Osbert Finds A Demon

An Experiment In Writing Without Thinking.

His name was Osbert Tushmore and that could have summed him up: inevitable school problems, work problems, eventual criminal record. It wouldn't have been surprising; Albert Schweitzer might have slain half a dozen people by the age of 17 had be been stuck with a name like that. Probably a dozen. Maybe even jurors.

But nobody ever gave Osbert Tushmore a hard time. Not even in grade school. Not even the kids who ran the principal up the flag pole. Because Osbert Tushmore had anticharisma; people couldn't help but not pay attention to him. If he'd shaken hands with JFK they'd have cancelled each other out.

He had no friends; he didn't need them. He talked to rocks. The rocks never talked back. That was fine with him.

His parents died of boredom when he was 21 and he found that he'd been left a small fortune. He invested it in zinc oxide and pre-war wallpaper samples and quickly became wealthy. This surprised him. He enrolled in Fulveston College and studied philosophy. Then he studied business administration. He started a company and sold small sheets of paper with quotations from Boethius on them. He got even richer. This surprised him a bit more. Finally he gave all his money away, found a previously unknown Rembrandt sketch in a box of pre-war wallpaper samples, sold it for even more money than he'd had previously and decided that it was about time that he got used to being wealthy to the point of madness.

It was at this point that he discovered the demon.

It was a small demon, not much more than six inches tall. It was hiding in his liquor cabinet. He knew immediately that it was a demon because of the tiny little horns, the red skin, and the way it looked up when he said "Hey, demon!"

He said "Hey, demon!"

It looked up.

"What?" it said.

"What's your name, demon?" he inquired.

The demon looked at him a while, sighed and replied, eventually —

"Rum. Don't say it."

"Say what?"

"It."

"It?"

"I told you not to say it!"

"Sorry. Why are you hiding in my liquor cabinet, demon?"

"I dig the ambience. The chemical content is remarkably similar to home. Down there in Gehenna. Got a lot of alcohol burners, down there in Gehenna."

"I mean, why are you hiding, and why not someone else's liquor cabinet?"

"I wasn't actually hiding, I was lurking. It's traditional, lurking. And I'm here for your soul."

"What on earth do you want my soul for?"

"Me? I don't want it. I wouldn't know what to do with it. It's the boss that wants it. Personally, I don't go in for collecting things. The most I ever got interested in was collecting dust. You know there are no two specks of dust alike?"

Osbert Tushmore contemplated this. "I thought it was snowflakes."

"Dust specks, trust me. Not snowflakes...I've checked."

"You've examined all the snowflakes in existence?"

"Oh, Hell no," said the demon. "What would be the sense in that? I just looked until I found a match."

"Ah," said Osbert Tushmore. "So, what are the parameters on this soul business? Are you going to offer me the usual Faust type deal?"

"No, I figure I'll just wait until you commit a major sin and kill you."

"Isn't that cheating?"

"Of course it is! I'm a demon, you idiot."

Osbert Tushmore had had just about enough of Rum. He opened a mostly empty bottle of Chateau Lafitte '57, grabbed the demon and stuffed him inside, then corked it.

"Oh, the old imprisonment trick?" said the demon. "Think you're gonna get something out of me?"

"Can I?"

"Well, yeah, but first I get to challenge you. You've gotta answer a riddle."

"Or else what? What if I refuse?"

"I explode out of this bottle and eat you. Like a cookie. Two, three bites tops."

"What if I get the answer wrong?"

"Same thing."

"And if I get it right?"

"Then I get all wrinkly in this here bottle of Chateau Lafitte '56."

"It's '57."

"Which of us is sitting in it, pal? I know '56 when I sit in it. You got gypped."

"Hah," said Osbert Tushmore. "All right, cough up the riddle."

"Why did the Wiccan cross the road?" asked the demon. "You'll never guess."

"To get to the Other Side?" said Osbert Tushmore.

The demon looked surprised. "Rats," it said.

"That was the answer?" said Osbert Tushmore incredulously.

"Yep," said the demon.

"I'll be damned."

"Hope so!"

Osbert Tushmore gave the bottle a good shake.

"That was uncalled for," said the demon. Somehow it had acquired a very small life vest with the name MARIE CELESTE on it. "You just wait until I get out of this bottle, I'll sort you out. Consorting with demons, instant damnation."

"But I'm your master!"

"Only so long as I'm your prisoner."

"Bah," said Osbert Tushmore. He walked from the bar to the closet and fetched his coat, then returned and picked up the bottle. The next thing the demon knew they were going down in the elevator to Osbert's 21-car garage.

"We're going somewhere?"

"No fooling you."

Osbert hopped into a Bugati and peeled rubber.

They roared through the countryside. Trees and other cellulose-based lifeforms whizzed past them.

"You left your garage door unlocked," said the demon.

"So? who steals garages?" said Osbert.

They bumped through the wooden slatty construction of a covered bridge, hooked a left onto the main county road, took that to the highway, and blazed down that at 75 miles an hour. They drove and drove some more. After that, they drove, stopped at Stuckey's for a pecan log and some iced tea, and drove some more.

"This is the worst iced tea I've ever had in my life," said Osbert.

"I bet I've had worse," said the demon.

It was getting on toward noon now. The road stretched out before and after them like a wide strip of black asphalt with yellow lines painted on it. They were leaving all the other cars behind them, especially the ones in the opposing lane.

"Can you read a map?" said Osbert.

"Sure," said the demon. "I'm an expert on maps. Ever hear of New Maps of Hell?"

"I thought that was Kingsley Amis's book on science fiction."

"Funny, so did he. But anyway. You want me to read a map, no problem. Just open up this old bottle here and I'll read any map you care to provide."

"Hah!" said Osbert. He opened the glove compartment and stuffed the bottle into it. "See that map? Read it."

"It's folded!"

"So? You're telling me you haven't got esoteric mystical powers and can't read the map so long as you're imprisoned in the glass walls of the bottle?"

"Uh...yeah. Not in so many words."

Osbert pulled over into a rest area.

It was a hell of a rest area. He couldn't imagine getting much rest in it, what with all the oil drilling going on, and the strip mining.

"What the hell is this?" he said.

"Don't blame me," said the demon. "I don't do industrialists or politicians."

Osbert got out of the car and walked up to a sweat-stained drill jockey. "Hey, what's with the oil drilling?" he said. "This is a state forest you know."

The drill jockey yawned and went back to work as though he hadn't even seen Osbert. This was probably true.

Osbert got back in the car. "This is disgusting," he said.

"I'll say," said the demon, examining his soggy toes.

"I mean the exploitation of our national resources, the systematic destruction of our wilderness. Something should be done about it."

"I could do something about it if you let me out of this bottle."

"Yah sure," said Osbert. "Not just yet, thanks."

He got the map out of the glove compartment and spread it across the back seat. Then he put the bottle on top of it. "Can you see the map well enough?" he said.

"Well enough to what?"

"Read!"

"Oh, I suppose. You think I'm going to?"

"Aren't you bound to me by me having imprisoned you? Don't you have to obey me?"

"Dunno. Never been in this situation before. Nobody ever guessed my riddle before. I suppose you could try giving me some orders."

Osbert grimaced, got back into the driver's seat and guided the car back out onto the highway. "We just passed milestone 27," he said. "What's the next exit?"

"27 north."

"How far?"

"Seven miles."

"Are you obeying me?"

"Don't know. Maybe I'm just cooperative."

They drove on. Six minutes later Osbert took exit 27 north toward New York City.

"We're going to New York?" said the demon. "Cool! I've never seen the Empire State Building."

"Well, keep an eye out."

"Okay," said the demon.

There was a small popping noise.

"Ugh," said the demon. "No doubt about it, I'm under your control."

Osbert cast a glance into the back seat, wished he hadn't, and said "Put that back!"

"Hey, don't have to tell me twice."

They drove on in disgusted silence for a while.

"Where are we going besides the Empire State Building?"

"Mu," said Osbert.

"We're not going to the Empire State Building?"

"Got it in one. We're going to St. Mark's."

The New York skyline was now visible in the distance. It got bigger and bigger, nearer and nearer. The buildings loomed up. Taken as a bloc they resembled a major American city, which was only fair.

Osbert shifted down and steered into the appropriate lane to enter downtown. It wasn't long before they were zooming down the cement canyons like nobody's business — except the NYPD's, of course, so Osbert slowed to a reasonable 20 MPH.

St. Mark's was closed, so he parked outside and settled down to wait.

After a while it occurred to him that there was no reason for St. Mark's to be closed. Why should it be closed? Wasn't religion a 24-7 affair? What if somebody desperately needed spiritual guidance while waiting in line at the 7-11? It seemed unreasonable that it should be possible to get a Slurpee but not advice from a qualified priest.

So Osbert got out of the car with the bottle with the demon in it and ascended the massive stone steps of St. Mark's. He pounded firmly upon the almost equally massive wooden doors. He rang the bell. He pounded on the doors again. He sent an e-mail. Eventually someone came around.

"We don't want any," said the person.

"Don't want any what?" said Osbert Tushmore.

"What have you got?"

"A demon in a bottle."

"We especially don't want any of that," said the person.

"What do you mean?" cried Osbert. "Dealing with demons is a primary function of the church!"

"Who says?" said the person.

"The bible! What about the bit with the swine driven into the sea?"

"Do you see any swine around here?" said the person peevishly.

"Well, no."

"Now you know. It's a public health concern. We can't keep any swine around here, so we can't handle your case of demonic possession."

"I'm not possessed!" said Osbert. "I possess it!"

"And it's only one bottle," added the demon. "Hardly a case..."

"Oy!" said the person. "Well, then, what do you need us for?"

"You mean to tell me you have no interest in my being possessed of a bottle containing an actual demon from actual Hades?"

"Not particularly, no."

"You have no interest in removing this threat to the world's spiritual well-being?"

"Why don't you throw it into the ocean?"

A passing officer of the Sanitation Department said "Don't even think about it! Five hundred dollar fine for littering!"

"Send it to the recycling center, then," said the person, crossly.

"They don't want it either," said the officer of the Sanitation Department. "They want only clean, clear glass bottles with the notation 1 or 2 on the bottom. They do not want old champagne bottles with champagne in them, to say nothing of demons from the depths of perdition."

"Is there any agency, public or private, that can help me?" demanded Osbert.

"Or me, for that matter," added the demon, sloshing around in the bottle in a forlorn manner.

"You could try the Church of Set," suggested the officer of the Sanitation Department. "They might even be inclined to purchase the little devil from you. I believe you can look them up in the Yellow Pages, or perhaps the Donnelly Directory."

"Your assistance will not go unnoticed by Osbert Tushmore," said Osbert Tushmore, looking the officer of the Sanitation Department in the eye.

The officer of the Sanitation Department suddenly looked vague. "Did someone say something?"

"Not I," said the person behind the door of St. Mark's.

"Not I," said the demon.

"It was me," said Osbert Tushmore.

"I must be going mad," said the officer of the Sanitation Department. "I could have sworn someone said something. Ah, well, back to work."

And he resumed sweeping the street.

"You know," said Osbert, "that seems to happen to me quite a lot."

"What, people failing to notice your existence, or forgetting it?" said the demon. "That's because of your anticharisma. I myself find you rather hard to remain interested in, and I'm your prisoner."

"Anticharisma!" said Osbert. "I have anticharisma! At last, my miserable life has an explanation! I always wondered why people tended to lose interest in me and walk away in the middle of a conversation, robbery, or, all too infrequently, potential romantic encounter."

"Excuse me, I do not wish to know this," said the demon.

Osbert turned to the door of St. Mark's. "Are you still there, person behind the door of St. Mark's?"

There was no answer.

"Drat," said Osbert. "Demon, I captured you and successfully answered your riddle —"

"Don't tell me, let me guess — you want me to do something about your personality defects."

"Indeed," said Osbert.

"But you won't let me out of this bottle."

"Correct again."

"Well, you're out of luck. I can do nothing beyond the realm of my prison."

"You can consult," said Osbert.

"That's a thought," admitted the demon. "Have you considered changing your name?"

"Why, what's wrong with it?"

"Oh, nothing I suppose." It fell into a contemplative trance for a moment. "Well, I can't think of anything. Sorry, but I've got a brain that weighs two-tenths of an ounce and there's only so much it can do."

"What if I were to let you out — what would be the limits on your power to address my difficulty?"

"I have no idea," confessed the demon. "I've never addressed such a difficulty. As I alluded to before, my sole purpose is to whack sinners before they have a chance to achieve absolution. It's what I do; I'm good at it. I don't do anything else, never have done."

"Huh," said Osbert. He got back into the car and thought for a moment. "Only one thing for it," he decided. "I shall have to track down the Church of Set and consult them, loath though I am to do so."

"Technically not," observed the demon. "You could endure your misfortune, keep faith, die and attain eternal happiness."

"But I want my happiness now," said Osbert.

"Glad to hear it," said the demon. It smiled and displayed tiny very sharp teeth, like ivory needlepoints.

"Very well then," said Osbert. "I shall seek out the Church of Set. But first I must seek out a purveyor of authentic New York bagels, for I have not had a good bagel in my lifetime."

He drove off down the street. He passed by any number of sidewalk vendors, but they were all selling authentic New York hot dogs (imported from Kentucky), authentic New York pretzels (imported from Philadelphia), and authentic New York illegal delights (imported from everywhere else).

"Bah," said Osbert, after having had several of each type of dealer lose interest in him, one after handing over the merchandise. "You see that my life stinks."

"Do I? It looks to me like you're getting free pretzels," said the demon.

"That is true," said Osbert, wrapping his teeth around one. "Say!" he added. "This isn't granulated salt — this is crack cocaine! I've been robbed!"

"Welcome to New York," said the demon.

Osbert drove on. The demon passengered on. They came to an area of town in which everyone had facial hair and black hats and black suits.

"Ah, Pennsylvania Dutchtown! This looks like a good place to get a bagel," said Osbert. He pulled up in front of Krelman's Kosher Bagels (purveyors of fine imported bagels for over 4,000 years) and went inside.

"I wish to purchase a bagel," said Osbert to the counterman.

"So?" said the counterman. "You think we have bagels just because we have a sign on the door that says Krelman's Kosher Bagels (purveyors of fine imported bagels for over 4,000 years)?"

"Yes," said Osbert.

"Well, you're right," said the counterman, "but you shouldn't jump to conclusions."

Osbert plunked the bottle with the demon in it down on the counter.

The counterman looked at it. "Oy!" he said. "Demons? Demons you are bringing into my store? What have I done to deserve this?"

"Don't jump to conclusions," said the demon.

"A demon you aren't, then?"

"Oh, I'm a demon all right."

"Oy!"

"But you shouldn't jump to conclusions," said the demon.

"Say!" said Osbert. "Do you know anything about getting rid of demons?"

"Yes!" said the counterman. He pointed to the door. "Take it outside!"

"I mean, getting rid of them from a more spiritual, not to mention permanent, outlook," said Osbert. "I mean, I didn't get any help from the person behind the door at St. Mark's."

The counterman deposited a paper bag over the bottle with the demon in it and turned to Osbert Tushmore. After a moment a vague look crossed his face. He looked through Osbert, said "Hm," and started polishing the counter.

"Hey!" said Osbert. "Hey!"

There was no reaction. After a few more moments of polishing the counter the man bumped up against the paper-bag-covered bottle. He took the bag off it.

"Oy!" he cried. "Demons in bottles in my store!"

Osbert grabbed the bottle and stalked out.

"I'm getting tired of this anticharisma," he said. He spotted a telephone booth and trotted up to it. He pulled up the telephone book chained to the bottom of the phone and opened it. Every page had been torn out except for the one that said CHURCHES — EVIL at the upper right hand corner.

"Hah!" said Osbert, scanning the page. "Here we are, Church of Set. Just above Church of — hmm, have to pay that one a visit later..." He patted his pockets for a pencil or paper, found neither, and tore the remaining page from the telephone book.

"Off he go," he said cheerfully, and they returned to the Manhattan Island traffic pattern.

They had been zipping from street to street for about half an hour when Osbert suddenly realized that a) he had no idea where they were and b) he had no map.

"Merde!" he cried. "Where the hell are we?"

"According to the sign on that building, we're right next to Disco Duck Boogie-Down Martinis."

"Oh really? I haven't been to Disco Duck Boogie-Down Martinis in a long time."

So he parked, grabbed the bottle and sauntered up to the entrance. There was a bouncer, but Osbert just stared at him until he lost interest.

Inside they found a warehouse-sized empty space with what looked like a bar at the far end. It was completely empty except for a small man in the middle of the floor who was shuffling around to the music that was booming from speakers mounted in the ceiling.

"Interesting," said Osbert Tushmore, listening intently. "I never knew that Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass had done a Bee Gees cover album."

He advanced to the bar. "Good morning, bar person!" he said.

There was no response. There was no bar person. And, strangely, the bar was just that — a steel bar about six feet long by three feet wide, suspended in midair by nothing at all.

"What a perversion of nature!" remarked Osbert.

The demon looked up from a small copy of Reader's Digest it had found somewhere. "Nature? You've been driving around with a demon in a bottle all day and you think there's some sort of rationality to the universe? That physics is consistent?"

"I sort of continued to assume that in the teeth of the evidence, I must admit," admitted Osbert. "It's remarkable how I can hold on to my cherished beliefs despite having them contradicted and even flatly disproven to my face."

He sat down on the floor and surreptitiously checked the underside of the bar for wires.

"If there were wires they'd be on top, wouldn't they?" said the demon.

"You never know," said Osbert. Suddenly the day seemed heavy, his experiences since breakfast a solid weight upon him. Osbert realized that he was not having any fun.

"I'm not having any fun," he said.

"Neither am I," said the demon. "Why don't you let me go, and I'll fix that right quick."

"I'll have fun?"

"No, but I will."

"Faugh!" said Osbert Tushmore.

The demon blinked. "Faugh? Nobody says faugh any more!"

"So? I'm a nobody, haven't you noticed?"

"Right enough," said the demon. It turned back to its magazine. "Say, Life In These United States is pretty funny this month," it said.

Osbert ignored him and lay down on the floor. He stared up at the ceiling at the speakers. The speakers continued to blast "Stayin' Alive" arranged for xylophone and trumpet.

Then, from the distance, a low rumble of voices began.

Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, nam-myoho-renge-kyo, intimated the rumble.

Om mani padme hum, om mani padme hum, it suggested.

Doors to the left and right of the hall were flung wide.

"Oh look, monks!" said the demon, as hundreds upon hundreds of yellow-clad monks filed into the room. "You don't see that every day."

The man who was dancing in the middle of the room suddenly stopped dancing. "I do so!" he said in an offended tone of voice. "The damn monks shuffle in here every damn day at this time. It's irritating as damn! This used to be a decent bar, but now look at it! They chased away all my other customers!"

The monks formed into a square, 24 rows of 24 monks each. It took Osbert a little time to itemize them in this way and then do the math, but eventually he determined that there were 576 chanting monks present in Disco Duck Boogie-Down Martinis.

"The worst of it is," said the little man, joining Osbert by the bar (as there was no room elsewhere), "this building is a 500-persons-maximum occupancy and I'm going to be fined one of this days, I just know it."

"You own this building?" said Osbert.

"Yes! I am Melvin Grobnush, owner of Disco Duck Boogie-Down Martinis," said Melvin Grobnush, owner of Disco Duck Boogie-Down Martinis. He grabbed Osbert's hand and shook it vigorously.

"I am Osbert Tushmore," said Osbert Tushmore. "And this is my prisoner, a demon I captured this morning."

"Hello, demon! I am Melvin Grobnush, owner of Disco Duck Boogie-Down Martinis," said Melvin Grobnush, owner of Disco Duck Boogie-Down Martinis. He grabbed the bottle and shook it vigorously.

"Arrgh," said the demon.

Osbert looked at Melvin Grobnush, etc., forcefully.

Melvin Grobnush, etc., returned the favor.

"Interesting," said Osbert. "Tell me, Melvin Grobnush, etc. —"

"Please, just call me etc.," said Melvin Grobnush, etc.

"Very well, etc.," said Osbert. "How is that you manage to retain an interest in returning my stare? I should mention at this point that I —"

"Suffer from anticharisma?" said etc. "Yes, I could tell the moment I set eyes on you. As it happens, I too suffer from anticharisma! Hence the way I am so frequently put upon by 576 Buddhist monks." He pointed at the 576 Buddhist monks. The 576 Buddhist monks continued to chant. "Suffering from anticharisma myself, I have developed a quasi-immunity to it. I find you no more or less interesting than anyone else in the world."

"Amazing!" said Osbert. "And have you learned much about anticharisma in your anticharisma-afflicted lifetime? I myself discovered the condition only today."

"Let me tell you," said etc., "my discovery was purely fortuitous. At a library book sale in Brooklyn in 1974 I acquired this slim volume —" he produced a paperback titled WHY YOU HAVE NO FRIENDS AND NOBODY EVER NOTICES YOU by Z. Mosley Mufgart — "and after filling out the tests on pages 17 to 35 and checking the results against the indexes provided by Mr. Z. Mosley Mufgart I found that he pegged me as such. I have subsequently purchased many more of Mr. Mufgart's books, and they all agree that I have anticharisma. Many people do in fact suffer from anticharisma. For example, do you know Walter Goosepart? Wilma Mugwarmer? David Osmond Noseliquor?"

"No," said Osbert Tushmore.

"I rest my case," said etc. "These are just a few of the better-known victims of anticharisma, yet only I know who they are. There are many more even more obscure. We have a support group that meets in this space once a month, after we get the monks cleared out of it."

"OM," chanted the monks. "OM."

"Let me tell you, it's a blessing, that group," said etc. "Perhaps you would like to join us for our monthly meeting? It's to be held tonight!"

"Well," said Osbert contemplatively, "it's something to be contemplated. But I'm under the distinct impression that this demon I have captured can provide a cure."

"A cure for anticharisma? Ridiculous!" said the monks. "OM!"

"I must admit that I am inclined to agree with the monks," said etc. "Z. Mosley Mufgart is the world's leading, indeed only, authority on the subject, yet he has never given the slightest indication that such a thing is possible. According to his books, only expensive treatment is possible."

"How many books does he have out on the treatment of anticharisma?"

"One hundred and thirty-seven," said etc. "I have sixty-two."

"Aha," said Osbert Tushmore.

"Aha? What for you say aha?" inquired etc.

"Oh, no reason," said Osbert Tushmore. "But I tell you what. I am seeking out the Church of Set, which I am informed can deal with this pesky demon. If I can bind him in such a fashion as to force him to correct my condition, I will return with him to this place —"

"Disco Duck Boogie-Down Martinis," said etc.

"— yes, and if you like I shall have him lift the onus from you all as well!" concluded Osbert.

"Splendid!" said etc. "I really couldn't afford to buy any more books."

Osbert fell silent and looked troubled.

"You are silent, Osbert Tushmore," said etc. after a while. "You look troubled."

"I am troubled, etc.," said Osbert.

"That would explain it."

"The problem is that I am lost without a map and have no idea where to find the Church of Set. All I have to go on is this address." He handed the Yellow Page to etc.

"Church of Set?" said etc., examining the page.

"Just above the Church of —"

"Ah yes," said etc. "Hmm, have to make a note of that one..."

"Do you know where that address is relative to Disco Duck Boogie-Down Martinis?"

"Why yes!" said etc. "It's next door."

Osbert was surprised. "I didn't see a sign."

"Yes, the sign fell down years ago."

The monks chanted "OM!"

"Why didn't they put it back up?"

The monks chanted "OM!"

"They did! It fell down again! You'll see why in a minute!" said etc.

"OMMMMMM!"

"Quick! Under the bar!" said etc. They ducked under the bar.

"OMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!"

Half the monks were chanting Om as a 440 Hz A. The other half were now chanting it as a 447 Hz A-sharp. The phase differential began shaking the room like an earthquake!

"OMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!"

Tiles fell from the ceiling! Paint peeled from the walls!

"OMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!"

The floor cracked! The speakers fell! The windows shattered!

"OMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!"

Suddenly, in the airy space above their heads, Gautama Buddha appeared in blazing glory, and he spoke unto them:

"Shaddup!"

"O-"

"Geesh!" said Gautama Buddha. He disappeared.

The monks stood around for a while, looking embarrassed, and then shuffled out the doors they had entered reom.

"Does that happen often?" said Osbert after a while.

"Often enough," said etc.

"Maybe you should sell this place," said Osbert.

"Who'd want it? It's infested with monks," said etc.

"Why not turn it into a monastery and charge admission?" said the demon.

Etc. paused a long time. "Saaaaay," he concluded.

Osbert stood up and grabbed the bottle, which is something he was getting tired of doing. "Enough persiflage," he said. "I'm going next door to the Church of Set and see what they can do for me. Do you want to come along, etc.?"

"Nah," said etc. "Got to put my speakers back in the ceiling."

"Why not just mount them in the floor?" said the demon.

"Saaaaaay," said etc.

"I'm off," said Osbert. "Farewell, Melvin Grobnush, owner of Disco Duck Boogie-Down Martinis."

"Farewell, Osbert Tushmore! Farewell, demon!" said etc.

And Osbert left.

Once outside he looked around. Sure enough, on the right was a building with no sign on it reading "Church of Set". He walked over and knocked on the door. There was an enormous delay, during which he knocked a few more times, and also realized that he had never found out what the deal was with the steel bar that floated for no apparent reason.

Eventually a man dressed in black, whose teeth were filed to points, answered the door. "We're closed," he said.

"Closed? The Church of Set is closed? I thought evil never rests!" said Osbert.

"Sorry, we've gone out of business. What did you want?"

Osbert held up the bottle. The man looked at the bottle.

"Oh. Maybe you should talk to the boss."

Osbert raised an eyebrow and stepped through the door into the Church of Set.

Inside it was all black, with torches flaming in sconces. Dead goats were dangling from the ceiling. Pentacles were painted on the floor in what looked like blood but, due to Health Department regulations, probably wasn't.

The demon sighed nostalgically.

"Wait here," said the man. He disappeared through a door in the back of the room.

There were quite a few doors in the room. Several men in black robes emerged from one, rolling handcarts with file cabinets on them. They pushed past Osbert and out into the street without even looking at him. Several other men came through another door with ladders and metal tubing and proceeded to set up scaffolding; as Osbert watched they began taking down the goats. Still others appeared armed with mops and cans of industrial floor cleaner.

"Hey! Cut that out!" said the demon, watching in dismay as they started to strip the pentacles off the floor. He was roundly ignored.

The doorman returned with a taller and more authoritative looking man. The latter was dressed in a mockery of a priest's uniform and was carrying a couple of empty soup cans in one hand.

"I'm Evil Father Vermit," said the tall man. "Can I hurt you?"

Osbert held up the bottle. Evil Father Vermit boggled at it.

"Why didn't you tell me," demanded Evil Father Vermit of the doorman, "about the demon in the bottle?"

"I did. You never listen."

Evil Father Vermit had already turned back to Osbert. "Damn, damn, damn," he said, examining the demon. "Where were you when we needed you?"

The demon pulled out a pocket scheduler and scanned it briefly. "Levittown, Pennsylvania," it announced.

"Merde!" cried Evil Father Vermit. He flung the soup cans from him. ("Aargh!")

"What's going on here?" said Osbert.

"Oh, nothing," said Vermit. "Just the collapse of an ancient and evil order of vile monks that has been doing business on this spot since before Tammany Hall. Just the collapse of an ancient and abhorrent tradition. No respect! No respect! Nobody cares, not even the Historical Society! Look at this floor!"

He pointed at the floor, now scrubbed clean. "Do you know how many innocents lost their innocence on this very floor? Do you know how many goats lost their insides on this very floor? Have you any grasp of the enormous evil that was set loose by repugnant, blasphemous rites on this floor? Guess what's going to happen to this floor!" He didn't wait for an answer. "Parquet! Vinyl! Linoleum!" Unable to continue due to lack of breath, he paused to cough like an espresso machine.

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Osbert, taking advantage of the moment.

"Not your fault," said Evil Father Vermit after getting his wind back. "No respect for tradition. No taste. It's all about money now." He retrieved the soup cans and waved them at Osbert.

"The Church of Set was bought out by a soup company?"

"Nah, another church. They come in, these new guys with their nouveau riches, take advantage of a soft real estate market and our momentary financial insolvency and we're out on the street." In a sudden rage he threw the soup cans away again. ("Aargh!")

People were coming in off the street, new people in modern clothing, bearing different file cabinets. Evil Father Vermit glared at them, but they paid no attention to him.

Osbert, however, attracted some attention, which was odd.

"Pardon me, sir," said one of the new people, a man dressed in an expensive Armani suit, "but is that your Bugati parked outside?"

"Yes, yes it is," said Osbert.

The new man smiled widely. He reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small pamphlet. "Are you by any chance interested in...the mind?"

"Up to a point," said Osbert. "Mine, yes, yours, no."

"Would you be interested in taking a free personality test?"

"NO!" screamed Evil Father Vermit, stepping between them. "This one's MINE!"

The new man looked at Vermit and smiled tolerantly. Then he reached around Evil Father Vermit and handed Osbert the pamphlet. "Have a look at it anyway, you never know," he said. He wandered off into one of the back rooms.

Evil Father Vermit grabbed the bottle and looked at it hungrily.

He murmured something that sounded like "Kud ayub anaw?"

"No thanks," said the demon.

"How'd you capture this little devil?" asked Evil Father Vermit.

"Just lucky, I guess," said Osbert. "The thing is, I want to get a deal out of him and don't know how. I have him in my power, but he can't do anything worthwhile in the bottle, and I can't let him out of the bottle or he says he'll kill me."

"Hell yeah!" said the demon. "Soon as I'm sure you're not in a state of grace. That's the tricky part. It's that old Hamlet predicament. Don't want to send you off to Heaven, now do I?"

"So," said Evil Father Vermit, quickly sizing up the situation, "the object is to get the little bugger out of the bottle, keep him under control, get him to solve your problem and then make him hold off on killing you until you manage to repent of using him in the first place, yeah?"

"That's basically it," said Osbert.

The last of the goats came down from the ceiling. Evil Father Vermit watched as someone stuffed it into a trash bag.

"I think," said Evil Father Vermit, "we can come to some arrangement."

In a matter of moments he had whipped out a piece of chalk and traced out a pentagram on the floor. He took the bottle from Osbert's unresisting grasp and placed it in the center, and then muttered some Words of Power: "Sa rey tshub lyro syas ehtaw ood!"

"Whatever," said the demon.

"All you have to do is take the cork out," said Evil Father Vermit. "He will then be free within the limits of the pentagram but bound by its significance. He will have to do as you ask, though you get one and only one request. All you have to do is command him by his true name. You do know his true name, right?"

"Yeah," said Osbert. He was pretty sure.

Evil Father Vermit smiled. "Now, there is one small matter. I must desecrate the pentagram. I will do that on one teeny-tiny condition. I want the demon when you're done with him. You must swear by your sword."

"I don't have a sword," said Osbert.

"Well, swear by your pen," said Evil Father Vermit. "It's mightier."

"I don't have a pen," said Osbert.

"Pencil? ... Personal digital assistant?"

"Nope."

Evil Father Vermit looked bugged. "Fine, here, swear by this piece of chalk," he said.

"Okay, I swear by this piece of chalk that you can have the demon when I'm done with him."

"Thanks," said Vermit. "Close your eyes."

"Why?"

"Because I'm shy."

Osbert closed his eyes. There was a zipping noise and a trickling noise and another zipping noise.

"Finished," said Evil Father Vermit.

Osbert looked at the puddle on the floor and then looked at Evil Father Vermit.

"Well?" said Evil Father Vermit.

"Ah," said Osbert. "Hum." Then he shrugged and opened the bottle.

The demon hopped out and shook himself dry. "Look at me!" he whined. "I've gone all wrinkly! I look like a raisin!"

"Okay, demon," said Osbert, "listen up!" He thought for a moment, carefully phrasing his next statement in his mind. "I command you to do the following, demon: provide me with the power to, at my discretion, remove the quality of anticharisma from myself or any other person and to restore that quality of anticharisma to myself or any other person, again at my discretion!"

He waited. The demon buffed his nails.

"You forgot the name," hissed Evil Father Vermit.

"I so command thee, demon Rum!" said Osbert.

The demon exploded out of the pentagram! It swelled up to prodigious size! It snatched up Osbert Tushmore in one hand and Evil Father Vermit in the other!

"Foolish mortal!" it bellowed. "You think I would tell you my true name?! Oh, ho ha!" And it ate Evil Father Vermit like a goldfish. One swallow.

Then it opened his mouth again for Osbert —

"— plestiltskin," concluded Osbert.

The demon paused.

"Oh, crap," it said, and instantly collapsed to its original size.

Having moments before eaten Evil Father Vermit whole, this resulted in a remarkable and disgusting event.

"Gaaaaaaah!" said Evil Father Vermit. "Aaaaagh, aaaagh! Aaagh!" He ran off, probably to the washroom.

"Nnnnnngh," said the demon Rumplestiltskin, clutching at bits of itself. "Nnnngh, nngh! Nnngh!"

Osbert borrowed a rolling office chair that had been recently brought in, plunked himself down on it, and waited for a while. He spun around a few times, since it is impossible to resist doing this while sitting on a rolling office chair. As an afterthought he picked the demon up and deposited it back in the pentacle just in case.

"Oy," said the demon eventually. "How did you know?"

"It was an inspired guess," said Osbert. "The prospect of immediate death concentrates the mind wonderfully."

"Fine," said the demon. It waved its hand.

Suddenly, Osbert felt exactly the same.

"Is it done?" he said. "Do I have the power?"

"Try it out," said the demon.

"How?"

"However you like. Nngh!"

Osbert ducked in front of a couple of men who were bringing in an expensive-looking desk. The men rolled it around him without comment. Then he thumped himself on the chest and said "Anti-anticharisma!" and got in the men's way again.

"Outta the way, creep!" said one. The other punched him in the face.

"Huh!" said Osbert Tushmore, picking himself up off the floor. He slapped himself on the chest again. "Anticharisma!"

This time the men couldn't be bothered to bother him.

"It works!" said Osbert Tushmore.

"So what did you expect?" groaned the demon.

Evil Father Vermit staggered out from the washroom. He looked a bit exfoliated, though not horribly injured.

"That does it," he said, "I'm giving up evil. It's not worth it."

"Really?" said Osbert. "Bit of a fast conversion, wasn't it?"

"You ever been pushed through a demon's intestines?" said formerly Evil Father Vermit.

"No," said Osbert, although this was probably not necessary.

"That'll do it every time," said formerly Evil Father Vermit. "The bums can have the building, I don't care. I'm going over to St. Mark's to reform."

"Don't forget to take your demon with you," said Osbert.

"Faugh," said formerly Evil Father Vermit. He left the building without another word.

Osbert looked around. Then he shrugged and left the building also, to have a look at the Church of SETI, because he couldn't imagine why anyone would want to worship anything as mundane as extraterrestrials.

Inside the former Church of Set, workmen continued to work. The demon quietly recuperated. Nothing of interest happened for a long time.

Then the man in the Armani suit entered the room again from the rear, and headed for the door. He was almost to it when he noticed the demon on the floor and made a detour.

He looked at it speculatively.

"Excuse me," he said, "would you be interested in taking a free personality test...?"