DEMONS ARE LIKE OPINIONS, EVERYBODY'S GOT ONE

DEMONS ARE LIKE OPINIONS, EVERYBODY'S GOT ONE
By:  Randy Gillis 
 

 

I can totally see it now.  Well, since my religious friend explained it to me.  He said that roughly 83% of humanity is now or has been possessed.  Now, I see them everywhere.  I see them in the angry people who walk down the street with their faces clenched, their heads down and their lips silently moving.  I see them at the diner, in people who look kinda gray as they scarf down deep fried...everything.  I see them at...uh...I mean my friends tell me they see them at the adult book stores...browsing. 

 

It was only a matter of time before it happened to me.  I was having trouble sleeping.  Every night for about a week I would wake up at exactly 3:14 a.m.  It was getting to the point that I started looking at the other side of the bed to see if I was sleeping next to Margot Kidder.  I'm joking, I was really hoping for James Brolin.


Then, last night I heard a soft whispering in my left ear.  The faintest of sounds, repeated over and over, getting steadily louder until I heard the words clearly.  "Kill Patricia."  I sat up in bed and looked at the clock.  3:14 a.m. on the dot.  As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I noticed that the wingback chair that sat against the far wall of my bedroom was now facing the corner. Okay, to wake me up is one thing, but to rearrange my furniture, that was another. I was tired and irritated that the chair actually looked better in its new position. “Kill Patricia…kill Patricia!"   

“No,” I said. The room went deathly silent. Suddenly, an explosion of a voice ripped through the air. “Kill Patricia!” “Well, do I have to kill her now?” I huffed.  “Can I at least wait until the weekend?” I asked. “What!” the voice replied, with the hint of a familiar lisp. “Well, she is kind of my best friend in the whole wide world, how about if I just cuss her out?” “Oh, come on,” the voice whined, “kill Patricia. Please, please, please.” “What is the urgency?” I interrupted. “I have to work in the morning.” 

The chair spun around and….oh…my…god. Sitting there was a demon that was, well, he was everything a demon is supposed to be.  From the top of his curly horned head to his manicured hooves, he was evil.  It didn't hurt that he also had  a distressingly hot body that included a totally Harrison Ford torso (don't judge me).  His hands were neatly clasped and resting on his lap and his legs were crossed 'in the girl way'.  He was Paul Lynde, Rip Taylor, Wayland Flowers AND Madame all rolled up into one.  

Suddenly, he didn't seem quite as terrifying as before.  I try not to make generalizations about people but, let's just say that my gaydar, which was sitting on the top shelf of my closet, turned itself on, burst through the closet door while hopping up and down and screaming like Rex Reed after seeing himself in MYRA BRECKINRIDGE.  It then burst into flames and fell over dead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"So, what was all that 'kill Patricia stuff about?" I asked.  "Oh, I was just kidding," the demon said.  "All my friends are always bragging about what they're able to get their sacks to do or say, just by whispering into their ears."  "Sacks?" I asked.  "Yes, that's what we call you people behind your backs," he giggled, "because you're all so full of bad ideas and lots of gas."

 

"Did you actually think you could get me to kill Patricia?" I scoffed.  "If you think we can't influence humans, just remember 'Legitimate Rape," the demon boasted.  "You did that?" I gasped.  "No, but I've seen the guy who did at the office," the demon responded.  "Wow, was his demon a democrat?" I asked.  "That's cute," the demon said, "but no, and for future reference, all demons are Green Party members." 

As a rule, I try to accept whatever situation I find myself in as quickly as possible.  That's when I start asking questions.  "Are you the reason I was obsessed with Olga Korbut as a kid?"  The demon smiled.  "And what about the nightmares I suffered during Sex-Ed in high school?"  Another smile.  "And don't forget about your mother's high-heels," the demon added.

 

So, what do you want from me?" I asked nervously.  The demon stood up and clomped across the room toward my bedroom door.  “I’ll just keep an eye on you and do the occasional home visits to keep track of your progress and fill out the forms.”  The demon turned to leave.  “Wait!” I yelled.  He stopped and looked at me.  “I have so many questions,” I continued.   “Do I get a lanyard?  Is there a uniform?  Do I get peer reviews?  Are there productivity standards?  What if I don’t make it to Hell?  Will I get sent to someplace that’s just muggy?”  The demon cocked his head slightly to one side.  “A word of advice about snark,” he said.  “Snark can work for you or against you.  But that’s an advanced lesson and we’ll have plenty of time for that later.”  “Are you sure about that?” I asked, “I am 50 after all.”  “Spend a day in Hell's waiting room and your entire perception of time will be shot, well, to Hell,” the demon replied.  “At least tell me your name,” I pleaded.  The demon slowly smiled and opened his mouth.

I bolted up in the bed, sweat beading across my forehead.  Did that just happen?  What if it did?  Suddenly, I heard the voice of James Earl Jones.  “For every man born, a demon is made.  For some it is hate, for some it is jealousy, for some it is lust, for some it is envy, for some it is violence, for some it is pork rinds.  And as fate would have it, for you it is…Kyle.”