This was the stuff of legends, the kind of legends that will be referenced throughout literature for centuries to come. That literature which will mostly end up on the Internet or (the lucky ones) as crappy B movies starring Russell Crowe. Those kinds of legends. And this stuff, as I have so eloquently chosen to call it, is about to hit the fan. It started the way all terrible young adult novels and after school cartoons start. Meet our hero, he is just like you. He is a loser with only a few friends, he hates school, his parents are jerks, he has a crush on this beautiful girl that he does not have the guts to ask out, but deep down he knows he is destined for greatness! His name is something ridiculous like Aaron Slyer, of course that is not his real name, he only uses Aaron Slyer online for his Neopets account and such. His real name is probably something embarrassing like Eugene Jenkins. And who am I, the witness to the great events about to unfold? I am the sorry sucker who got stuck in this mess, also known as our hero’s “magical aide”. Remember Arete and Cacia from Hercules? Well, I’m Cacia, Goddess of Vice. ...not, literally of course, I am a dude and Cacia is a total bitch. But I figured I would keep the hero’s journey motif going as long as I could. I am actually just a lower level demon with too much time on my hands and a bad Sudoku addiction. Call me Azael, or rather don’t. Calling demon names is a bad habit to get into, and the reason I am stuck where I am at the moment. So, actually, please avoid using my name at all costs in case you are one of those rare humans with the ability to summon demons, chances are your name is something stupid like Dante or Vincent or Flamel. Other giveaways are different colored eyes, being born with unnatural colored hair, a symbolic birthmark, wings, or waking up one morning and finding a mystical tattoo on your body. At least that is what the Internet taught me. So, if you fit the description above, please do not say my name... ever. Call Mammon instead, he is a prick. Anyway, Aaron Slyer (Level 3223 Dark Elf Pirate Night-Stalker), was not one of those previously mentioned genetic freaks of nature, who were just naturally gifted in the ways of summoning poor demons from their day jobs and harassing them until said demon chooses to smote their arse, he was just an idiot. You know the kind. You can usually pick them out by the pentagrams Henna tattooed on their foreheads, with “Lamb of God” playing obnoxiously loud from their ear-buds. Those idiots. With their knock-off brand converse and effeminate jewelry. They are pretty hard to miss, go to your local skate-park or electronic boutique and throw a rock, I will almost grantee you will hit one on their do-it-your-self-hair-dyed head. I am beating around the bush if you cannot tell. So, I’m Azael, I should be working my bar tending shift at Hell’s hottest dance club (The Handsome Devil) right about now, it’s trivia night. But, I’m not. Not unless they seriously re-did the place to look like a teenager’s bedroom and I just did not get the memo. I am pretty sure they didn’t. Let us do a quick description of what I could see right at that moment. I could see a laptop on the kid’s desk, it had Chat Roulette up and I had a sneaking suspicion it was his homepage. Meanwhile, some absolutely horrid white rap was playing from the speakers. Above the desk was an over-crowded bookshelf. I cringed to see a cheap copy of “The Magus” leaning next to the complete set of “Harry Potter” books. Of course that cringe became a full shudder then I saw that open on the desk was a book entitled “The Book of Revelations for Dummies”. This kid was an anti-Christ if I ever saw one (I had seen several). Other notables on the shelf were the “Apocrypha”, Dante’s “Divine Comedy”, Goethe’s “Faust”, and “Poe: Major Tales and Poems”, all proudly displayed among multiple works by Terry Pratchett, Anne Rice and Stephenie Meyer. It got worse of course, there were at least half a dozen video game walk-throughs, an entire half shelf dedicated to fortune telling and magic tricks and finally a stack of trade paper back comics at least four and a half feet tall. Of all the books, the comics looked as though they had had the most use. Is my ecstatic enthusiasm coming across correctly? Good, because I would not want you to mistake it for sarcasm or anything. I still haven’t gotten around to explaining why exactly I am here in the first place, have I? Well... I may have skipped over one of the books I saw. I do not like saying it much, brings up a lot of bad memories, but I suppose I have to. It was, Hell forgive me, “The Grimoire of Honorius”... which probably means nothing to you. Here is a summery. “I conjure thee, evil and accursed serpent, -insert poor sucker’s name here-, to appear at my will and pleasure, in this place, before this circle, without noise, deformity, or murmuring”, that basically sums up the content of the book. And, as per its instructions, I was trapped in old Solomon’s grand pentacle. Though, nothin-nothin, I was pretty sure it was written in Crayola crayon. It sure was not holy water and ash, which is all I have to say. To recap. I am trapped in the bedroom of a nerdy teenager who, out of all the new age books about mysticism there are to find at your local used book store, happened to pick up one of the few books that actually does something. Now, in theory, the demon summoning process is long, difficult and time consuming. It involves masses, dead chickens, fasting, and the memorization of at least a dozen litanies, payers and psalms. Somehow, Aaron Slyer apparently bypassed this month-or-so long process and just skipped ahead to the part where he shouts my name and I get pulled out of my morning shower to sit here on his floor while he goes to school all day. Thanks a lot Pope Honorius... thanks a bunch. From beyond the window of my captor's room I could hear children laughing and playing, punctuated every few moments by loud swearing and the sound of breaking glass. Of course, the fact that I could hear anything besides the never-ending whine of some long haired electric guitarist’s power-solo was amazing. It had seriously been going on for at least five minuets by now and I was ready to throw something at the speakers, had anything worth throwing been with in my arms reach, which nothing was but for a balled up pair of dirty socks. In desperation, I threw them anyway. They did absolutely nothing, except for leaving my hand a bit slimy. I sank back down into my sitting position, trying to adjust so I could relieve the pain in my spine from being hunched over for so long, it was not working. It is probably worth noting at this point that, as per specifications in my summons, I was stuck in a one-hundred percent human body for my entire time here. I find this very irritating. I also find it very cold. I remedied the cold part by putting on the only clothing I could reach, which happened to be a pair of jeans. If I had not known better, I would have sworn they were Eugene’s sister’s pants, but I unfortunately did know better. Now, if you are under the misimpression that, for some unexplainable reason, other worldly creatures, like myself, are just naturally very attractive and handsome, I hate to inform you that you are completely and utterly wrong. We have to work very hard at it. So, please picture me as whatever kinky fantasy happens to be your favorite and let us just leave it as that. It is not as though this human body is mine; it is about as real to me as a Halloween mask might be to you. (Also, I apologize to any straight male reading this. You can just assume I am ugly or something.) Before I lose your interest and you move on to go do something else more productive, let me fast-forwards an hour or so. Not much happens in that hour, a good one sixth of it is taken up by a ten minuet song about dragons, and other than that I keep sitting there listening to bickering kids and eventually the sound of cop cars. Mild gunfire follows. Nothing serious I am sure. And then, the moment we have all been waiting for, the door opens! A moment of intense silence as the door swung open gently, the knob bumping against the opposite wall. A pause, as the entity on the other side contemplates entering, then the step across the threshold. Feet testing the new floor surface warily, then springing up to vault the headrest of the near by bed. Eyes searching the room, eventually meeting mine. They held a cruel defiance I should be used to, but never would be. Finally I spoke. “Hey, kitty. Aren’t you so cute?” I clicked my tongue, trying to encourage it to come closer. Instead it yawned and flicked its tail at me in a way I was almost positive was supposed to be an obscene gesture. ...I’m sorry; did you think the kid had come home? Well, no, he still hadn’t. But honestly, the cat is a thousand times more interesting. I mean look at it! It is a cute little cat, how can you not be distracted by it? Eugene arrived a few moments latter, stomping up the stairs with all the enthusiasm of a murderer on death row. He, obviously, was not as cute as the cat and had none of its intrigue or intelligence. Though, like the cat, the first thing he did was flop on the bed when he entered. I like being ignored, makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. “Eh-HEM.” Nothing. “Eh-eh-eh-eh-hem.” I do not know if that onomatopoeia came across correctly. Basically I was coughing like a smoker with tar clogged up in their throat. That lasted a good minuet before I moved on to tactic B. “I do say, I believe that is my lung on your floor, good sir.” I got the cat’s attention this time, it hopped off the bed and walked causally over to me and sat in my lap. However, the young man on the bed continued to be oblivious to me. I somewhat wished I had kept the dirty sock projectile, I was itching to throw something at his head. I tried conversation again. “I’m borrowing your sister’s pants, hope you don’t mind.” That got his attention. “Why does everyone think I wear my sister’s pants, damn it!?!” He sat up as he shouted, throwing his baseball cap on the floor. “Quite possibly because, for all intents and purposes, they are skinny jeans with silver studs on the pockets?” I suggested helpfully. The kid’s face was the most amusing combination of rage, shock, disgust, and fear I think I have ever seen. He quickly tried to mask it with some sort of relaxed but calculated superiority. It failed miserably and was almost as funny as the previous look. I was trying hard not to laugh outright. “Refrain from speaking to me.” Eugene said, still seeming indecisive about the expression he wanted to wear. “Well that sounds like a thoroughly unproductive arrangement. What do you expect me to do, learn sign language?” I am very proud of my mock indignation voice; I have spent ages perfecting it and will take any opportunity to show it off. Eugene, of course, had to spoil it and pull out the big guns. He started to quote the Grimoire, for my benefit obviously. “ ‘Accomplish my will- ” I cut him off, “ will and desire’ blah blah blah, or else Mikey will come and smite me. I know, I’ve read it. Been there done that.” I waved my hand absently. “Can we get on with this?” Now here is something I did not expect. I mean, I had seen the movies, read the books. This was the moment where either the summoner breaks down crying or proceeds to rain hellfire on me. Either way it is typically an unpleasant social situation. What the survivor's guide to humans never taught me though, was what to do when the idiot starts to smile and laugh like a manic. I returned a nervous grin, never thought my jokes were so funny... “Well,” I started hesitantly, “seeing as you’re in s such a good mood,” more insane laughter, “maybe you wouldn’t mind saying the release spell?” I watched him roll on the floor coughing and cackling. “If you don’t know it off hand, ‘get the hell out of here!’ will probably work just as well.” “This is perfect!” He managed to splutter through his dieing laughter. “I’ve got my own real life snarky demon!” I watched him sit himself back up on the bed, wiping a tear from his eyes. “Go on,” he urged, “say more words!” No one back home was going to believe this. “Ummm, ‘for it is the number of a man; and his number is six hundred threescore and six?’ ”. I was so screwed. Eugene cackled again, clapping his hands in applause like a trained monkey. “This so cool! My therapist will never believe this!” “You and me both, kid...” I mean seriously, of all the gosh darn bad luck I could get. My summoner was not just your typical a-hole magician/loser-with-too-much-time-on-his-hands and a god complex. They typically had evil schemes for taking over the world. No. No, the idiot I got was a bona fide crazy person, who thinks keeping a demon as a pet is just so gosh darn awesome. Have I mentioned I am completely screwed yet?