with the police right outside?” Of course I wasn’t. But I wouldn’t have expected this cuckold to call me out on it.

He had a scar on his chin that was exactly where Harrison Ford had one, making me wonder if it was coincidence or self-inflicted.

What about fingerprints? DNA? Not my problem. I’m sure Satan had it figured out.

A newly blind man should not have the presence of mind to inform me that he didn’t own a grapefruit spoon.

This guy’s therapy bill was going to be immense, unless the psychological evaluators just went straight for a padded cell.

She, like me, seemed to believe that the word “fuck” conveyed the proper sense of rage.

If you know you’re going to talk before all ten fingers are bitten off, why let them bite off the first one?

“I said, I’m trying to be nicer! If I censored myself before I made a bitchy comment, why are you still trying to drag it out of me? You’ve spent this whole time complaining about my attitude, but when I try to fix it, you won’t let me.”

“Look, Corey, I just explained that I’m trying to be nice. But if you’re going to keep throwing questions at me like a five-year-old, I’m going to lose it.

I spent about five seconds joining her, because it was exactly the kind of situation where we should just scream for a bit.

I’d never driven a garbage truck, or even ridden in one, but I didn’t think they could maintain “highway car chase” speeds. Yet this one seemed to be going really fast. Satan-powered?

Since I would be dying in the service of battling demons, I hoped that I’d show up at the pearly gates. “You didn’t vanquish the evil; still, you gave it your best shot,” St. Peter would tell me. “You don’t get access to the best part of Heaven, but you can hang out in the main part, which is still a pretty sweet deal.”

Though I could not see into his mind—thank God, because I’m sure it was a dark and diseased place—I

“Eat my dick, Satan!” I shouted. I was less proud of that.

I described my behavior with the circular saw as “batshit, bugfuck insane.” So I’m not entirely sure how to describe the escalation with the chainsaw. Batshittier, bugfuckier insane? I don’t know. Let’s just say that I wasn’t being shy.