Chapter 5

Midnight was approaching fast. Eileen had gone to great lengths to explain her idea fully, but somehow I still had my reservations. I always did when things approached the hour of truth, and this wasn't that different. It actually was far more important than any job, heist, robbery or con I had pulled off before. She had made it perfectly clear that Novorski, the demon, was to be killed and burned, but not before she had a chance to ask a few very important questions.

If we didn't get what we wanted out of Novorski, she had made it perfectly clear that no amounts of spirit shards would open a doorway to the after-world. And that was something that curiously enough had to do with me, not Steve, and definitely not her.

I wasn't sure if she wasn't just playing me to her own ends, but then again I thought Steve had been a fed, which would have meant the FBI's standards were stooping too low, even for the likes of them. Giving her the benefit of the doubt and having no real alternative, I grudgingly accepted the fact that I had to trust her. And hope.

One could have said that things were ticking along with military precision if it wasn't for Steve who was roaming the stands making lewd gestures, not being able to hold his water like a grown-up should, making faces and obscene gestures at passers-by, and generally blending in seamlessly with the rest of the fair-going crowd.

I kept my eyes continuously on him, and part of my job involved keeping tags on him. For the most part though, Eileen had entrusted me with a role that made good use of my existing set of skills; primarily lying, stealing, and running with the intention of not getting caught under no circumstances whatsoever.

For the better part of about two hours, I had been plying my trade like a pro. First, I tried picking some wallets, but most were devoid of cash, filled with pennies, plastic money, the occasional condom, and the usual NRA member's card. I tried to lift some cash off the various stands, but all I got was some Mexican pesos, some one-dollar bills cut in half, and monopoly money, which seemed to be legal tender in the crowd but wouldn't be of any use in the real world.

Had it been any other day, I would have called it quits, and gone home to a glass of wine and watch the film at eleven that hopefully didn't involve alien sex or Sigourney Weaver. But I had to make it count that night, so I went above and beyond: I raided the money pot of the 'Save the Memphis Armadillo Fund'. The actual money pot happened to be shaped like a huge armadillo and placed smack in the middle of the whole fair.

Now, I rarely happen to talk about myself and how great a thief I am, but any professional in the business would admit it was a damn hard job to pull. And they'd also call me 'an audacious son of a bitch' or in case their vocabulary didn't include the word 'audacious', which is more often than not the case, 'a cheeky bastard'. And that would be the right thing to say, because I did it in plain sight.

It was a basic technique among social engineers (who in Memphis were still known as con artists), but one that was rarely applicable to the sort of jobs that paid off handsomely. When the opportunity or the need for some quick cash arose though, and the situation allowed for it, robbing people in front of their eyes and acting as if it was perfectly alright to do so worked amazingly well.

All I had to do was grab myself a Cotton Candy Fair T-shirt stamped with the catchy motto 'Now y'all have some ribs' and tape a couple of pieces of paper on my front and back that read 'STAFF', and presto, I was a bona fide fair staff member. All I had to then was walk up to the huge armadillo, lift its bottoms, reach into its innards and grab the plastic box brimming with some real cash, all the while smiling, nodding and waving encouragingly to everyone who happened to venture a look.

I then walked away, and counted the paper money without a care. It took some time but there was a hefty sum involved which proved adequate enough for what Eileen had in mind; and that was making a large, charitable donation to the fair, with the stipulation that the donor had to have a private talk with Mr. Novorski, in person.

And that person would be me. Because, naturally, I'm the go-to guy when dealing with demons, evil spirits from the after-world, and all sorts of supernatural stuff that's really bad for one's personal hygiene, since dead bodies go to rot pretty quick and the smell's, well, rotten.

So I had a quick chat with a cheerful old lady who seemed to be the Country Cotton Candy Club's cashier, secretary, president and sole member. When I showed her the money, she had a second or two with herself before shaking my hand as if her life depended on it and assuring me that Mr. Novorski and I could have all the night to ourselves for twenty five thousand dollars, which she wasn't loathe to admit was almost as much as the annual 'Save the Armadillo' fund raised each year, more or less.

It kind of felt like buying the sexual services of a business entrepreneur who had become a male prostitute purely as part of an ongoing market research in an effort to diversify his approach to potential customers, which in fact probably meant that he had a very sick hobby and not much in the way of scruples.

It also felt like whatever money people donated each year, the armadillo would still be in need of saving, long past after the sun went supernova, and perhaps even after the heat-death of the universe itself.

Having set the trap, my end of the job was done. All that remained was Novorski's arrival, and then we'd be game.

Steve was participating in a belching contest and though I couldn't hear from that distance, the applause and cheers when his turn came were indicative of his chance at winning. Eileen was also watching, albeit from a different angle. She shot me a weary glance; I shrugged knowingly and smiled. She shook her head and grinned, and I noticed Steve had just stage-dived, still holding his embalmed skunk way up high, as if it were some sort of tomahawk, an electric guitar, or a combination of both.

Then we heard an announcement from the PA in that familiar, aggravating, friendly-sounding voice:

"Now y'all put those ribs down, and keep off the hooch jus' a lil' while, cause the managers and directors of the Country Cotton Candy fair are proud to welcome our very own benefactor, well-known and loved for his many contributions to the community, especially the ribs, Mr. Jeremiah Novorski."

Nothing much happened, and the usual round of applause and perhaps cheers did not ensue. No-one really seemed to have even acknowledged the announcement, even less so the fact that Novorski had just appeared onto the center stage, prominently featuring right behind the huge, and by now mostly empty, armadillo. The announcer felt he had to make a suggestion:

"Now y'all better clap those hands for Mr. Novorski, or the skinny-dippin' party's canceled."

Instantly, as if a light bulb had gone off above each person's head, the crowd responded with a hefty amount of applause, and a loud cheer. Novorski appeared to smile politely, but very thinly. I'm no expert on demons, spirits, and the like, but I'm pretty sure these sort of events weren't in his job prescription originally, and he loathed every minute of it, especially since it appeared like he was supposed to play the role of some good Samaritan, bringing joy through ribs.

Eileen was standing with her back against a weeping willow, pretty much hidden by all the low-stooped branches. I could see her features plainly taut with determined fury and a clear purpose in mind. It was one more reason why I was very relieved to not have her inside my mind. There was something about the way she clenched and opened her fists continuously that made me believe that just a glimpse of her mind right at that time would have felt like a floating balloon does in a shitstorm of monumental proportions.

Steve seemed to be completely unaware of his surroundings, quite drunk and judging from the very rude body language about to exchange his laminated feathery hat for some sexual favours from what appeared to be a small group of height-challenged people (I believe in Memphis they're still called midgets). Now, I don't consider myself one of those judgmental pricks but the value for money on that deal seemed horrible, only I couldn't tell which of the involved parties was taking advantage of the other.

As far as I was concerned, Steve was probably having the time of his life, while everything important in my life, mostly the ability to keep breathing, hang by a thread. One could even say I envied him for being so care-free, seeing as the midgets put on his hat and rubbed his belly with cotton seed oil, but that would be a very wrong assumption.

Novorski's voice through the PA caught my attention, while most of the crowd kept on about their usual frolicking and lollygagging, and the midgets along with Steve were no exception either. I heard him say in a squeaky voice:

"Good evening to y'all; I'm certainly going to enjoy it. I hope everything's going along smoothly, 'cause you know, smooth is fun. Up to a point though, right? I also hope that Mrs. Robinson here, our organizer, has done everything in her power to keep things running along, like she does every, single, year ... Now, usually you'd hear me say a few things about how important it is to remember to support the local cotton industry, which is to say keep buying everything related to cotton, and especially that worthless cotton seed oil that's only good for gettin' your hands dirty and your rifle clean."

That sounded a bit strange, bad-mouthing his own product. It unfortunately made more sense though when he continued after he briefly pausing to rearrange his belt:

"But this time, it's a different year all together, so I'd like to take this opportunity to set some things straight. First of all, I'm sick of you people. Don't worry, I'm not talking about Memphis. I'm talking about people, in general. I hate that pestering ability of yours to have hope, even when everything's going to hell faster than a fast-freight train. Which brings me to the next issue: and that is that I'm not who I seem to be at all. It was about god-damn time things got going, but you won't really mind about that, I've seen to it. Y'all had ribs, right? Last but not least, Eileen, or whatever your real name is, you're in for a shitload of pain, honey. 'Cause you've been a naughty girl and daddy's really pissed."

Those last few words in the wrong context could have been interpreted in a slightly perverted way, but when taken at face value they kinda got me thinking that plans A and B were both painfully inadequate to deal with Novorski, who seemed aware we were going to be there from the start. Instead of bidding his time, he just literally sprouted wings, grew horns and a set of sharp fangs, a barbed tail, as well as an array of the assorted nasty features usually associated with demons, beelzebubs, balrogs and the armies of hell as portrayed in popular religious fiction. He had turned into a physical form of the demon he really was, and I wasn't sure we could just burn him now, much less kill him.

It was a bit of a laugh actually, realising that all those quaint depictions of evil demons were actually true, but it wasn't as funny when that demon stood twelve feet tall, with an impossibly inhuman but overly developed physique, the stink of rotten eggs and stale blood emanating from him reaching hundreds of feet away, and a very real, shiny, and quite sharp-looking set of serrated bone claws of the sort that made visceral death a most literal notion.

Eileen did not shy away though and stood her ground, looking at the demon with a piercing set of glittering eyes. That meant she wasn't about to start running which would have been my primary, secondary, and tertiary choice (and all subsequent choices, rest assured). She seemed to be grinning, like letting everyone know she was ready to put up a fight right then and there.

That didn't resonate all too well with me, especially seeing that Novorski had turned into a demonic creature weighing probably half a ton, and the ability to kill a man with a mere slap in the back. Not to mention its breath, which was in urgent need of some mentos (or any other fresh-maker, take your pick, I'm not splitting hairs).

I wanted to help, sure, but I wasn't pretty sure about what I could actually do against something profoundly irrational and monstrous like Novorski, other than bleed profusely in the off chance that it might slip on my own pool of blood, fall on its back, and provide a mildly comedic intermission to the real fighting. Because there was bound to be a fight, and there would be blood. It felt like Mama Adele all over again, the difference being this time I felt we were slightly mismatched.

Especially since the crowds kept looking at the demon positively bedazzled, mostly pointing at him without realising what it was they were seeing and quite possibly thinking this was some sort of special event organized by the Memphis Association of Special Effects, which sadly in fact consisted of a twelve-year old boy with a penchant for vampire flicks and half a pint of raspberry syrup in his mom's fridge which happened to look a bit like fake blood, if one looked at it from the right angle, and under the right light.

No-one started to run, scream and shout, or alternatively fall on their knees, pray in despair for deliverance or grovel and offer virgins as sacrifice, both practices being equally probable in succeeding. In fact, I think that the 'Married my cousin' and 'Marty the Memphis Midget is a Mean Mother-you-know-the-rest' events were still going on unabated, judging by the sheer number of beer cans thrown at Novorski-in-demon-form from their respective spots, protesting for Novorski ruining the party.

Steve did more than just bat an eye-lid when he saw the demon. He instantly dropped the beer can he had strapped on his back, threw away the dick-shaped carrot and T-string, and rushed over to me, skunk still in hand, while Novorski erupted into an evil uproar of demonic proportions that frankly sounded like someone facing severe stomach trouble. I was idly watching the crowd silently - and almost on cue - part in half and create a wide path, as Novorski jumped off stage.

Marty the Midget could be heard, shouting on his own 'Think ya tough? Huh? I'm the Memphis Mean Motherfucker, motherfucker!', followed by shocked gasps from the majority of church-goers who had attended the show in an effort to fight profanity and evil in all its forms but were somehow still undaunted - even indifferent - to the demonic monstrosity that fumed sulfur and sported ember hot eyes that seemed able to peel one's skin by their mere gaze. Perhaps it was because the demon wasn't wearing the customary informative T-shirt based on a tune, like 'Am I evil? Yes I Am', 'This is the Road to Hell', or 'Hell ain't a bad place to be'. Perhaps it was just the fact that these people seemed to act like mind-wiped idiots. Eileen then shouted something that caught my attention:

"It's them! It's all of them! Their minds have been poisoned!"

"What about them? Who's 'them'?" I shouted back while Steve took a ladle off a steamy stew pot still boiling on the "Neil Young & Stew Lovers' Appreciation Society" stand, fell on all fours and started doing something on the ground that seemed similar to a drawing. His movements and disposition were clear, precise, purposeful. He somehow seemed not just to be suddenly sober, but pumped up. I couldn't help asking:

"What the hell are you doing? Aren't you supposed to be drunk?"

"I'm drawing. No, well, yeah but not really, no. I'll explain once this shitstorm's over, okay?" he said, hurriedly scribbling all sorts of gibberish and weird geometric shapes that frankly looked a lot like something I was fairly certain he had ripped off from Rosemary's Baby. I thought this was a really bad time for being so nostalgic about a film by Polanski. Eileen interrupted my train of thought with a regal shout, her feet barely touching the ground as she levitated towards Novorski at a slow, deliberate pace:

"Their minds have been poisoned! They don't see the demon for who he really is! They might even turn against us! Stand fast, Alabama mani-chi-kwa! Protect Bobby with your life!"

I would have protested that these folks had very little in the way of brains, ergo minds to poison in the first place, but that thought somehow became something quite irrelevant when I realised Eileen had tasked Steve with protecting me, with his life.

That did in fact sound somewhat prestigious and it certainly made me look like a really important person like all those famous folks who can't take a leak without someone watching over them in case something bad happens to them, say like a pot plant falling on their heads from a high balcony, or a group of bullets with the intention of using said famous folks as handy inertial dampeners (in Memphis they call that 'stopping a bullet').

That meant Eileen thought I was some kind of target. And that made me highly uncomfortable, and as was usually the case that sort of thing tended to kick off my run-and-hide instincts, perhaps the single most useful of the traits passed on from our early hunter-gatherer ancestors (that and the tendency to proliferate sexually - which in Memphis was still called porkin').

"That's it, time to split man. We tried, we failed. We can still keep the cash though, right?" I said with the slightest hint of hope to Steve, who had just finished a rough sort of circle on the ground; I noticed we were standing right in the center of it. Steve looked at me and replied in a very strange way which I didn't expect or liked at all because it involved doing absolutely nothing:

"Whatever you do, don't do a god-damn thing. Just sit inside this circle on the ground, and no matter what happens, whatever you see and hear, just pretend it isn't happening. If you don't do exactly as I say, you will get hurt, die, or worse. Do you understand?"

I nodded my understanding in a perfectly clear fashion that made my neck hurt, and was determined to follow Steve's advice. Even if every inch of my body wanted to start running on its own, in various mutually exclusively directions, at record-breaking speeds.

My fear was only strengthened when I saw Novorski purposefully stride towards Eileen, who was silently slightly bobbing up and down in mid-air, radiating a bluish neon light from her skin, as if she'd just come back from a really hardcore rave party where shooting paint intravenously instead of just dabbing it on the skin was the norm.

The crowd was cheering and yelling boos at the same time, in anticipation of what they perceived to be some sort of UFC match-up the likes of which they had never even thought possible, not very much unlike what a real fight between Mothma and Godzilla would've looked like to a Japanese crowd: Unreal, yet so cool you couldn't resist touching it even if it meant losing a finger to frostbite. They were stupefied, fatally attracted, and grossly mislead altogether: they threw ripe tomatoes at Eileen who seemed to be putting a lot of effort into resisting the urge to adopt a more vengeful attitude towards the bystanders.

Novorski on the other hand had already tramped on a couple of folks unlucky enough to ask for his autograph. He was casually whipping his tail around as if it were some kind of pet making others suffer from its own ADHD, and making gestures suggesting lewd activities that seemed to involve his bifurcated tongue and his - thankfully - asexual pelvis.

As some sort of invisible clock ticked away and everyone seemed to be attuned to the dispositions of its hands, I saw Steve had closed his eyes and was repeating the same thing, over and over:

"This was the right ward to draw and I didn't fuck it up ... This was the right ward to draw and I didn't fuck it up ... This was the right ward to draw and I didn't fuck it up..."

That kind of self-assurance led me to believe that Steve might have been the wrong person to assure my safety from this demon or any other threat that involved something more dangerous than a cake fight. My attention was drawn to what sounded like badly-greased chainsaws throttling away at a junk yard:

"Bobby Barhoe will be ours! And you'll go back to your housekeeping chores!" grunted the demon, who grinned with all the malevolence usually associated with his kind, showing off a couple of tusks that shone sharp like razors. Eileen's response was immaculately well-thought out, original and appropriate for a spirit of her stature:

"Eat shit and die," she said with a calmness that belied her strength, raised a hand, and out of the clear night sky without a cloud in sight I saw lightning strike at the feet of the demon, with a blinding flash of light. The sound of cracking air followed by the deep rumbling echo of mountains crashing into the sea made me think the world was coming apart at the seams.