Stand thee back, foul servant of Lucifer! Not another step! Not another coal-reeking scream from that fetid mouth, not another thudding step of those cloven feet! For as you know me, demon, I too know you.
That’s right! At long last and at great risk to my mortal soul, I have discovered that which can destroy you, that which can end forever your time in this realm and send you whimpering back to the feet of your Dark Lord. Your name, demon! Your name gives me dominion over you and I know your name… uh… man.
Ah, shit.
Ok, just give me a second here, demon.
Demon!
Cool it with summoning the pained howls of all damned souls, would you? I’m about to say your name, buddy. And when that happens? The only thing you’ll be summoning is a one-way ticket back to Hell.
Jeez, I just had it. It was kind of unusual, I remember—no, sorry, nothing wrong with the name itself, just not a name I’d heard before. Victor? Still there, got it. OK, so not Victor. And that was Victor with a “c” when I said it, not sure how we handle spelling differences here. Viktor? With a “k”? No, not that either. Jeez Louise.
Let’s see, the name. The name, the name, the name–
Ah! The pages seem to appear before my very eyes. There it is! Your day is nearly done, demon! The blood moon of your tyrannical reign is about to slip below the horizon for the last time, to be replaced by the enduring light of Christ. For your name hovers before me! Spelled out in crooked runes from pages long entombed in an ancient crypt, preserved in the desert sands of some misbegotten territory beyond the horizon. It’s coming, pal, I swear I am this close to saying your name.
Man, these runes are really crooked. Stupid, stupid. Should have worn my contacts.
That is a V, right? Is it a U? What names start with a U? Ulrich? Uma? Ulysses?
Would you believe this never happens? God, the name! Of all things. I’ve got two full bottles of Holy Water, a couple of crucifixes, wooden stakes, metal stakes, a steak sandwich, a leather valise full of relics of various saints, I could probably recite the Our Father in 20 plus languages, but do I need any of those things?
It’s the classic “someone tells you their name at a party” and you’ve forgotten it before they finish. I really need to focus on just listening when people speak to me instead of planning what I’m going to say next.
Sorry, demon? Demon! Look, you work your side of the street and I’ll work mine, I get that, but just between professionals: could you muzzle those three-headed hell hounds? That is like, extremely loud, guy.
All right, uh, demon names, demon names, demon names…
Is it something obvious? Damien? You would tell me if I was getting close? Wait, did I write it down? Could this be it? This piece of paper in my breast pocket? Happy day and Christ be praised! Demon, you may count your final breaths of Earth’s air, for your time runs short. For as soon as I unfold this piece of paper and read your cursed name: “1 Big Boy Steak Sandwich, double steak”—shoot. A receipt.
All right, my malodorous friend, I know when I’m beat.
Let’s regroup here tomorrow and– Oh, bombarding me with the icy winds of despair now until the thought of death becomes sweeter than life itself, are we? Right on schedule, I guess.
