The First Annual Demonic Road Trip

Chapter One: Holy Water Mishap

Last night, Charles and I were watching a documentary about pyramids and mummification and how the Pharaohs wanted to take all their wealth into the afterlife. We both agreed it was pretty interesting, and during a commercial, I told Charles, When I die, just part me out, you know, donate my organs to the living. Who cares? I'm gone. I don't need them.

For a moment, he sat there in silence, pushing fistfuls of popcorn into his face. Then, with a mouthful of popcorn, he replied, You know, when you die? That's it . . . It's all over. You're gone. Kaput.

Popcorn tumbled out of his open mouth, bounced off his belly and disappeared down between the cushions, and he didn't even try to recover them. But when several popcorn kernels flew across the room on kaput, I scowled and calmly asked, Hey, could you please be more careful? And how do you know what happens when we die? It's not like you've ever died and come back.

Oh, I just know.

I blinked at him several times and asked, "Uh-huh? Okay, if this life is all for nothing, then why are you here? And why do I have to look at your big face?"

Charles slowly pronounced each word through another mouthful of popcorn, Because, dummy, I'm a spanner.

Sitting back in my chair, I looked at the TV, then at Charles, scoffed and chuckled, "Because you're a spanner? What kind of answer is that?"

Charles took a slurp off his soda, gargled and explained, You don't have to believe me. I'm just telling you how it is. Go on and cling to your little belief in eternal life if you want, but this is it, bud. You might as well accept it.

I sat in silence a moment before enthusiastically suggesting, Hey, remember when you mentioned that refresher course for demons? That would be a great idea, you know? Go back to school for a while and brush up? Hone those demon skills? Because your talents are lacking, to say the least.

"Oh, that's not happening. I mean, just look at you. You're a mess. He gestured at me and then at himself with both hands, proudly announcing, I? . . . am a master of my trade.." His eyes actually twinkled when he started to laugh in that condescending tone that made me want to pull his lips off.

Stop it, Charles.

Not only did he not stop, he laughed harder.

Charles? . . . Stop.

He wouldn't stop. In fact, his laughter continued to grow more and more annoying until I was forced to lob my vial of fake holy water at him. He thought it was genuine holy water, and sometimes I was forced to bring it out and wave it at him when he was jumping on the couch, chewing on the furniture or when he wouldn't stop complaining about being out of ice-cream.

The vial made a distinct poink! sound off his forehead, and I thought the cap was screwed on tightly, but I was wrong because the contents spilled out on his face, and Charles flared up in a violent whoomph! of bright, yellow-orange flames.

Being a demon, Charles doesn't react well to holy water, and I discovered a long time ago that he doesn't react well to fake holy water either. Apparently if he believes it's real, then it's real.

So, his eyes bugged out, and he started screaming as he jumped to his feet, sending the popcorn bowl and all its contents flying up in the air. And as it came back down, it appeared to be snowing in the living room.

Spilling his drink all over his lap and wailing in agony, he managed to collide with the ceiling fan that happened to be set to its fastest setting. And in the span of about three seconds, he went from being annoying, stuffing-his-face, full-of-malarkey Charles into flaming, screaming, running around, afraid for his very existence Charles. Fortunately, he managed to smash through the sliding glass door and tumble out into the backyard before he was able to set the house on fire.

After getting up, having a nice stretch, picking my teeth and tying my shoe, I went in search of the fire extinguisher. I finally found it buried under a pile of old, broken patio chairs in the garage and grew somewhat concerned to find it only had about ten percent left on the pressure gauge.

Uh-oh.

I wiped the dust and cobwebs off the tank and casually strolled in the direction of the screaming, figuring that if there wasn't enough fire retardant left in the tank, I could resort to using the garden hose. And if that didn't work, I could smother the flames with my trusty shovel and ample amounts of dirt.

Trying to get a bead on him wasn't easy, and I was forced to chase the bonfire formerly known as Charles around in circles, pleading, Would you stop already? Hang on. Come back.

Charles' whole head was engulfed in flames, but I was well aware that he would burn a long time before completely turning to ash, so I wasn't overly concerned, just yet. As he frantically slapped at his head and continued to run around the yard, I shouted, Charles, stop! For crying out loud, would you just hold still for one second?

But he couldn't hear me over his own screeching. He was just fanning the flames by running around. What an idiot. He had completely forgotten about stop-drop-and-roll. What a drama king. He was way overdoing it, and all of the commotion was putting the neighborhood dogs in an uproar. Agnes was at her favorite hole in the fence, leading all the other canines in a frenetic protest, and I could barely hear myself think, what with all the commotion.

I finally caught up and blasted him with the extinguisher, and when I had finally succeeded in putting him out, he stood there looking like a big, burnt cream puff, glaring back at me indignantly for a while. And if looks could kill, I would have been dead right then and there.

Then, without saying a word, he turned and skulked back inside, so I called after him, Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't know it was . . .

Ignoring me, he proceeded to his room and slammed the door hard to emphasize his opinion on the matter.

I sighed, put down the extinguisher and followed him inside and down the hall to his door. After listening a moment, I gently knocked twice and asked, Hey, you okay?

I waited patiently.

He didn't respond, but I knew his silent treatment would be short lived because Charles was allergic to silence. In fact, he loathed any moment of relative quiet, no matter how brief.

I tried again: Charles? I'm sorry. I thought the cap was screwed on tight. It'll never happen again, okay?

Still more silence, so I tried again: I'll pay for the back door, okay? That wasn't your fault.

Through the door, I heard him mutter, Go away.

I muttered back, Okay, I guess I'll go clean up the glass. If you come out later, maybe we'll make more popcorn, and you can do the butter. Would you like that?

After more silence, he finally responded with a feeble, Okay.

Charles came out ten minutes later and watched in silence as I finished picking up the last pieces of glass. He even brought out the vacuum and ran it over the carpet to pick up the popcorn, and after we made new popcorn, the remainder of the evening was fairly calm.

Just before he turned in for the night, he mumbled, 'Night, jerk, so I replied half-heartedly, 'Night, freak.

And after he was in his room, I chuckled at the thought of Charles slapping himself in the face in an attempt to put out the flames. I wish I had a camera that could capture a demon's image. Somebody should invent that because I would buy one. But I guess I'll have to be satisfied with sketches for the time being.

Chapter Two: Negotiations

The next morning, we were sitting at the kitchen table having breakfast. I had oatmeal with raisins and a cup of black tea while Charles was working on a box of glazed donuts and a liter of RC Cola, which he was chugging straight out of the bottle at room temperature, and when he had emptied the bottle, he let out a belch that shook the windows. I had to admit, his belches were pretty impressive, but his belch breath could melt paint off walls. Fortunately, nobody else could see or hear or smell him, nobody except me; I was just lucky that way. I quickly opened the window to clear the air while Charles went back to reading the paper.

He mentioned that the county fair was offering free admission on the opening day and that maybe we could go, and after I agreed that that might be fun, he pointed out the surplus store had RC Cola on sale and we only had twelve liters left so maybe we could get more, so I said I'd put it on the list.

Charles then closed the paper and looked down at his lap in deep thought before looking up and clearing his throat.

Um, Gord?

Um, Charles?

I-I have to go away, to a-a-a . . . thing? And, um . . . He looked me in the eye and added, And-and . . . I need you to go with me." He cleared his throat a second time.

"Go with you? I guffawed. Uh, no, but thanks." I chuckled again at the notion.

Drumming his fingers on the table, he muttered, I knew you were going to say that.

Well, duh. I took another drink of my tea and asked, So where are you going?

I want to make a deal with you.

He'd been practicing this conversation because he was getting nervous, so I asked, "A thing? Really? Demons have things now? You've never had a thing before."

Yes, demons have things. It's a-a -a . . . It's called a Gathering. He cleared his throat again.

I said it more than asked it: Demons have gatherings . . . Right.

Sensing my skepticism, he continued: "We do, and it's important, and I have to go. Now, would you at least consider going?"

No, I'm not going to any demonic gathering — especially not with you. I added, Where do you have to go?

Mono Lake.

"Mono Lake?

Yeah, Mono Lake.

The big lake east of Yosemite? Why?

You ask a lot of questions.

Doesn't that seem like a reasonable question?

Charles thought about this a moment before replying, Yes, it does.

Okay, then why Mono Lake?

He started to get annoyed. Just because, okay?

No. Why there?

Dang it. I can't tell you. What does it matter?

"You can't tell me? Is that a big demon secret? Is Mono Lake the secret entrance to Hell?"

What? Of course not. He absently started kicking the table leg. No more questions.

Of course not? Ah! So, it's the secret entrance to Hell . . . Cool.

After stuffing another donut in his face, Charles explained with a full mouth, Look, you're on a need to know basis. It's certainly not my decision that you should go, okay? He started to stutter: And-and why do you-you humans have to know every stupid little detail? I've already said more than I'm supposed to. Look, j-just come along and enjoy the drive. Y-you'll have fun.

Barely able to understand him, I had gotten the gist of it, so with folded arms, I gave him my final answer: "Oh yeah? Well, I'm not going. But after a few seconds of silence, I asked, What kind of deal?"

With folded arms, Charles remained silent, and I could just hear those tiny gears turning in that pea-brain of his. He absently stuck a big, sausage sized, index finger deep in his ear and started twisting back and forth. A moment later he removed it, and to my chagrin, it was loaded with a big glob of wet, gooey glop. Charles examined the glop as if it were a priceless diamond before he popped it unceremoniously in his mouth. Then, wiggling his lips, he savored the subtle nuances of texture and flavor.

Stop that! With utter revulsion, I asked, Why do you have to do that? And at the table? I hurled the salt shaker at him.

And it would have beaned him in the forehead, dead-center, if he hadn't caught it. Daintily setting it back down, he put both hands out on the table, leaned forward and begged, Please?

Leaning away from his breath, I locked my fingers behind my head and yawned, "Not on your life, bub. Why in the world would I want to do you any favors? You've been a burr on my butt for as long as I can remember. I shook my head to accentuate my decision. No, you're going alone."

Having lost my appetite, I got up, took my bowl to the sink, turned on the water. "And why do you have to go to this, this thing anyway?"

Charles pushed himself up with a grunt, lumbered over next to me, dropped his soda bottle in the recycle bin and sighed heavily but said nothing. Sensing he was about to say something important, I kept my mouth shut to give him the space to carefully choose his words.

"Gordo, you're not a normal human, and I'm certainly not your typical demon. Neither of us is normal, and . . ."

Um, Duh? Immediately regretting my interruption, I apologized: Oh, sorry. Please go on.

So he continued: ". . . and as spanners, we straddle the physical and spirit worlds. It's why we can interact, and it's why I can experience the pleasures and pains of the mortal realm. I'm spirit and I'm flesh."

"Yeah, You've told me a hundred million times. But why me, and why you?"

"And I've explained that too. I don't know why we're this way, but I like being a spanner. Only a small percentage of demons get the privilege of being able to interact with the physical world and with people. But I get to eat, drink, sleep, watch TV, drive the car and wear clothes just like you. I'm incredibly lucky, and I know it. He cleared his throat. Well, I've never told you this, but I savor my time up here on the surface."

I blinked at him, not once or twice, but three times. You're not kidding, are you?

No, I'm not. I-I get to feel the air in my lungs and the sun and the wind and the rain. He actually smiled as he continued: The things you take for granted are precious to me. And food? Man alive, have I told you how much I love food?

No, Charles, I've never noticed. Looking him straight in the eye, I asked, So, why are you telling me this now?

Gord, I need you to go with me, but I can't make you. They want . . . Charles' eyes grew wide as he stopped short and slapped both hands over his mouth.

But I was all over his slip-up like white on rice: "They? Who are they, Charles?"

"Uh, I mean, we . . . You know, Gary. Um . . . he and I want you to go." He forced a fake laugh.

Gary and Charles had become fast friends over the past few decades, and Gary was constantly breaking the rules by leaving his human unattended while he popped over for short visits that tended to last all day. I don't think Bertrand had ever minded too much. I certainly wouldn't mind if Charles wandered off. He could take as much time as he wanted.

Not about to buy his attempt at deceit, I asked again, "Who are they, Charles?" I gave him a hard shove to the shoulder, but he didn't seem very intimidated.

I can't tell you, alright? He sighed heavily and stuttered, I-I-I-I can't.

"Yeah? You can't or you won't? I squinted at him and lowered my voice: Exactly who wants me to go with you to your little gathering, Charr-ly? Hmm?"

Ignoring me, Charles furtively searched around for any eavesdroppers before whispering, "If you go, I'll give you a month of silence. Not a peep! He then added, Absolutely nothing. Pointing at his chest repeatedly, he declared, I won't say a word." He zipped his lips to emphasize the offer.

With folded arms, I watched him suspiciously, but he was neither smirking nor snickering, nor were there any gaseous emissions of any sort being released from his person.

Wow. A month with no Charles was definitely tempting. I could have some real peace and possibly even enjoy life for a change. I would be able to relax and live in the moment.

Clearing my throat, I demanded, I want a year.

Charles responded with derisive laughter. "A year? No way. I can't give you a year! I'd be reassigned."

You'd lose your job?

No, moron, I'd be reassigned, to someone else.

Reassigned, huh? Oh, golly. I faked sincerity: Wouldn't that be a shame? I clicked my tongue.

Charles snarled, Okay, you can have five weeks, but that's my limit.

With eyes closed, I shook my head in feigned regret. Naw, five weeks isn't enough. Sorry. Have a nice trip, big guy.

Charles wasn't the best bargainer in the world. He was too impatient. I knew I'd have to be patient to squeeze the best deal out of him, so I decided to take my time. Besides, haggling always upset Charles, and upsetting Charles always brought joy into my world.

Grabbing my gloves and helmet, I wrapped up the opening negotiations: If you want me to go, it'll have to be a year. Take it or leave it. I'm going for a ride.

Charles watched slack-jawed as I went out to the garage to get my bike, and as soon as I shut the door, I could hear him growling in the kitchen.

How much time might he concede? Could I possibly get a whole year with no Charles? I dared not hope for such a thing.

Charles followed me into the garage wearing his flip-flops, explaining, "Look, I can't do a year. They'd never approve it. He moaned and added, Nobody gets a whole year, not even administrator types with all their connections."

He was whining already. That was a good sign.

Nobody, you mean, until now. After checking the brakes, tires and gears and finding everything in ship-shape, I hopped on.

The primary concern was to appear utterly unconcerned about his plight, so I messed up his scorched hair and encouraged, Try to keep up, big guy.

I took off down the road towards the bike path, and Charles quickly caught up, running alongside, lumbering, wheezing and sounding like a moose with a cold. I glanced over, grimaced and said, Oo, Charles, you really need to eat better. I mean, just listen to you.

He had trouble speaking through all of the huffing and puffing, but that didn't stop him from trying: I-I-I'll pay for-for everything. It'll be like a free va-va-vacation.

A vacation? Right. I don't care about that. I want a year away from you or no dice.

Charles tripped on a crack in the sidewalk but only stumbled and grunted heavily before finding his balance, and when he recovered, he pleaded, Dang it, Gordo, maybe — just maybe — I can get you six weeks, okay?

Charles sounded like he might be showing signs of asthma, but I knew that demons couldn't die from heart attacks or anything else, but to be sure, I thought it best to push him to his limit, so when I reached the bike path, I took off and called back, Naw, can't do it! One year or nothing!

He began to catch up, and as the rhythmic slapping of his flip-flops and his wheezing grew louder, I stood up on the pedals and pushed as hard as I could. From behind, Charles complained loudly, Ah! Come on! but not having a choice, he increased his speed, closed the gap and growled, All right, Two months! His wheezing was intensifying as he gasped, "But it . . . it's not going to-to be (wheeze) easy!"

Without looking back, I shook my head and called out, Can't help you, sport! Really wish I could!

Since he sounded like he was about to keel over at any second, I was impressed that he was keeping up so well, and since I was having so much fun, I maintained a good clip for another eight miles before stopping under the shade of a massive eucalyptus.

Charles caught up a few seconds later, soaking wet, red-faced and panting furiously.

Taking a swig from my bottle, I inspected him with one eye closed and asked, Why do you insist on wearing those ridiculous flip-flops? They can't be comfortable.

"I told you. I-I don't like . . . (wheeze) shoes. My . . . (gasp) my feet need to . . . (wheeze) breathe. I hate (gasp) . . . I hate sweaty feet."

We had had this discussion many times before, but it annoyed him when I asked, so I asked, Yeah, but flip-flops? You look ridiculous, and they keep falling off your feet.

"I don't care how they (wheeze) they look. You're the only (wheeze) only one who (wheeze) who can see me anyway, so shut . . . shut up about it."

I took another drink of water and turned back towards home, and Charles' shoulders slumped with the thought of making the return run, but he was soon behind me, and when he was within earshot, I asked, Would I get to go inside this gathering or whatever you call it?

"Huh? No, of course not. Humans aren't allowed (wheeze) inside. Chuckling over the notion, he added, Not a chance."

Why not? I wouldn't get in the way.

Charles repeated my words to himself: "Get in the way? You're (wheeze) you're funny. You can't go in, Gordo. You don't understand. These are arch-demons."

So what? I've never met an arch-demon. Are they friendly? Or are they like you?

Charles growled, "Would you stop asking so (wheeze) so many questions?"

Delighted to see him getting testy, I offered, Three months.

Letting out another low growl, he spasmed with irritation and gave in: All right! He growled again and agreed, Three months. He growled a third time and added, "I am in (wheeze) so much (wheeze) trouble." Not paying attention to where he was stepping, he tripped, rolled and bounced several revolutions. I was able to glance back in time to witness the tail end of his accident and had myself a most satisfying belly laugh. Charles, however, did not see the humor in the situation.

Back home, after he had regained his composure, Charles drew up an air-tight contract in triplicate. He loved contracts because he usually ended up getting the better end of the deal. That fact made me a bit uneasy, but all I would be doing is going on a stupid road trip. Charles had the document ready for signing before dinner because, I suspected, he wanted to finalize the deal before I had a chance to reconsider.

And it read as follows:

I, Gordo, agree to accompany my designated spiritual antagonizer or DSA, Charles, to the Forty-Second Thousand, Three Hundred and Thirteenth Annual Gathering of Spirits in (blacked out), California, and as antagonizee, I agree to remain within a predetermined distance of said spiritual antagonizer's choosing at all times for the duration of the trip.

In exchange, said antagonizer will not speak, write, gesture or attempt to communicate with me in any other form for a duration of three consecutive calendar months of my choosing in the near or distant future. I also agree that any attempt on my part to travel out beyond shouting distance from said spiritual antagonizer during the three day journey will render the agreement null and void. This binding contract only valid in North America. Void where prohibited.

I liked the part about getting to pick the non-Charles months. He probably put that in there so I wouldn't chicken out before I signed; he was shrewd that way.

I put the contract down and asked, What's this? North America? What's that for?

Charles stopped bouncing his slinky and looked up. Huh? Oh, I just want to cover all my bases and avoid any monkey business on your part if you ever leave the continent.

Eying him suspiciously, I muttered, Hmm, interesting.

It all seemed pretty innocuous, and demons do have a ton of rules that make absolutely no sense. They were similar to people in that regard. I gave him a good, long, suspicious squint and asked, What's this shouting distance nonsense? That's pretty vague.

Charles stopped playing with his slinky again. Huh? Oh, you know, it's just the maximum distance that you can hear me when I shout your name.

So, say about seven or eight miles then?

Charles scowled. No. It's more like one city block.

I scowled back. Okay, that would be about a mile.

He sighed heavily. You know perfectly well that you can't hear me from a mile away. Fine, you want it to be a mile. We'll call it one mile, but you better come when I call.

Okay, give it . . . I impatiently wiggled my fingers at Charles, indicating the need for a writing utensil.

He handed me his sticky, maple syrup covered pen, so I grimaced and asked, Can't you eat with a fork?

Shrugging, he replied, I suppose I could.

I growled, and as soon as I signed the contract, a sinister smile spread across his face and his eyes darkened as he let out a deep, evil cackle.

I lobbed the pen at him, and it stuck in his hair. Oh, knock it off, Charles.

He stopped laughing and shoved an index finger in his ear. Sorry. I couldn't help myself. I'm so funny.

Yeah, about as funny as a cold sore.

As soon as the contract was in his hands, I felt a wave of dread envelope me like good-quality plastic wrap. Maybe I should have thought it through a little longer. I hadn't really considered all the unintended consequences, but it was too late. When I turned away, I caught his reflection in the window. Charles was wearing a mischievous grin, but when I whirled around, he asked innocently with a straight face, What? And when I only leered at him, he asked again, What?

Chapter Three: Preparations

The departure date was two days away, and Charles was nervously pacing around the house, getting prepared, mumbling chants and making strange vocalizations I had never heard before. He organized his wardrobe and even cleaned up as best he could, and when he asked me to take him to the car wash and spray him down with the pressure washer, I happily agreed.

The pressurized water made him stagger at first, but as soon as he found his balance, he actually seemed to like it. I don't understand why he doesn't bathe more often. Well, yes I do. It's probably some kind of passive-aggressive behavior directed at me; he knows his stink bothers me, and that makes him happy.

An amazing amount of grime, slime, crud, ooze and dirt came off, but even under the intense blast from the spray wand, those weird, barnacle looking things attached to his back refused to let go. We then used the industrial vacuum to clean out the gunk, dust and lint hiding inside his fat folds, and to our surprise, even a mouse scampered out from one of his crevices, ran down his leg and scurried away across the parking lot. And in less than two minutes of use, the vacuum clogged, so we had to move on to the next one and then the next, and I couldn't help but feel sorry for the guy who had to empty those things.

After he was cleaned to our satisfaction, we headed to the clothing outlet to look for a suit, but because of Charles' oblong torso, they didn't have anything that came close to fitting, so I whispered, Darn, it looks like we're going to have to pay extra and get you measured.

Charles, who was busy struggling to put on a jacket six sizes too small, looked up from under his armpit and asked, Yeah? And who exactly is going to measure me?

Um, dummy, they got a guy here that . . . Realizing what I was suggesting, I stopped short and corrected myself: Oh yeah, well, you'll have to measure yourself then.

Struggling to free himself from the navy-blue affair, he asked, Uh, do you think I'm physically capable of doing that?

Sure. Just do your best, and we'll estimate any measurements you can't reach.

Charles finally freed himself from the jacket and asked politely, Would you measure me?

With my hands in the air and laughing nervously, I backed away. No . . . Way. Nuh-uh. No. Not on your life.

"You have to, he whined, If I do it, I'll get it wrong. You've seen how I measure stuff. Come on."

No way, Charles. I can't. Remember when I had to pull those porcupine quills out of you? I still have nightmares about that. No. Shuddering with revulsion, I added, "Ugh, even the thought makes me gag. Why do you have to be so . . . so gross?"

He pointed at the counter. Look, there's a measuring tape. Come on. Please?

I looked at the tape and at Charles. Then I looked at the tape and at Charles before cringing and suggesting, Just wear your old one. It's a great suit.

He whined, "It's not great. It's all charred and torn from our trip to the wildlife refuge. Remember?"

I didn't remember, so I had to ask, What trip?

The fight we had on the way home? You know, the road-grater and the gas-can? And the high tension wires?

I laughed out loud. Oh, yeah. I chuckled again. That was great. You ended up lighting that whole field on fire.

Charles ignored me. Well I can't wear it now. I'd be a laughing stock.

I sighed as I picked up the measuring tape and muttered under my breath, Three months. Three months. Three months. I can do this.

It took over ten minutes to get him measured correctly because he was too ticklish and kept giggling and jerking away, and even though I held my breath, I still gagged several times. I then took his measurements to the counter and picked out a nice, navy-blue fabric before we headed back out to the parking lot.

Okay, they've got your order. He said we can pick it up on Friday morning.

Friday? But we have to leave on Saturday. Can't they do it faster?

Friday comes before Saturday, remember? What's wrong with you?

He whined, I want more time to make sure it's right.

You have a whole day. Just take a deep breath and relax.

I can't. Everybody is worked up about this Gathering. Something's going on. Even the birds are nervous.

On our way to the car, I asked, What could be going on?

I don't know. What if there's a big reorganization going down? What if I get reassigned?

They're not going to reassign you. You're doing a great job.

Charles looked at me and asked, I am? Really? You're not just saying that to be nice?

I laughed bitterly and explained, No, I'm not. You know, back in the day, you tricked me into saying and doing things that I'm still ashamed of, and every now and then, you're still capable of filling me with misery, worry and regret. You don't deserve to hear this, but you should get a promotion. Now please get in the car.

Gawking at me in disbelief, he argued, But you always say I'm a terrible demon. He blinked several times before he began to well up.

Alarmed by his embarrassing display of emotion, I quickly changed the subject: Where do you want to eat?

Cracking a smile, Charles kicked the tire and suggested, How about Indian?

That night, I dreamed I was being chased by an enormous shadow demon. It was nothing more than a silhouette with eyes that shone like the sun, and it bristled with power as it closed in. With nowhere to hide, I raced across a flat, empty expanse, and when the shadow caught up, it lifted me and held me tight as it searched my mind. It was nothing but a terrible darkness. Even the light around it was falling inward, as if being pulled down into a kind of gravity well.

I tried to rage at the shadow but could make no sound. Something or someone else was inside it. Another consciousness was there, in control, and as it inspected me, the ground liquefied and we dropped away, down into darkness.

The next morning, Charles asked if I could give him a haircut, so after breakfast and an extended search for the scissors, I had him sit cross-legged on the garage floor. After donning my coveralls, gloves and goggles, I wrapped my head in an old sheet and tucked it in. Having performed this procedure before, I knew that anything, living or dead, might come flying or scurrying out of that wasteland he called a hair-do.

His hair smelled like rotting compost, burnt hair and cheap cologne and was the texture of tangled rope and still contained a collection of sticks, gravel, dirt and bugs that had refused to come out even after direct exposure to fire, the pressure washer and several industrial sized shop-vacs.

Searching for an acceptable place to begin, I groaned and grumbled, Yuck, Charles, why can't you keep your hair maintained so it doesn't get like this?

And his reply was absolutely brilliant in its simplicity: I dunno.

Two more mice abandoned his head and ran off in search for more peaceful accommodations when I started soaking his hair in Drain-O and then oven cleaner. It took over an hour to get it looking halfway presentable, and in some spots, I even had to fire up the weed-eater to get through the really gnarled stuff. When I was relatively satisfied, I handed Charles a mirror and stepped back to admire my handy work.

Charles daintily patted his hair and angled the mirror in different directions while I nodded and admitted, Hmm, not bad if I say so myself. You almost look . . . Well, I wouldn't go that far.

He looked up and asked, What? What do I almost look?

You almost look halfway presentable, you know, for a demon.

My words actually made Charles smile. In fact he was in such a good mood that he spent the next hour humming the score to Oklahoma while cleaning the kitchen without even being asked. He actually used real cleaning chemicals instead of just a wet paper towel, and he even used the broom instead of just kicking the crumbs up against the baseboard. Needless to say, I was in complete shock.

That evening, I offered to take him out for pizza, but Charles wanted to stay home and read through his pristine copy of Glurk's Guide to Demonic Rules and Regulations – Volume Seven just in case they decided to test him at the Gathering. He admitted that it was better to be safe than sorry, and I couldn't argue with that.

So we ordered take-out and spent the evening going over the questions he thought they might hit him with. His weakest areas were the chapters on good mental and physical habits for healthy living. Charles was repulsed by all the rules — which he never followed anyway — on proper diet, grooming habits and exercise, and he didn't hesitate to voice loudly his disdain for all that garbage.

On Friday morning, we picked up Charles' new suit, and as soon as we got home, he rushed straight into his room to try it on. When he came out, he raised his arms out and rotated around three times. What do you think? Huh? Well? How do I look? When he finally stopped rotating, he looked down at his new jacket and carefully began picking off pieces of microscopic lint.

I looked him over carefully and noted, The Howdy Doody tie's a nice touch. You'll definitely be turning heads at this, uh . . . thingy.

Charles corrected me: It's called a Gathering. He looked up with puppy-dog eyes and asked, Really? I look okay?

Well, yeah, um, I'd say so.

Charles inspected himself in the mirror. Yeah, I look pretty good. He groaned, I'm so nervous. I wish we could just get it over with.

Why I bothered to offer up any support was beyond me, but I actually said, Don't worry. It'll be fun. You might even meet someone.

Charles sighed deeply and said, Gord, I don't know what I'd do if they put me with another person. I've been with you for such a long time, and you're, uh, well, you're like family.

His words made me a little uncomfortable, but I replied, Um, yeah, I'm kind of used to you too. I couldn't believe what was happening. Were Charles and I being nice to each other? No. That was not possible.

Before he could say something else that might freak me out, I added, Well, you better go change. You don't want to get it all mussed up.

Charles stood in front of the mirror, flexing his arms in at least a dozen body builder poses before replying, Yeah, okay.

We had Chinese takeout for lunch. On the menu was cashew chicken, fried rice, chow mein and sweet-and-sour pork. Charles, as usual, picked out his vegetables and gave them to me, and, as usual, he was still hungry when we were finished, so he fetched a bag of cookies and a liter of RC Cola for dessert. And after he had finished downing the liter, he ripped off a truly momentous belch before wiping his greasy hand on the chair.

Hey! Use your napkin, you slob! I fired the remote at his head, and it bounced harmlessly off his skull with a satisfying clack! but he hardly even noticed.

Looking over at me blankly, he asked, What? Oh . . . He daintily wiped his hands with his napkin even though the damage was done.

I rolled my eyes and sighed, You're an unmitigated pig, you know that?

Charles chuckled, Yeah. Ha ha — unmitigated. He looked up and cleared his throat. You know, Gary was summoned to the Gathering too, so I told him he could ride with us. I hope that's okay.

My heart skipped a beat, and I calmly asked, "What? . . . Gary? And when were you going to mention this?" I hung my head and groaned.

Why? He needs a ride, and we're going anyway.

Charles, it's not okay. You have to go tell him to find another ride. With all our camping gear and your big, old self taking up the whole back seat, we don't have enough room. Why did you do that?

Well, Bertram just died, and Gary's going to be reassigned, and it's a difficult time for him. I thought he'd appreciate it.

I folded my arms and grumped, "Well, we can't take him. I agreed to go with you and that's all. No Gary. Come on, man. What's the matter with you? Please, you have to go tell him."

After Charles pouted for a few seconds, he muttered, Okay.

There came a knock at the door, and then the doorbell rang which was followed by another, louder knock before the bell rang three more times in rapid succession. I looked at Charles, and he looked back at me. It was Gary's good-mood knock that we had heard a thousand times before.

Charles strained to get out of his chair, saying brightly, Hey, that's him now.

Charles! Don't you dare! I whispered forcefully and waved my hands in protest. We're not here!

It's okay. I'll just tell him what you told me.

As he headed for the door, I pleaded, Charles! He can't go! Do not answer that door!

Charles waved me off as he headed for the door, so I put my face in my hands in despair because I knew where this was going.

Gary had his face pressed up against the screen door in great anticipation. He asked loudly, Hey, anybody in there?

He bore a slight resemblance to Charles with a few exceptions. His baby-blue eyes drooped down giving him a slightly sad expression, but his mouth was bent upwards at the corners forming a permanent grin. He had one over sized tooth in the top front that angled out and pushed down on his lower lip ever so sightly, just enough to give him a slight lisp, and he had a simply tremendous nose that looked like it had been intended for some other demon twice his size and had been mistakenly attached to his face. It was spectacular.

Gary's right ear was bent forward, and he had a burnt spot on the top of his head where his hair refused to grow, and when I asked him what had happened, he changed the subject. Charles said later that Gary had been caught up in a tribal dispute with some neighboring demons several centuries ago while on assignment with a Paiute tribe up in Northern California.

As soon as the door opened, Gary bounded in, waved at Charles and at me in separate gestures and said in his outdoor voice, Hi guys! Sporting an over-sized, dirty t-shirt with the sleeves torn off and tattered khaki slacks, he smiled brightly. He was, without a doubt, the most cheerful demon I had ever met, but with only Charles for comparison, I suppose that wasn't saying much.

I put my best face forward: Hey Gare. Sorry to hear about Bertrand. He was a good guy.

Gary nodded. Yeah, I'm going to miss him. We were together for ninety-two years. Can you believe that?

I was alarmed to see he had a backpack on his back and a walking stick which meant he was ready to go, and I was so tempted to kick Charles really hard right then and there.

Yeah, that's a long time, isn't it? I flashed a desperate look at Charles and asked, So, how soon until you get your new person?

"I haven't heard anything yet, but I hope they hurry up. I'm so bored."

I nodded politely. Yeah, I know what you mean. Being bored is, uh, boring.

Gary guffawed, hiked up his pants and said, I really appreciate you letting me tag along to the Gathering. You guys are the best. He flashed a big, genuine grin of very crooked, greenish-brown teeth.

I tried to catch Charles' eye a second time, but the big dope was busy trying to pry a piece of fabric out of his front teeth, so I tried to send him a mental message: Tell him he can't go, you mutton-head! but my telepathic powers were lacking, and Charles proved this by cheerfully asking, Hey, the more the merrier. Right, Gordo?

And in that moment, I promised myself that as soon as I caught Charles alone, he was so dead.

They both looked to me in anticipation.

I blinked several times, then grimaced and admitted ruefully, Well, that would be fine, but we really don't have room in the car for all three of us. I shrugged and added, Sorry, Gary.

Gary's demeanor dropped three octaves when he looked at his feet and muttered, Oh, yeah. Um, okay. He let out a long, disappointed sigh.

And before he could counter with some cockamamie idea of riding on the roof, I added, Hey, but maybe we'll see you there, huh? And we can hang out, right?

The room was silent a moment, and I realized I was holding my breath. If Charles said one word, I would soak him in fake holy-water right where he stood, and I would not extinguish him until he was nothing more than a blackened pile of ash and bones out in the front yard.

But Charles decided to help some more and asked, Hey, Gare, what about Bertrand's old pickup truck? The one in your backyard? Could we take that? Charles looked at Gary and then at me.

I didn't reply because I was too busy envisioning my victory dance around Charles' smoldering remains.

Brightening instantly and nodding, Gary replied, Yeah, it only needs a windshield, but other than that, it's dependable. He eagerly looked back and forth at Charles and me, hoping against hope.

I could feel my usual, good-natured, friendly demeanor slipping away, and I frowned and asked, No windshield? No, I can't drive that far without a windshield. Nuh-uh. No way . . . Sorry, Gary.

After another uncomfortable silence, Charles brightened and asked, Gary, didn't Bertrand wear a motorcycle helmet when he drove that thing? Do you still have it?

With eyes wide, Gary nodded vigorously. Yeah! It's still in the truck. You could wear it, Gordo, you know? To keep the bugs out of your teeth. He chuckled with anticipation.

They both looked to me like expectant little kids on the verge of getting to go to Disneyland. These were vile, wretched creatures, spawned or born or whatever, in the bowels of hell, whose sole purpose was to bring misery and sorrow to the hearts and souls of human beings. They deserved nothing more than my eternal, white-hot disdain and complete animosity. But since Gary had a dependable truck with lots of room for all three of us and our gear, how was I supposed to say no?

Knowing I had been beaten, I lowered my head in defeat, and a cheer rose up from both of them. They gave each other a high five, but Gary missed and accidentally slapped Charles in the face.

Two demons wasn't part of the deal, and I thought for a moment about backing out of the whole thing. Was this going to be worth it? The answer was still a resounding yes. Three days with these yahoos and then three months without a peep out of Charles? It was still worth it. Maybe.

Gary talked me into letting him stay over. He said he didn't like being in his house anymore because it was too quiet without his person around. At first I said no, but after twenty minutes of incessant begging from the both of them, I caved and said okay, but only if Gary agreed to sleep out in the truck so I didn't have to listen to his snoring. After he agreed, the three of us walked over to Bertrand's house to take a look at our ride.

I was surprised when the primer-green, '63 Chevy C-10 started up without any hesitation, and the engine sounded strong considering it was over half a century old with over three hundred thousand miles logged. The cab and engine smelled like old oil, grease and dust from another era, and the seats were ragged and torn. The headliner was gone and the dash was cracked and yellowed from decades of baking in the hot, valley sun. But even so, Bertrand must have taken good care of the mechanics because there was no play in the steering and even the suspension felt nice and tight.

After we got it back home, Charles and Gary swept out all of the old papers, cans, sticks and leaves, and they even wiped down the inside and cleaned the windows and mirrors. I expected the oil to be as black as road tar, but it was as clear as light maple syrup, and the rest of the engine looked good, the belts and hoses were shiny and tight, and the radiator fluid was slick and green. Against my advice, Charles decided he needed to taste antifreeze and claimed it tasted like licorice, but five minutes later, he threw up.

That evening, we made omelettes. I had to use a separate pan because the guys put eggshells, old coffee grounds and some smelly, rotten potatoes in theirs. I couldn't bare to watch when they decided to add a week-old chicken carcass that had been fermenting under a June sun in the outside garbage can.

I thought it would be fun to watch an episode of Nature about migratory birds but was quickly and loudly voted down, and we ended up watching three episodes of Andy Griffith instead.

Just after eleven, we set Gary up in the back of the Chevy with a pillow, a blanket and a flashlight, and I left the side door to the house unlocked in case he got hungry and needed to come inside for a midnight snack. When he asked me to tuck him in, I suggested that Charles would do it, but he didn't want Charles, and he wouldn't let me leave until I relented.

Chapter Four: Road Trip

At first light, I awoke to the sensation of something very squishy and annoying being pressed repeatedly into my cheek. Opening one eye, I found that the offending object was a finger, so I slapped it away and looked up to see a big, ugly face blinking down at me. I groaned, closed my eyes and rolled over, face-down, hoping that maybe Charles would get the hint and go off and die a slow, painful death.

He whispered happily, Gord, it's time to go. Get up, lazy pants.

I raged at him through my pillow, Get out of here! and all was quiet again.

Good. He had taken the hint and gone away.

But then, the big finger was back, and it poked me in the shoulder as its owner whispered, Hey, daylight's burning. I made your tea the way you like it.

Wow. Charles made tea? There's a first. I rolled over on my side and, in my gravelly, morning voice, pleaded, Man, we've got all stinking day. Just give me another hour. Please.

Then Gary announced at a volume much too loud for the wee hour: Gordo, rise and shine. Carpe diem! We need our driver. Up and at 'em.

I groaned a second time and wrapped the pillow around my ears. Why was Gary up? He never got up before sunrise. That demon slept a solid twelve hours every night. But, no, not today. So I resigned myself to the fact that as soon as I was awake, I'd have to kill both of them.

In the hopes they would go away, I ignored them, but Gary poked me in the ribs with his walking stick and chanted, Road trip. Road trip. Road trip. He chuckled and grabbed my shoulders, shaking me vigorously and cheering, Wooo!

I sat up with eyes closed and grumbled, Curse you both. Curse you for all eternity. But my curse only elicited another high-five between the two of them. Gary, of course, missed and slapped Charles in the nose.

The truck was already packed, and Charles had even made chicken sandwiches and a thermos full of ice tea for the road. He had been kind enough to put a pillow on the driver's seat to cover up the worn spot where the spring was poking through, and he had even cleaned Bertram's motorcycle helmet and placed it up on the dash.

I didn't want them both riding up front, but Charles and Gary argued that we should all be up front so we could plan our trip, and after about a minute of arguing, I gave in and they both crammed into the cab. Gary got the window seat first, but they agreed to switch in Mariposa.

After fueling up and putting air in the tires, we made our way across town and headed east on Highway 140. The air was still nice and cool before dawn, and swarms of flying insects began hitting us in the face before we were even up to speed. I had only swallowed two gnats before deciding it was time to test out the helmet, so Charles steered while I pushed it down over my head to find that it fit pretty well, and to my great delight, I realized I could barely hear their bug crunching and their overly detailed commentary regarding the assorted flavors and textures.

Charles and Gary had mastered the art of high-speed bug eating. They claimed that the secret was to open your mouth as wide as you could, and the wind would rush in and push your cheeks out, and this would help to catch even more. I thought they looked like whales feeding on plankton. After we had passed through a particularly dense swarm, they faced each other and compared mouthfuls before chewing, and when Gary laughed, I made the mistake of inspecting his catch and immediately regretted doing so.

We reached the first foothills on the far eastern side of the valley, and the glow of the sunrise ahead had the effect of lifting my spirits. Above the distant peaks of the Sierra Nevada, long stretches of bright, red and orange cirrus clouds were hugging the horizon, putting on a dazzling show. I lifted the visor on my helmet, smacked Charles on the shoulder and asked, Wow. Would you look at that?

With open mouthfuls of bugs, Charles and Gary only blinked back at me. Then looking at each other, they shrugged.

But I continued: "That is what it's all about. It's the unexpected stuff that makes life worth living." I gestured at the sky.

With his mouth still full, Charles replied, Big whoop. It's a sunrise. As he spoke, bug bits flew out of his mouth and hit me in the face.

So I had to disagree: "It's not just a sunrise, Charles. That is amazing."

Charles looked at Gary, shook his head and sighed, Humans.

Gary chuckled and agreed, Yeah, Humans.

With my mood elevated, I decided to leave them alone and enjoy the view, but when an aphid hit me in the eye, I pulled the helmet visor back down.

The sun rose, and the the air warmed, and the bugs became less frequent as they flew away to hide for the day. The road continued higher and higher as it meandered up through the foothills. The green grass of spring had all but dried out, turning the rolling hills a soft, golden brown. Cows dotted the landscape here and there, and in small groups, they happily grazed and moseyed their way to seemingly nowhere in particular. We were rolling through Cathy's Valley when Charles stopped yammering about which Thundercat was toughest and started talking about food, and when he and Gary got quiet, I could see out of the corner of my eye that they were staring at me expectantly and waiting for me to look over. And knowing what they wanted, I ignored them with every fiber of my being.

Finally, Charles complained, We're hungry.

With eyes forward, I replied, No you're not. You've been eating bugs since we started.

After a brief silence, he repeated himself: Gord, we're hungry. He thought a moment before adding, We want ice cream.

I replied in a monotone fashion, Too bad. We don't have any. Have one of those sandwiches.

Ignoring me, Charles suggested, Come on. Let's get some.

Gary asked brightly, Are we getting ice cream?

Nodding vigorously, Charles declared, Yeah.

I spoke without emotion: No, we're not.

Gary cheered and asked, What kind?

So I elaborated, No kind. We're not getting any kind.

Holding out his hand, palm up in front of Gary, Charles added, Any kind we want.

Gary cheered again and declared, Yes. I want rocky-road. He slapped Charles' hand as hard as he could.

Feeling a twinge of annoyance, I kept my cool and politely declared, We're not getting ice cream. You'll get it all over the place like you always do.

Charles shook my shoulder vigorously, assuring me, No we won't. We promise.

Gary slapped Charles' shoulder several times and agreed, No we won't. We promise.

They didn't deserve ice cream. They didn't deserve anything. What they deserved was to burn in a lake of fire forever and ever, but Charles and Gary continued to stare at me until I sighed deeply and gave in: Okay, we'll take a break in about twenty minutes.

The visor on Bergstrom's helmet was badly splattered anyway, and I had bugs stuck in my hair and splattered across my shirt, so a quick stop wouldn't hurt.

Twenty minutes later, we rolled into Mariposa and into the parking lot of the local market, and before we had even come to a complete stop, Charles hopped out. Unfortunately, he didn't land as gracefully as planned, and his flip-flop slid sideways causing him to stumble forward and fall head first into the pavement.

Gary nimbly hopped out, put his hand out to Charles and teased, Have a nice trip. See you next fall.

Charles reached up, grabbed his hand and muttered, "Huh, never heard that one before."

I parked the truck, set the brake, climbed out and suggested, Why don't you two stay here? It'll be faster that way.

They responded in unison, But we want to go in.

No. You're too easily distracted. What flavor?

After replying in unison, Rocky Road, they exchanged two high-fives, left hand and right hand, which was followed immediately with two hip-bumps.

I rolled my eyes and said, Okay, I won't be long.

Charles pulled a couple of crumpled twenties out of his coveralls and handed them over, and as I headed into the store, he called out, And get soda! And chips!

Without looking back, I waved my arm in the international sign for 'whatever' before going in.

Somewhat embarrassed about being covered in bugs, I tried to make my way to the bathroom without being seen. Aisle two was empty, but sure enough, when I was halfway down, two women rounded the corner at the other end. As I tried to hurry past, they stopped talking, and it was only after I had reached the other end that I remembered I was still wearing the helmet.

I cleaned up as best I could before finding the ice cream section, picking out two gallons of rocky road and making my way over to chips and soda.

The guys had dreadful eating habits. I've tried countless times to reason that their diets were going to make them sick. Maybe not next week or next year, but someday it would catch up to them, but they wouldn't listen because they loved junk food and saw no reason to change. So after finally realizing the futility of my efforts, I gave up. If they wanted to fill their bodies with that garbage, it was their money, and I wasn't going to argue anymore. Why should I care?

I grabbed two liters of RC Cola and two jumbo sized bags of pretzels, paid and headed back outside to find Charles and Gary were nowhere in sight.

Searching the parking lot, I thought, "Wait, I'm the one who's supposed to ditch them . . .Well, they couldn't have gone far."

I couldn't help but