Walk Me Through it Again...

“Walk me through it again. Start at the beginning.”

“When I was five...”

“No, not that beginning. George, explain to me why there is a glowing portal to hell in what used to be our kitchen?”

The two of them, George and Jerry, stood beside a sinkhole which was letting off some rather foul odors in the form of thick purple smoke. The rim of the hole pulsated with a sickly orange glow, as though it were an ulcer on the world’s stomach. The smoke rose from the gaping maw into the air and through what used to be the roof of the house the two of them lived in.

George, an ample sized man with a face that had been on the wrong side of a fist than once, shuffled uncomfortably and shrugged before producing a can of what some company claimed to be beer, but was clearly just, as Jerry had determined…

“Psssss,” the can hissed, somehow audible over the deep metallic hum that was emanating from the hole. George took a long, slurping sip before wiping his lips with the back of his hand while Jerry glared daggers at him, waiting for his previous question to be answered.

“Welp,” George finally burped, “it was your birthday, so I figured, why not make yeh a chocolate cake. Thought I might surprise yeh since you was at work, and I had the day off. Thing was, I ain't ever cooked no chocolate cake, so I had to look up some recipe for it.” He took another long sip of his beer while Jerry, a tall and spindly man, crossed his arm over his chest, his right hand clutching his mouth as his eyes widened in contempt. George did not seem to notice as he set the beer down and continued. “But for some reason the recipe for chocolate cake aint in my cookbook.”

“Chocolate cake is not in your Deep-Fried and Delicious cookbook?” Jerry said, straining to contain his sarcasm.

“No, Jerry, it is not,” George replied as though this was common knowledge. “I was as surprised as you is, but no, the recipe was not there. Page musta been torn out or somethin.”

“Musta been,” Jerry said curtly. “Continue.”

“Welp,” George said, having taken the moment to take another sip. “Welp, I went online to look up the recipe but then I remembered you has some allergies or something, and I couldn't remember what they were, so I figured, maybe look in your room for a hint or something. Maybe you left a note.”

“You could have called and asked me,” Jerry muttered through his hand.

“Nah, then you woulda’ not been surprised,” George laughed.

“George, I can say without any shred of sarcasm, that I am plenty surprised,” Jerry said, his head shaking against his will.

“Well that's good,” George said with a smile that could only be described in Jerry’s head as “shit eating.”

George took another sip. Jerry waited as screams echoed up the chamber, followed swiftly by the rattling of chains.

“So you went into my room,” Jerry pressed. George looked with shock as he remembered the conversation.

“Oh right,” he sputtered, a little beer coming out the side of his mouth. “Anyway, I go into your room...you got a creepy room you know that? Real...what’s the word...mac-a-brey.”

“Macabre.”

“I’ve heard it both ways.”

“My room.”

“Right, so I’m in your room and I didn't see no note, but I did see a recipe book, called ‘Ancient Dietary,’ which seemed to be exactly what I was looking for. Most of the names weren’t easy to read cus you got it written in some foreign language or something. But I found one I recognized.” He pulled out a book that was bound with various skins and pelts, stitched neatly together with bright neon green string. “I bookmarked it. La Mort au Chocolat. That's that death by chocolate what everyone likes, so I started making it.”

“It says Mort au Chemosh,” Jerry corrected him without looking at the page.

“What’s that mean?”

“Moabite god of devista...you know? It’s not important,” Jerry said dismissively, waving his hand while staring at a shadowed figure rising from the hole. The two men stood in silence, while George studied the page as if to find a clue he may have missed.

“So,” George finally said. “Not chocolate?"

Jerry chose not to answer as the figure, humanoid with great big horns and a second set of muscly arms attached to its lower torso, rose higher and closer to the pair.

“So,” George repeated. “Not…”

“I heard you the first time, George,” Jerry growled. “How did you read the rest of the recipe then? It’s in French.”

“Oh!” George smiled sheepishly as he wiped his mouth from yet another sip. “I jus’ used the online dictionary. Really made it easy.”

“I see,” Jerry nodded, his eyes closing to put his thoughts in order. “And at any point while making this cake, did you begin to suspect that you were in fact not making me a birthday surprise cake and were in fact summoning an ancient deity meant to inflict torture upon the land for thousands of years?”

George eyed Jerry for the first time in the conversation with a glassy expression, before looking at the cover of the book. His lips moved slowly as he tried to sound out the second word in the title, continuing to come to the word “dietary.” Eventually, he gave up and took another swig.

“I dunno,” George sighed. “I guess about the time a giant portal opened up and sent a beam of light into the sky like a superhero movie, I kinda figured out that it weren't no chocolate cake.”

“Oh!” Jerry turned away from the figure that had now reached their eye level, still shrouded in smoke but clearly wielding an ancient sword and whip each crackling with electricity that seemed to stretch to infinity yet was contained within the swirling vortex of blood, earth, and linoleum. “Oh, that’s the moment you realized it wasn't a recipe for chocolate cake?! When the portal opened? Not when you had to sacrifice a goat? Not when you had to draw the ancient symbols of summoning in the shape of the calling sign of Chemosh? Not when you noticed that there were no eggs, flour, or fucking chocolate?”

George sipped his beer.

“Nah,” he said. “You got some weird dietary needs.” He took another sip. “Cuz, you know, you're a…”

“A what, George?” Jerry sputtered. “A what?!”

“Vampire,” George shrugged, then went for another sip, only to notice he had run out of beer. He looked into the small hole of the can to see if there were any drops left.

“I AM CHEMOSH,” a roar and a whisper erupted from the figure, which emerged along with the smell of year old salmon. “I AM HE WHO SHALL CONSUME ALL! LOOK UPON ME AND WEEP! ENEMIES OF MOAB, BRING FORTH YOUR OFFERINGS, YOUR SHEEP, YOUR CATTLE, YOUR CHI…”

“Shut up!” roared Jerry, who wagged his finger menacingly at the ancient god, not once taking his eyes off George. “I will deal with you in a minute!”

The god Chemosh recoiled and dropped his sword he had been waving, looking at Jerry with a perplexed, if not apologetic face. He looked at George, who shrugged and shook his head, then back at Jerry as if waiting for further instructions. When none came, Chemosh sheathed his weapons and sat on the edge of the precipice, twiddling his thumbs, looking downward into the gaping pit, taking short shallow breaths.

“Now,” Jerry hissed. “Let's get a few things straight. George, for the last time, I am not a vampire.”

“I mean, you don’t eat garlic,” George began to rebut.

“I don't like how it tastes when I bur...not remotely the point! I am a warlock! Not a vampire! You know this. I disclosed this to you when I began renting!”

“Don’t rightly know what difference it makes,” George said, trying to find anything at the bottom of the can.

“A VAMPIRE IS A DRINKER OF BLOOD,” Chemosh said casually, though it still came off as loud as the ocean’s roar. “A WARLOCK IS A PURVEYOR OF DARK MAGICS AND COMMUNES WITH…”

“No one asked you,” Jerry glared at the demon who shook his head away and returned to his thumbs. Jerry turned back to George. “Second, and more to that point, I am allergic to shellfish.”

George raised an eyebrow, not sure what to make of that.

“Right. So…”

“Crabs, lobster, crawdads, clams,” explained Jerry, running his hands through his hair, exasperated. “An allergy which is not even slightly out of the ordinary, and not in any way the ingredients in a chocolate cake.”

“I mean, sure, I suppose,” George shrugged again.

“Not suppose! Not suppose! No one puts lobsters in chocolate cake! That’s empirically disgusting!” Chemosh nodded in agreement with Jerry but said nothing. “Do you put shellfish in chocolate cake, George?”

“I mean, I didn’t know how to make chocolate cake, so, probably not,” George sighed and looked away. “I just wanted to make sure I didn't put no garlic in there…”

“Not a vampire George! Also, not an ingredient in cake! Also,” Jerry fumed. “It’s not my birthday!”

George looked up from his self pity.

“It ain't?”

“No, George, it fucking isn’t,” Jerry said with finality. “It wasn’t last week when you resurrected the neighbor’s cat. It wasn’t last month when you got ahold of my Siren Song workbook, and it isn't today when you summoned the lord of destruction from the fiery gates of hell!”

They stared at each other, Jerry with fury and vitriol, George with a small look of shame, Chemosh with an utter desire to get back to his home.

“I...I am sorry,” George said. “I just got confused. You just said...today was an important day and that...I dunno, I just wanted to make it special.” Jerry softened, then rubbed his eyes with his right hand, his left on his hip.

“I had a review with my boss,” Jerry finally said. “Bit of a stressor. It was an important day. It was my one year anniversary.”

“You met with Dracula?” George asked, sincerity in his voice.

“I'm not a…no, my boss at the insurance company: my day job,” Jerry sighed, resigned to George’s ineptitude. “This is just a hobby,” he waved at the portal and the demon who sat deflated. George nodded, seeming to understand. Jerry sniffed and chewed on his upper lip.

“Tell you what,” George said. “Tomorrow, I’ll get a calendar and put it up real nice where we can see it. Then, I’ll write my birthday on there and you can do the same. Then I won't get so confused.”

Jerry sighed and smiled, putting a hand on George. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Oh, and, uh, don't forget,” George said, before tossing his can into the abyss. “Rent is due tomorrow. Just write me a check or something. Cash works too.”

“That you can remember?”

“Damn straight,” George said, smiling and wandering away. “And then we can figure out how to fix the roof and whatever the hell this is.” He waved at the hole to damnation and disappeared out the front door.

“HOW DO YOU PUT UP WITH THAT?” Chemosh asked uncomfortably. Jerry rifled through his book of deities until he found the correct page to send the demon back.

“You have no idea how bad the housing market is up here,” Jerry sighed and began to chant. Chemosh would have recommended a spot near the lake of fire, but before he could, he was pulled back into hell, the hole to earth sealing shut above him.