Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Fiction bonus: 200-word challenge, Part 3

This week, for the Chuck Wendig challenge, I chose to continue Wanderer’s continuation of Meagan‘s story featuring a snarky demon, some particularly terrible summoners, and gin. I’ve included their parts first and then my addition.  The result isn't quite my usual PG material, so be warned.

         “Yes, this penthouse view is quite breathtaking,” I turned to the luscious blonde before me, “but not nearly as lovely as—”

A thunder clap, and then I was standing in a small, glowing circle, surrounded by a gaggle of chanting fools in robes.

“Oh great Sorasel im Palat, lord of fire and darkness, fell devourer of the innocent, conqueror of—” Arcane symbols covered the speaker’s robes, nearly obscuring the heavy crimson fabric.

“Yes, yes, get on with it.” I gestured with my gin martini.

He paused, then finished in a post-pubescent squeak, “We invoke thy true name and bid thee do our will.”

“Oh you do, do you? Well I want you to send me back. I was having a smashing time, and that girl may not have two brain cells to rub together, but she looked quite likely to do some rubbing together. If you know what I mean.”  
The robe-wearers shuffled, and whispered amongst themselves. The leader piped up again.

“O great Sorasel im—“

“Stop that, stop that,” I interrupted. “Only my dad calls me that. I prefer my middle name. If you must speak, call me Stewart.”

More shuffling and whispering from my summoners.

—————- (Part 2)
“Oh great and mighty…Stewart….” the leader—whose pasty face was mostly spots—began again. “We bind thee to our will.”

I took a sip of my martini—extra dirty, extra olives—and raised an eyebrow at the little prat. Summoners used to know what they were doing. I looked at the floor where their demon trap was sloppily drawn with what smelled unmistakably like fresh, store-bought spray paint. I sighed. What happened to the blood of a virgin? Or even the vital fluids of an unwilling Christian priest? 

I noticed their silence; I could practically smell their fear—a mixture of piss and that foul deodorant that promised them flocks of women. I took another gulp of the martini—it was perfect. Almost as flawless as my blonde client who was no doubt currently working her minimal intelligence into a sweat in an effort to find me.

“Well? Get on with it.”

“We bound you, oh great Sora—er—Stewart.”

“I heard that part. So,” I made sure to smile with all of my teeth. “You’ve bound me. Congratulations. Now, what do you plan to do?”

“Jaime, this was your idea.” One of the other robed figures poked the leader.

And my 200 words:
Jaime shrugged.  "You know what we're asking.  Oh, great Stewart--that sounds silly, can't we use your demon name?"

"No.  If you call me by that ridiculous name it's all off."

"Fine, then.  Oh, great Stewart, we bind you--"

"You've said that.  What the hell do you want?  I've got things to do.”  And people to see, especially the blonde.

"Yes."  Jaime was getting bolder.  "We bind you to our service, to do our homework for us."

"What?  That's cheating.  I can't do that."

"What do you mean you can’t cheat?  You're a demon.  You're supposed to be evil, and you have to do whatever we command.  It’s in the book."  Jaime waved a hand-bound tome at me, as though I was going to pay attention to that.

"I'm not doing your homework for you, and that's flat.  How about I conjure you some chicks?"  Surely that would distract these teenaged would-be wizards.

"Chicks won't get us into MIT," one of the other kids whined.

I had to put an end to this.  The blonde back in my office wouldn't stay there forever, and I had better things to do than bandy words with a gaggle of incompetent conjurers.

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