Best laid plans

Round four of Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge: 200 Words at a Time. I took on one a few others had done, because it got under my skin. I may even finish it off if no one else takes it up, because I’ve got a clear ending in mind. 

The first 200 words were by Meagan Wilson and the second 200 were by Wanderer. The third batch by dangerdean. I had to give this a title; Round 4 is far enough along.

“Yes, this penthouse view is quite breathtaking,” I turned to the luscious blonde before me, “but not nearly as lovely as—”
A thunder clap, and then I was standing in a small, glowing circle, surrounded by a gaggle of chanting fools in robes.
“Oh great Sorasel im Palat, lord of fire and darkness, fell devourer of the innocent, conqueror of—” Arcane symbols covered the speaker’s robes, nearly obscuring the heavy crimson fabric.
“Yes, yes, get on with it.” I gestured with my gin martini.
He paused, then finished in a post-pubescent squeak, “We invoke thy true name and bid thee do our will.”
“Oh you do, do you? Well I want you to send me back. I was having a smashing time, and that girl may not have two brain cells to rub together, but she looked quite likely to do some rubbing together. If you know what I mean.”
The robe-wearers shuffled, and whispered amongst themselves. The leader piped up again.
“O great Sorasel im—“
“Stop that, stop that,” I interrupted. “Only my dad calls me that. I prefer my middle name. If you must speak, call me Stewart.”
More shuffling and whispering from my summoners.


“Oh great and mighty…Stewart….” the leader—whose pasty face was mostly spots—began again. “We bind thee to our will.”
I took a sip of my martini—extra dirty, extra olives—and raised an eyebrow at the little prat. Summoners used to know what they were doing. I looked at the floor where their demon trap was sloppily drawn with what smelled unmistakably like fresh, store-bought spray paint. I sighed. What happened to the blood of a virgin? Or even the vital fluids of an unwilling Christian priest? 
I noticed their silence; I could practically smell their fear—a mixture of piss and that foul deodorant that promised them flocks of women. I took another gulp of the martini—it was perfect. Almost as flawless as my blonde client who was no doubt currently working her minimal intelligence into a sweat in an effort to find me.
“Well? Get on with it.”
“We bound you, oh great Sora—er—Stewart.”
“I heard that part. So,” I made sure to smile with all of my teeth. “You’ve bound me. Congratulations. Now, what do you plan to do?”
“Jaime, this was your idea.” One of the other robed figures poked the leader.


“Yes…Jaime? You masterminded this escapade?” I drained the martini, and stared directly at Jaime.

“Oh great Stewart, we sumoned you because…um…” Jamie looked sheepish. “We want to get laid, like, a lot.” The chuckleheads voiced their agreement with grunts and high fives.

“You seriously summoned me because you want sex? Personal hygiene and asking a girl on a date didn’t work, so you decided ‘Meh. Let’s just summon a demon’?” A couple of them laughed, but were quickly silent.

“Well, you’ve taken the trouble to bring me here, and I’m bound to your will, but just because I’m feeling generous, I’m going to give you a short primer on demon invocation.” They looked at each other warily.

“There are five elements of a proper invocation. Three you have managed admirably. You have consecrated the space. I personally would have used something a little more visceral, but there’s no accounting for taste. I’m here, so obviously you have successfully invoked me, and of course, you have bound me to your will.” I looked down my nose at Jaime.

“The fourth element, however, is constraint. You must constrain the actions of the demon. That, my young friends, you have not done.”


I stared forlornly into my empty glass, twirling the delicate stem in my fingertips. I pursed my lips in thought, until I came to a fitting punishment.

“So here it is,” I drawled, pointing my glass slowly at each of them. “I’ll give you what you want, all the tail you need for the rest of your life.”

The goons grinned lasciviously and nudged each other, their eyes lit with the joy of their victory.

My own nasty smile emerged. “Tail being the operative word.”

Low and swift, the incantations curled into the still air of the basement. A fog swirled around the boy’s ankles, wrapping swiftly around them. Their grunts and looks of panic amused me. One even tried to run for the stairs.

As the smoke dissipated, I looked proudly upon the five antechinus bounding around my feet, chirping. I’d read an article about these sex-crazed marsupials* the week before. Sexual suicide; how fitting.

About to conjure up the female that would be their undoing, I was distracted by a set of delectable female legs descending the stairs.

“Stewart,” her voice purred. “How lovely to see you again.”

“Sorceress.” I inclined my head with a genuine smile.

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