AN ART GALLERY IN SOHO

“–and we give these sacrifices, and shed this blood, willingly for thee. Abbadon the Unforgiving, appear before us!”

SHWAZOOOOM

“Um, hi. Who are you?”

“Abbadon the Unforgiving. You summoned me? I was in the middle of lunch, but don’t worry about it.”

“Wow. Yeeeeah, here’s the thing about that: I didn’t actually summon you. I’m an artist. This is performance art.”

“Okay, yeah: you recited the Latin?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Drew all the runes on the floor?”

“Yup.”

“And you had sex with a redhead while someone killed a chicken on top of you?”

“Also yes.”

“You summoned me. That’s summoning me. Here I am, you got me.”

“No, no, see: I didn’t mean to summon you. It was a statement on the facile nature of communion in the modern age.”

“That sounds like bullshit.”

“Kinda.”

“What do I know? I’m not a critic, I’m an Abandoned God. Anyway, let’s get to it.”

“Hey, wait. You’re not listening: I didn’t mean to summon you.”

“Intent doesn’t matter here. It’s not like a butt-dial. I’m here.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. So, what’s your name?”

“Jenkins.”

“Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I have a whole life outside the office.”

“Not for much longer, I’m afraid.”

“Is there any way out of this?”

“You want to make a deal? Swap your soul for some imagined paradise? Tell me what you want.”

“Really?”

“Shit, no. That’s the devil. I’m an Abandoned God: I’m gonna do stuff to ya.”

“C’mon, man. Be reasonable.”

“I just can’t be…wait: you didn’t happen to cast any containment spells, did you?”

“I didn’t know I needed to.”

“You did. You totally, totally, totally needed to. You never needed anything in your life as much as you needed to cast a containment spell or nine before you summoned me. But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t. Are there any retroactive containment spells?”

“Sure, of course. Do you know any?”

“No.”

“Guess it’s a moot point, then, huh?”

“Yeah. Um. I’m sorry?”

“Oh. Yeah? You’re sorry? Oh.”

“Really sorry.”

“Abbadon theeeee…?”

“What?”

“Abbadon theeeee…?”

“Abbadon the Unforgiving.”

“There ya go. Let’s get started.”

“Will it hurt?”

“That’s the point, Jenkins. The pain is the point.”

“I should have learned to paint.”

“Me, too. Come here.”