Grawlnar, son of the Lord of the Sixth Circle of the Abyss, was destroyed by my hand yesterday. To celebrate, I called my boss and told her I wasn’t going to make it to work, I was sick. Ten solid hours of sleep left me feeling great, and it was time I talked to Grams about some stuff that had been bugging me. I grabbed the Spoon of Ultimate Demon Annihilation from the nightstand and plopped it down on the kitchen table. Brewing a cup of coffee, I sat down and began.
“Okay Grams, I have some questions for you.” I started out. “First off, when you gave me this spoon, you told me it was inhabited by the spirit of Kenny Blackspoon. You also only gave me four Sioux words to activate it but there’s a fifth that turned it into a shield, which you didn’t bother to tell me about until later. ‘Sup with that?”
The spoon remained silent for so long that I began to worry that Grams was either not going to answer or the spoon had lost its power and was now just an ordinary spoon made out of star metal. Grams did eventually answer though, but her voice sounded weary.
“The story I told you about the spoon’s origins and Kenny Blackspoon was true,” she told me. “Kenny was a powerful warrior and upon his passing his soul did reside in the spoon. I was his wife, and it was me who had the star metal forged into the shape of the spoon as a symbol of peace and nurturing. Even in death Kenny was powerful, and he grew angry with what I had done. He wanted a weapon made of the star metal so that he could fight inside it forever. His will dominated the spoon and gave it the power to change into four different weapons; I was so sickened that he had twisted and warped the spoon to suit his own ends that I delved deep into the mystic ways of the ancients to stop him. I spent many, many moons learning the paths of magic. The result was the squirrel bow that you saw, as well as adding the fifth number, the shield. By adding the squirrel bow and the shield I had hoped to show Kenny that his grip on the spoon wasn’t absolute, and I prayed that his soul would move on, but he didn’t.
“When I fought the demon in your apartment and died, Kenny still inhabited the spoon. Over the years his soul had become angry and corrupted, and I was worried that if you died, the spoon would become a hateful weapon that served the powers of darkness, since you would no longer wield it and keep it in check. I realized that to preserve the balance of nature, I would have to remove Kenny’s soul from the spoon and occupy it myself. While you possess an incredible level of dumb luck that has kept you alive so far, you are a major spaz, and always just one step away from being squashed like a bug.”
“Wow, and here I thought I was doing pretty damn good!” I said proudly. “Four minor demon lords down, and I’m still here! And by the way-what you consider ‘spazzing’ on my part is just really hyper-focused energy being released in an explosion of raw power.” I tried to strike a heroic pose from my seated position, but I’m pretty sure I just looked constipated.
“So, did you get Kenny’s spirit to move along to the great Hunting Ground in the Sky? And why didn’t you bother to tell me about the fifth word of power to activate the shield?” I asked.
Again, I noticed how tired Grams sounded when she answered. “Kenny did not go peacefully nor willingly. But I had learned much walking the path of the shaman, and in the end, it was necessary for me to destroy him.”
Wow, now I felt like a tool. “I am so sorry. That’s gotta be a real bummer.” I couldn’t think of anything else to add, so figured I should just keep my mouth shut.
“I didn’t tell you about the fifth word of power simply because I did not remember it at the time. I have walked the Earth since 1712. I’m a tired old woman who can’t remember everything. You can’t even remember what you had for lunch yesterday, dolt!”
True enough I suppose. “Holy crap, you’re old Grams, but damn girl, you still got some moves left in you! Okay, I’ll let that whole ‘fifth word’ thing slide since you had to fight off dinosaurs and stuff while you were young, but if you remember anything else along the way that you think I need to know, please tell me before a demon is bending me into a human paperclip.”
Grams was mumbling some unflattering things regarding my gene pool and heritage as I stuffed her into my pocket. I grabbed my laptop from the kitchen counter and turned it on. After being separated from the spoon during my last battle, I had come up with a plan to keep it accessible at all times. I logged into my Amazon.com account and spent a half hour searching for the items I’d need.
“Gotcha!” I said as I added the items to my cart and checked out. Overnight shipping was expensive, but I didn’t know when the next demon attack would take place and I needed the items fast.
The doorbell rang, breaking the silence. Pulling the spoon from my pocket I crossed the room and peeked out the door’s peephole. There was no one standing in front of the door, but there was a pile of something lying on the doorstep. Gripping the spoon tightly, I inched the door open to see what it was. A muffin basket? What kind of foul, insidious trap was this? I nudged it with my foot, expecting it to either explode or turn into a hideous minion of Hell. Then I noticed a small envelope taped to the top of the basket. I pulled it off and pulled the card out of it. ‘Fantastic job on Grawlnar--keep up the great work!’ and at the bottom in smaller letters: P.S. ‘Nice tattoos----NOT!’ It was signed by Higgins and Franklin, the agents from Project 109. Man, how could I lose with guys like these in my corner sending me muffin baskets? That was sarcasm, in case you missed it. Don’t get me wrong, the muffins were pretty tasty and not cheap day-old ones, but really? Muffins? Thanks guys, I couldn’t think of anything else that would help me battle the armies of darkness quite as well as a honey bran muffin. Hell, send me a basket of fruit next time and I could probably cleanse all nine layers of the abyss in one afternoon; that’s some pretty heavy firepower you’re throwing my way! Finally done my mental ranting, I knew it was time to get down to business. Placing the spoon back down on the kitchen table, I grabbed a drill from the closet.
“Grams, I’m gonna have to drill a hole in the spoon’s handle. I’m guessing it might hurt a little, so I’m giving you a heads up.”
Opening a nearby drawer, I grabbed a roll of duct tape and peeled off a two inch strip. Grams started griping just as I knew she would.
“You idiot! You’re going to drill a hole through a priceless magical Indian artifact that dates back to---mmmpph!”
I wrapped the tape around the bowl of the spoon and muffled her protests. The tape didn’t completely silence her screams as the drill bored a hole through the handle, and it took all the strength I had to hold the spoon down as it tried to break free of my grip.
“I’m really sorry, but I can’t lose you in battle again Grams. You’ll thank me for this later, trust me!” After I was done drilling I started to pull the tape off, but apparently Grams had learned some new words from sailors and truck drivers during the lengthy course of her lifetime so I wrapped the tape back up around the spoon.
“You’re a dirty, dirty little spoon. Nobody likes a dirty spoon,” I scolded her. “Settle down or I swear I’ll put you in the dishwasher on the heavy wash cycle.”
The spoon seemed to calm down, but I could swear I heard it growling when I put it back in my pocket and flipped on the television. Plopping down on the couch I quickly vegetated, dozing off after a half dozen episodes of Teen Titans Go!
My eyes snapped open with a start and my body spasmed completely off of the couch. Go ahead and laugh, it looked like I was having a seizure but in reality, it’s a defense mechanism that moves me quickly out of harm’s way. Although I landed in a crumpled heap on the floor, my mind was working in overdrive. How long was I asleep? I looked at my phone and saw it was only 5:00 p.m., I had only been napping for about 45 minutes. Something had woken me though, I had heard a noise. Growling? I pulled the spoon out of my pocket and peeled the tape off.
“Was that you Grams?”
Silence. Grams was giving me the cold shoulder, so it wasn’t her. And then I heard it again--a long drawn out gurgling growl, the sound a dog would make if it were being strangled to death in a washing machine. I sprang to my feet, one arm outstretched with the spoon, the other holding my hand up to my face to look at my hand. Huh, my tats weren’t glowing, there was no warning heat searing my tender flesh, so what was going on? I heard the growling again, and knees bent, balanced on the balls of my feet, I braced for the attack.
“Show yourself demon--El Cartero would see your face before grinding it beneath his unwashed foot!” I boldly challenged the room around me.
Silence answered my challenge, until Gram’s voice cut in. “Were you born this stupid or did you develop that skill over the course of your lifetime? That ain’t no demon, boy--it’s your stomach growling. I can’t believe this is what my life has come to. Simply pathetic!”
Sheepishly I lowered my hands and jammed the spoon in my back pocket. As if to confirm my idiocy, my stomach growled loudly again. So, I’m a little on edge and jumpy, can you blame me? Heading into the kitchen I threw open the fridge and pulled out a loaf of bread, a block of cheddar, jars of pickles and relish, and squeeze bottles of ketchup and mustard. I took a couple of frozen veggie burgers out of the freezer and grabbed a knife to slice the cheese. A bottle of root beer sounded good, so I grabbed one from the fridge and popped the top. A fountain of soda shot upward into my face, completely blinding me. Jerking backward, I cracked the back of my head up against the wall and saw a blinding flash of light as pain blossomed in my skull.
Heat immediately erupted from my chest and hands, and even though I couldn’t see them, I knew the tattoos were flaring. Struggling to wipe the soda from my eyes, I was physically smacked backward as slices of bread covered my entire face and pinned my arms to the walls. Something large and heavy crashed into the side of my skull, and when the glass shattered I could smell the sharp odor of pickles. Again, I experienced a blinding flash of pain, and started to panic as I realized I couldn’t breathe! The slices of bread covering my face were smothering me, and my arms were still pinned to the walls by more slices of bread. Something hard punched me in the stomach, and my body doubled over reflexively, tearing the bread from my face. It was the jar of relish, and although it wasn’t as big as the jar of pickles, it still hurt like hell. Through a haze of pain, I could see the block of cheddar heading toward my groin like a battering ram.
“For the love of God, please, nooooooo!” I moaned, as the block of cheese hit me below the belt not once, not twice, but three times.
My family jewels imploded, knocking me back into pre-puberty, and it would be another couple of years before they dropped back to where they were supposed to be. God didn’t answer my prayers, nor did he bless me with unconsciousness. The pain took my breath away and left me gasping, but I couldn’t curl up in fetal position on the floor and cry like a baby because of the bread slices still pinning my arms. I feel no shame admitting that I openly wept with snot running from both nostrils, but I am ashamed that I didn’t notice the squeeze bottles of ketchup and mustard sailing across the room; I only dimly registered their presence when the nozzles of both were firmly jammed up each nostril.
“I’ll kill you--show yourself and I will rip the skin from your body and use it for toilet paper!” I screamed.
Invisible hands squeezed both bottles simultaneously and liquid fire burned through my head as the mustard and ketchup filled my sinus cavities. I choked and my gag reflex kicked in. The bread pinning my arms dropped to the ground and I quickly followed, vomiting an orangey mixture of condiments all over myself and the floor. Somewhere close by I heard a ‘THUNK!’, as the knife I was going to use for the cheese buried itself to the hilt in the wall just millimeters above my head.
Weak and shaking all over, I slowly forced myself back to my feet. I had to brace myself on the counter to keep my knees from buckling, and could only stand there and gaze at the sandwich apocalypse that had just occurred in my kitchen. Relish, pickles, ketchup and mustard were plastered on every surface of the kitchen. Broken glass and tattered bread slices littered the floor underfoot. My gaze fell on the block of cheddar, and reflexively I covered my crotch with my hands. I don’t think I’d ever be able to eat cheese again, the memory is simply too painful.
Scrawled crudely on the countertop in ketchup and mustard were the words “Kragoon sends his regards from Circle 5. Looking forward to meeting you in person!” along with a smiley face cut out of the veggie patties.
“Screw you Kragoon!” I shook my fist in the air.” I will use your fingers and toes for Q-tips assuming you even have fingers and toes. If not, I will use your skull for a urinal, and know you this: I have an overactive bladder, it runs in my family---this I swear!”
That mighty oath was met with only the sound of pickles, mustard, and ketchup dripping from the walls and the front of my shirt. My tattoos had stopped glowing, and pulling the spoon from my pocket I said, “I think that went pretty well. We scared him off for now and he’ll think twice about doing something like that again!” Grams grumbled something unintelligible as I headed for the shower.
“I think I’ll just swing by Taco Bell after I wash off,” I told the spoon, “Suddenly a sandwich doesn’t sound that appealing.”
Grams continued muttering as I relaxed under the hot soothing jets and washed my pain away, if only for a short while. Flushing the last bits of condiments from my cranial cavity, I toweled off, got dressed and Googled the number for Mirthful Maids. One look at the kitchen and I had decided I was suffering from PTSD: Post Traumatic Sandwich Disorder. It would be better to pay someone else to clean up that mess rather than relive the nightmare again. I booked an appointment for Mirthful Maids to come over in a couple of hours, plenty of time for me to hit Taco Bell and clear my head. Grabbing my keys and wallet, I headed out the door.
Needless to say, the rest of my night was uneventful. I’m pretty sure Mirthful Maids assumed I was some kind of psycho, hovering behind them clutching a big black spoon in my hand while they cleaned, but for all I knew they were cultists in the order of Kragoon, destroyer of sandwiches and my ability to reproduce. I wasn’t going to take any chances.