The pub smelled of rosemary and lamb. It was a Thursday, the typical rosemary lamb day, not to be confused with the rosemary veal day, or, further, the rosemary potato stew day. Whatever day you may happen into the pub, rest assured you’ll be greeted with the welcoming smell of rosemary.
It was nearly dusk and most of the patrons held a pint in one hand, and a fork in the other. After a long day of work, the scene was typically quiet save for the clink of dishes and some merry elevator music on loop.
Jeremy came to the pub for a different reason that evening. He too, was tired after a long day, yes, but it wasn’t relaxation that drove him to crash through the pub doors that night.
You see, Jeremy had a small case of demonic possession. Small, because the demon was not entirely in control of Jeremy, nor was it entirely evil. It was, by nature, a parasite who needed a suitable host to stay alive. It’s name was Pazul, some archaeon name that even she did not know the origin of. Her parents were of the old school demonic ways and took some stock in the old names. Pazul didn’t care for evil, really, though it was inherent in her nature. Her possession of Jeremy was, however, fun, for she’d never possessed something that had fought so exuberantly against her will. She tried to lead him out the gate of his farm, and he firmly planted himself on the ground. She tried to antagonize the other goats, but Jeremy quickly explained the situation to them and apologized for any strange behavior, even whilst Pazul steered him into headbutting them repeatedly. She tried to simply get him to bleat annoyingly, but he kept it to a minimum, pawing the ground agitatedly with a hoof.
Some possessed hosts didn’t even notice Pazul. Mainly small, idiot things like gophers or chihuahuas. Once or twice she succeeded in inhabiting a human host, these humans already too weak and depressed to really notice anything other than another sour turn in mood. Happy humans were hard to possess. It was painful for Pazul. Happiness didn’t agree with her.
But neither did suffering, really. She’d worked really hard to find her place in the world. And now she’d found the most lively, yet not happy, host to live in. The challenge was the stuff demon dreams were made of, evil or not. And she was determined to test her strengths with this semi-intelligent creature of great strength and agility. It was akin to the rush of riding a wild bronco, and, alas, getting that bronco to do your semi-nefarious bidding.
But back to the diner. The chef, Cam, had been grumbling about the on-again-off-again broiler that seemed to have trouble keeping the right temperature for the lamb. The broiler felt like a metaphor for Cam’s life. Sometimes everything was at full blast, business was booming, he and the wife would have a romantic getaway to St. Ives, the rosemary was more fragrant than normal…but other times, like now, everything felt at a standstill. Even cooking, which he loved, became menacingly difficult. On nights like tonight he’d had to be creative to cook his meat all the way through, despite the inconsistency that his patrons were sure to notice. Unfortunately he had no way of knowing which was cooked which way because of the haste he’d put into his orders.
There was a general upheaval when Minerva, a joyful mother of two, expressed her praise to the waitress.
“This lamb is the best I’ve ever had! Do tell Cam he’s done a wonderful job!”
Someone nearby heard and had to lean over and express their contrary disgust.
“Sorry, but I think this lamb is the worst I’ve ever had. It’s overcooked and gristly. The rosemary’s all burnt!”
Another patron chortled: “You wouldn’t know a good lamb steak if it buggered you up the arse, Redd.”
“Dina there’s no need for such meanness. I do agree though, this lamb is tender and flavorful.”
The argument was taken up by several more patrons who declared that their steaks were the best, the worst, or just OK, what is the fuss about anyway?
Cam came out at the argument and banged a pan on the counter for silence. “If yeh hated the steak, ask for a refund. The broiler’s on the fritz and I’m doing the best I can.”
At that moment another bang sounded, but this time, from the opposite side of the pub. In came a red-eyed grey goat with small flames encircling its horns and its tongue lolling out of its mouth. It was kicking and screaming, and every time it screamed, lasers shot from its eyes, decapitating patrons who were unlucky enough to be caught in the crosshairs.
Now, you might be wondering if this is Jeremy. This is Jeremy. He’s had a long day out in the fields, trying to kick and scream the demon out of him. This had been a tiring activity, and sometimes, when he was most tired, the demon was able to control his eyes to produce lasers. Then, this evening, he’d felt flames playfully licking the top of his head. Things had gone too far for poor Jeremy, who was finally at the end of his rope, and no longer hanging onto his pride, he decided to ask for help. He decided to go to the pub, where the locals convened, and surely one of them could spirit this demon out of him.
But because he was losing a grip on his movement and his usual proclivity for not decapitating humans eating a lamb dinner, help was nowhere to be found. The flames and lasers caused such distress that he couldn’t form the words, even if everyone hadn’t lept to their feet and run for cover. He saw blood and broken tables and trampled lamb steaks and an unfortunate cast-iron pan coming straight at him.
*BAM*
He felt himself fall, but his legs, too, were becoming possessed and they were flailing pitifully as the chef went to hit him again.
*BAM*
The second time he felt the flames grow hotter. Pazul, who had been enjoying herself, did not want her perfect host to be murdered by a second-rate chef. To Jeremy’s alarm, Pazul took control of his legs and kicked the pitiful excuse of a chef squarely in the chest. The pan went flying. It landed atop a decapitated head.
Most of the patrons had left by now, at least those alive, leaving the staff to deal with the demon goat. Jeremy was despairing more and more as he helplessly watched Pazul romp through the pub. Jeremy didn’t particularly care for humans, or their dining establishments, but he didn’t want to kill them or ruin their dinners either.
Pazul stopped her Jeremy-vessel when she burst through the kitchen doors and came across the broiler. It was flickering on and off and for some reason she was in rapture. What was this fickle thing? Could she possess this thing, which flames were coming from?
Cam came around the corner with the pan back in his hand, a bit of melted human flesh stuck on it, and headed for the goat again. Pazul took a leap of faith. She exited Jeremy and dove into the broiler, which promptly turned on with full force.
It should be noted that because this object was not living Pazul could not stay here indefinitely. However, the flames, dour moods of the staff, the grease burns, and the like all satisfied Pazul’s need for misery, and as she would find later, the happiness of the satisfied customers would counter this misery with flourish. It was the best of both worlds.
Jeremy fell over and started again at the renewed use of his body. He bleated a desperate plea for the chef to leave him alone. Perhaps it was the lack of flames on his head, laser from his eyes, or maybe the sudden gusto with which the broiler was performing, but Cam lowered the pan and his eyes dodged from the goat to the broiler, trying to link the two miracles that seemed to have coincided.
“GOOD goat,” he said gently. Jeremy bleated tiredly. He meant to say “thank you,” but he suddenly remembered he was a goat and humans didn’t understand him anyway. With an uneasy glance at the broiler, Cam put the goat out back with a pan full of fresh water, since he figured flames from your head might signal dehydration.
Pazul was warm and toasty in her furnace. When the chef came back, she spoke to him. At first he panicked and held his chest as though to protect his heart (silly human, that’s not how possession works, she thought), but she spoke a few words of comfort that she thought he might like.
First, she introduced herself in the easiest terms possible. This human didn’t seem too intelligent and she wished to be understood. Then, she said she was in the goat, but things got out of hand. She was so sorry about that. She didn’t mean to decapitate any patrons, but, she admits, it was a bit of fun. Also, she was glad to have found this broiler in which to use her robust flame-inducing skills. If she could stay in the broiler, she would be happy, but she has to inhabit a creature now and then to sustain herself off their life force. Otherwise, the broiler would die again and she must leave.
Cam wasn’t sure what it said about his mental health that he was talking to a broiler. But he thanked Pazul for her honesty and said he really would like it if she could stay and keep the broiler running. He offered to have her possess him once a week in exchange for her help, as long as she promised not to take control of him. There was little way to bargain with a demon, after all. But Cam decided if it was all too much he could burn the place down and start over with the insurance money. His patrons might not be keen on coming back to the pub, because of very recent memories.
Pazul decided this human was an idiot who would easily be prey to possession. Pazul agreed, though she knew, when the time came, she would take over and make Cam the best chef he could ever hope to be.
