Out of the Darkness
A cat strode out of the forest and into the clearing. The fur on his head bore the scar of an upside down cross.
“Awwww Jesus Bob!!! ‘Chirp!! You scared the fucking shit out of us,” Finch exclaimed. Monkeyman gulped another shot of whisky.
“Monkeyman, let me introduce you to Beelze-Bob the cat,” Finch said, motioning towards the cat with the cross upside down scar tissue.
“Good evening,” said Beelze-Bob.
“Beezle-Bob here is the leader of the local Satan worshipers,” Finch said.
“Oh, I see. That’s very interesting,” Monkeyman said, not knowing what else to say. “So there are a lot of Satan worshipers around here?”
“Well, a few. Cats mostly,” Beelze-Bob said, licking a paw and applying it to his ear. “You’ll find that most domestic cats are inherently Satanists. It’s just their nature.”
“Yah, except for Bob here,” Finch said, flying to a low hanging branch. “He can’t even kill a mouse much less perform sacrifices.”
“Hmmmph, Meow,” Beelze-Bob purred.
“So what’ve you been up to Bob?” Finch inquired.
“Well, I’ve had a few visions. I also cast a few spells, but I’m really out of practice. I don’t think Satan can hear my call.”
“Visions?” Monkeyman asked.
“Oh Yes, visions. Let me pour myself a drink here and I’ll explain.” Finch set Beelze-Bob up with a large tumbler of Scotch. The cat took a healthy slug and perched himself atop the stump in the middle of the clearing. He peered up at the stars and checked the position of the moon before continuing.
“I had been awake for about 3 hours today when the first vision hit. I was using the litter box when he came to me.”
“Who?” Monkeyman asked.
“Stan,” Beelze-Bob said matter-of-factly.
“What?” Finch said. “Who the fuck is Stan?”
“Shut up Finch. Meow,” Beelze-Bob said, raising a paw to the air. “You want to hear about this or not?” Finch and Monkeyman nodded.
“Satan doesn’t like his name. He prefers to be called ‘Stan.’ And he doesn’t look like you would imagine. He’s not a man. He’s not a cat. He’s not a bird, or a monkey. He’s a little of all animals. Mostly he’s sort of a goat.”
“A goat?” Monkeyman gulped.
“Yes, a goat. Meow. But he doesn’t eat garbage and he’s never lived at a petting zoo. This motherfucker is weird.” Beelze-Bob left a dramatic pause. It worked. The only sound came from the tree frogs and the crickets.
“In my vision he was wearing chaps.”
“Chaps?” Monkeyman had no idea what chaps were.
“Yes, he was wearing Chaps. Like the cowboys.” Beelze-Bob made a motion over his head like a cowboy swinging a lasso. “He wears some really interesting chaps. They’re made out of stitched together lunchmeat. Meow.”
“Lunchmeat!!” Finch chirped. “Are you fucking insane!!”
“No, lunchmeat,” Beelze-Bob insisted. “The left leg was made out of stitched together turkey cold-cuts. The right leg was made out of stitched together pastrami.”
“Awright! Chirp! Shut the fuck up Bob, you’re weirding everyone out.” Finch poured him another drink. Beezle-Bob downed the entire drink in a few quick gulps.
“Want to see my sacrifice to Stan?” Bob asked, looking quickly back and forth from Finch to Monkeyman.
“Oh, yeah Bob. This should be good. What’ya have? A gnat or something?” Beelze-Bob led them away from the clearing to a candlelit tree where an altar had been set up.
“Oh Jesus Bob. Let the fucking grasshopper go. That’s just pathetic,” Finch said shaking his head.
“Yeah, I guess I should,” Beelze-Bob conceded.