Damien was a relative newcomer to the daemonic family. Frank, the one-armed daemon, found him in the gutter on a Saskatoon street about a year ago, took pity on him and brought him home. He figured this little piece of trash would make a great pet, but Damien had other ideas.
Not long after Damien was rescued, he set about ingratiating himself with each member of the family. To Frank’s mom he was a sweet-natured little imp who was a big help around the house. He made a great addition to the family according to Satan, who looked forward to coming home to a roaring fire, courtesy of Damien. Frank’s siblings took longer to warm up to this new kid on the block, but, soon enough, the siblings were including Damien in their daily affairs as if he’d always been one of the family.
Not long after Damien arrived, neighbourhood dogs and cats went missing. Hardly a day went by without a distraught neighbour posting signs on hydro poles asking others to be on the lookout for their lost pet. Sadly, nary a tuft of fur or paw prints were ever located. The local constabulary were stumped. Damien was filling out.
He graduated from animals and birds to leprechauns — they were easier to catch than chickens and not able to peck out Damien’s eyes. He quickly realized that he’d have to up his game if he were to continue to prey upon the wee folk; they may be diminutive, but those little suckers could run!
When Frank was craving a feed of little people, he’d make sure to get a lot of them, since leprechauns were spare in the meat department and not very filling. He liked them deep-fried and dipped in blackstrap molasses. He showed Damien how to prepare them; although they were tasty, Damien preferred them roasted in an antifreeze reduction, served with new potatoes and baby carrots. When the leprechaun population began to dwindle, Frank and Damien had to cast about for a new food source, one that wouldn’t die out so quickly. They decided to go after angels, but found out they fight back tooth and nail, not stopping until the last drop of blood is drained from their opponent’s carcass. Then the angels pee on the body, flick a lit match, and watch the whole thing go up in smoke.
Moving on, the pair happened upon a trove of trolls, gnomes, and ogres residing in a hidden valley, nestled deep in the hoodoos of Alberta’s Badlands near Drumheller. Gnomes were akin to leprechauns, but meatier. Trolls smelled horrific but once one got past it, the meat was delicious. Ogres were the most difficult prey to take down, due to their size and weight. If there was nothing else to eat, a pair of daemons could bag one, but the risk of injury was greater when hunting those behemoths.
Frank and Damien made sure to cover their tracks into and out of the valley, in case any other daemons were following them. They certainly didn’t want others discovering their bountiful hunting grounds. One day, they encountered a lone hunter that one time, who was chasing after a moose that fled into the valley; luckily, Frank and Damien were there, too, and they were able to disarm and dismember the interloper. He made a nice little snack for the two of them as they made their way home with the day’s catch: a medium-sized ogre, a six-pack of trolls, and a large netful of gnomes, all stuffed into expandable trash bags they picked up at Costco.
Since Frank was a larger daemon, he shouldered the bulk of the meat, while Damien wrangled the gnomes in the net. He had to make sure none of them escaped, so he tied the net tightly. As he tested the knot, one of the gnomes bit him, taking one of his fingers, and causing an extreme amount of pain and blood loss.
“Damn your beady little eyes!” Damien shrieked. Frank whirled around to see Damien swinging the net full of gnomes high over his head and bringing it down with such daemonic force that many of the gnomes died upon impact with the ground.
“Just lovely!” Frank hissed through clenched fangs. He hated handling his food too much before he ate it. “Damien, you idiot! Most of the gnomes are dead and disarticulated — I hate eating food that’s been pre-broken into small pieces,” he whined.
“One of those little buggers bit me when I was tying up the net, Frank, and I couldn’t let it go unpunished,” Damien apologized.
“Okay, fine. The next time we go hunting together, make sure to bring a heavy sack to put the gnomes in, one that isn’t holey,” grumbled Frank.
Damien nodded and kept quiet the rest of the way home, not wanting to risk another violent outburst; he’d suffered broken bones and a smashed-in face the last time Frank went ballistic on him over a perceived faux pas some weeks ago. His face and bones healed rather quickly, considering the beating he’d received. Damien chalked it up to his youth, when daemons bounced back from the effects of violence with amazing speed.
***********
Once the haul from the valley was put up in jars and freezer bags, Frank and Damien plopped themselves down on the couch in the living room and opened cans of beer. The daemonic baseball game was in its final inning — the 29th — and the Delinquents were ahead of the Satanists by a slim margin. The Satanist’s pitcher had been killed and eaten after a particularly lousy showing on the mound, allowing 87 home runs, putting the Delinquents in a winning position. Their other pitcher, a daemon from another star system, appeared on the mound to throw the final pitches to end the game.
The windup and then the throw was a sight to behold. The pitcher jumped 3 metres into the air, aimed the ball at the daemon at bat, and beaned him in the left temple. The hitter swooned and fell forward like a sack of potatoes, spraying blood, bone, and brain matter in a wide arc. The umpire received the worst of it. The first baseman and the shortstop were also covered and dripping with offal.
The crowd went wild. This was the best ball game they’d ever attended in recent memory. Frank and Damien were beside themselves, giddy with joy at this happy turn of events. The cameras rolled, making sure to capture every last gory detail. The footage would make it onto the nightly news and Frank wanted to make sure he taped it to enjoy over and over and over again.
“Now that was a baseball game for the ages!” squealed Damien.
“You got that right, buddy,” replied Frank. “We should celebrate, but not tonight. I’m too tired after the busy day we’ve had. I’m heading upstairs to bed, and you should, too.”
Damien drifted off to sleep to the sounds of Frank’s gawd awful snores, dreaming of the day he would become a famous daemonic baseball player or the greatest hunter of trolls, gnomes, and ogres the daemonic world had ever seen.
A daemon could dream…
Gail Fulkerson is a writer who specializes in the supernatural. She
lives with her family in Saskatchewan, where she is working on another
story involving Frank the daemon.
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