“You should know, Wayward, you’ve besoffen the wrong damon this time!”

“I don’t imagine this is something we can settle over a beer and wiener schnitzel?”

So there I was with a 250 pound Fanfaron on my chest with a full jaw of teeth three inches from my nose.  I didn’t need him so close to figure out what he was intending or that he had someone’s thigh bone for lunch three weeks ago.  I don’t know what was more painful, his chest of oddly placed bones pressing against mine or having to smell the Joe on Weck stuck between his teeth.  You are probably curious as to how I came to be in this situation.

“The question did occur to me, yes.”

Well to understand that, I think it’s important that you understand what set it off.  The one factor in my life that would dictate every decision and action from that moment forward.

“All right.  What factor?”

Genetics.

“Are you telling me that you are some sort of person who has evolved past the state of the average human?  That you have evolved to the point where you have strange, uncanny abilities that cause people to fear you out of some over exaggerated fear of the unknown?”

No, man, it’s heredity.  I got my father’s curse and its been following me around like a dark friggin’ cloud since birth!

“Oh.  Did you know your father very well?”

Not at all.  His time ran out after twenty four years.  I was born after he was gone.

“Oh dear.  Such a young age.”

No, doc, he didn’t die when he was twenty four, he died after twenty four years of living the good life!  Booze, women, experimental alchemy in pill shaped form.  The basics.  For a real good time I hear he would travel to Heilbronn and change the seasons and cause trees to bear fruit.  The people would come to cut fruit from the tree, not realizing they held knives to each other’s noses.  My father was a prankster that way.

“Life must have been  exceptionally difficult for your mother.”

I would say!  She disintegrated into smoke and ash after child birth.  I was truly a bastard, just like people say.

“Which people?”

Our kind of people.  Just ask them sometime.  I’ve got quite the reputation, you know.

“I’m afraid I’ve never heard of you before. Mr. Wayward.”

Whatever.

“So I fail to see how your  parent’s premature death brings us to the story you were telling me about.”

The story about the Fanfaron?

“Is that what we are calling it?”

It’s what it is.  You knew that.  Anyway my birth, and conception actually, have everything to do with the Fanfaron.  Not that particular event but just the fact that I was there; the whole reason I ended up beneath this thing with leathery wings and scary grandma fingers.

“You are losing me, Mr. Wayward.  Why were you there?”

Because it was my destiny; my lot in life.  Maybe I was born for something else but this was the direction I chose.  Granted, I was an impressionable youth and Father Thom’s influence was everywhere--

“Who is Father Thom?”

The priest who adopted me.

“A priest adopted you?  Is that possible?”

Well okay, a former priest.  He renounced his faith when he figured out that Lucifer’s influence here was greater than anyone anticipated and that the Worshippers didn’t stand a chance.  He figured that if God renounced his faith in us then one turn was as good as another.  That turning the other cheek thing was hogwash.  Why are you shaking your head?

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wayward but this is all a little...hard to take.  Lucifer?  God?  Fanfarons?”

Yeah, what’s the problem?

“Well for one thing, you speak of them so...comfortably.   As if they were in the next room or they were classmates of yours.  Don‘t look at me like that, sir, what do you expect?”

I’d expect you to sit there and listen, Doc.  We are all in the same business anyhow.  We might work in different cubicles but the sign on the wall says the same thing.

“Sign on the---  Mr. Wayward, why are you here?!”

It ain’t obvious?  Never mind that, I forgot... you never heard of me.

“You say that like you don’t believe me.”

I don’t but... whatever.  Anyway isn’t this how it works?  I lay out right here, tell you my problems and you suggest a narcotic of some sort?

“Do you believe you need a narcotic?  Some would say your hallucinations are borne of such things.”

What hallucinations?  I don’t have any hallucinations.

“Well you may believe, Mr. Wayward, in your mentally fabricated fantasy that the things of which you speak truly exist but I assure you that they do not.  Now you are squinting at me.“

I see what’s going on here, Doc.  I thought this was all some kind of game before we really got down to business.  Like foreplay.  But now I get it.

“Do you?  Because that would be a relief considering I did not invite you here and that you are not my patient.”

Of course I’m not.  Don’t you get it, Doc?

“Get what? Apparently I do not.”

See you’re the head-shrinker--

“Therapist.”

Whatever... and you are the one in denial!  No, no, don’t roll your eyes at me, Doc.  That’s the problem here!  I didn’t see it before but I get it now!

“Really.  Do tell.”

You see, I think you DO know who I am but in this fantasy world you’ve made, you don’t recognize me or your predicament!

“Nice reversal, Mr. Wayward, however this is really starting to become troublesome.”

Just hear me out a minute.  You’re up here believing you are a therapist, taking in patients, living out a life in this fairy tale resurrection of yours but the fact is you are dead.  It’s not that you don’t know you are dead, it’s that you blocked it of your mind.  Your death, your years of torment and subsequent escape from Hell...you’ve blocked it all out of your mind out of some desperate chance to pick up from where you’ve left off!

“This...this is preposterous.  Mr.  Wayward.  If it is truly help you desire and not some audience to hear out your ravings then perhaps you’ll meet with one of my colleagues who is really well trained--”

Where are you going?

“To get you the card of one of my colleagues.  I believe he specializes in people with your particular...symptoms.”

A card from where?  There’s no desk in here.  In fact you haven’t a lick of furniture here except for that busted ass old chair over there,  man.

“Don’t grin at me, Mr. Wayward, it is unsettling.  Of course there’s a...I mean you are lying on a--”

Sheet of wood lying atop a stack of boxes.  I suppose that having made all this up you wouldn’t have known that this used to be an office for a now defunct dot com.

“I...”

And before that it was a studio apartment that had one tenant until she was murdered by a jealous lover.  Right where you are standing if I remember the photos correctly.  What’s wrong, Doc?  You look a little queasy.

“I think it’s time you left, Mr. Wayward.  You’ll excuse me if I call security to see that you do not...hurt yourself on the way out.”

That would be a neat trick.  You know your particular class has a difficult time getting heard over a phone or radio, don‘t you?

“Particular...class of what?”

Getting harder to deny now isn’t it, Doc.  Harder to remember things from just a couple days ago.  Like the edges of your perception of reality are starting to fade and blur.  Still see a desk?  How about a phone?  Anywhere?

“No, I...there was...I can’t understand...”

Man, I got to hand it to you.  I’ve never seen one quite like you before; buying into your own fiction like that.  Go ahead and spit it out, Doc, what do you want to say?

“You wanted to tell me...the Fanfaron, what about the Fanfaron?”

Still clinging on aren’t ya?  The Fanfaron ordeal doesn’t really matter.  It’s just another demon to take down, another fine example of a typical day in the life of me.  Though if it makes you feel better, he was the one that gave you up.  Did you really believe your patients were 'normal' too?  Oh man, that is rich!

“You are laughing at me.  Stop... laughing at me.  This is nonsense!  I...I’ll...Oh my Lord what do I do?  Wayward has come for me...he’s come for ME!”

Ahhh, I knew it.  I knew you heard of me!  Thanks, Doc, that means a lot.

“Wayward.  Wayward.  Wayward.  Caleb Wayward.  The Wayward Son.  He’s come for me... come to take me back.  Come to...oh I can’t go back, Wayward...please have mercy!”

Well hey, Doc, I’m afraid that’s all the time I’ve got for today.  Great sharing time with you like this but you know I have other clients.

“What are you...no, don’t hold out your hands like that.  I know what that means!  Please don’t...everything was perfect, I worked so hard to rebuild this and and...I tried to find him so he could remake me...”

Hold the phone, Doc.  'Him' who?  What are you foaming at the mouth about now?”

“The Tweak!  Yes, the Tweak is the one you want, not me...he’s much more of a prize for the great demon hunter, Caleb Wayward!”

Okay now you’re overdoing it.  I should banish you back to Hell just for kissing my ass.  Now, more about this Tweak.

“He has the demonic magicks necessary to remake one’s appearance!  Give hue to pale blues, pinks to dark circles, blush to fingertips...one can look alive again after Tweak redraws your flesh!”

Change your colors, you’re still the same demonic piece of crap on the inside, Doc.  Ask the electrician I see half consumed in the corner there.   Did you even know you had a craving for flesh and soul?

“No...no that can’t be right.  It was perfect...all perfect...that is until YOU showed up!”

Okay now I’m beginning to detect a little bit of attitude...

“If I’m going back to Hell, Wayward, I’m going to take your eternally cursed soul with me!”

Caleb Wayward cursed himself even as the exposed demon lunged past him, slamming into the boxes where the hunter had been lying just a moment before.  The residual Demon Arc energies he collected to banish the undead Doctor were already waning, not enough to create much more than an impressive light show.

The Doctor moved fast and boasted a strength that didn’t seem possible for what remained of its living corpse.  Tattered brown clothing  sagged along strange, obscene edges in its anatomy that made the monster look more like a children’s drawing that anything once human.  Its teeth were chipped square things that threatened to fall out of its gums should it breath too hard.  They seemed to lean in and out like shudders as it spoke in rage.   “You won’t take me back, Wayward.  I’d just as soon get sick from eating your bastard flesh than have to return there...”

Wayward was cornered, the door behind the Doctor and the third story window off to its left.  The summoning of his energies was not instantaneous but Wayward’s death would be should the zombie get a hold of the man’s throat.  He needed a time.  Not much, nothing more than a few seconds to concentrate.  He continued backing towards the wall, sure it would be there in another stride, certain that the Doctor was moments from lunging forward.

A hand swept behind him to test for the flat surface of the wall, not wanting to give the Doctor the benefit of taking his eyes of the best for that would be the time when it would strike.  The hand struck wood and fumbled around its edges.  The chair.  Caleb remembered seeing it lean to one side, an odd complement to the zombie who’s posture prevented it from also standing straight.  His hand gripped the wooden rail of the chair and he risked the glance over his shoulder to make sure that it was in fact there.

There was a sick rush of air that could only be the Doctor trying to fill its deflated and perforated lungs, its clumsy gait the sum of eroded flesh and decalcified feet pounding against the wooden floor.  Caleb’s eyes landed on the broken kitchen chair and followed it as he whipped it around him as hard and fast as he could manage.

The chair soared forward in an arc and Caleb only released it when he was sure the Doctor would take it in its face.  Rotted arms flailed forward as the legs and rungs of the chair caught the zombie at its elongated chin, catching the thing off guard and interrupting its lethal charge.

Now it was Caleb’s time to rush, a linebacker type sprint that flung him into the Doctor’s soft ribs as he pinned the zombie’s arms to its side.  The hit was well planned and as light as the creature was, Caleb had no difficulties in pushing it backward...towards the dust streaked window.

Just inches from the window Caleb felt the twig-like fingers of the Doctor clutch at his own forearms.  There was a strange vibration and building pressure and Caleb knew instantly what it was.  Maggots.  Just one of the gifts the ground -sleepers earned after liberating themselves from the grave.  Ignoring the zombie’s attempts to counter Caleb’s intent, the hunter heard glass shatter at the Doctor’s back.  Caleb hoisted the possessed cadaver upward and then outward, shoving it out the window before falling back to the floor, preventing him from going over as well.

Caleb sat on the wooden floor and watched the window, unsure of how many breaths he took to settle his nerves.  He searched for some piece of mind, some level of tranquility to allow for the summoning of his inner energies.  A warm sensation surrounded his finger tips and he could feel the light-colored hairs on his forearm rise.  He looked down at his hands and saw the bright blue energies building and then shook his hands and arms to knock the Doctor’s maggots off him.

There was a knocking against the wall, just below the shattered window frame and Caleb knew it was the Doctor’s feet, tapping the wall as it hung there.  Its thin fingers gripped at the window pane, black, dirt filled finger nails slicing into rotted wood.

The light around Caleb’s hands was much brighter now, the Demon Arc summoned to full strength.  With it he could blow a hole through the wall or simply use it for its intended purpose...to banish the malformed soul from its undead flesh to its final resting place.  Hell.

The hunter stopped at the ruined frame and peeked over the edge, his gaze meeting that of the undead Doctor.   Large brown eyes with shrunken lids, sunken deep into their cavities, blinked as thin ugly lips formed simple words.  “Mercy.  Don’t send me back.  Please.”

Caleb nodded and reached his steady hands out the window, wrapping them around the Doctor’s pale wrists.  He held the zombie there for a moment and looked deep into living eyes in an otherwise dead husk of a man.

“Exsilium,” was all that he muttered and the light about his hands danced as if alive.  Like wisps of electricity the energy passed from Caleb’s hands, through the body of the zombie, severing the ties the soul had to flesh.  In a mere moment the act was done and the blue shadow of the Doctor past into air like vapor, freed to return back from whence it came.  Without life or even the mockery of it, the flesh was waste, the by product of a demonic art put to rest.  It wavered in Caleb’s hand like a dead leaf and then collapsed to the sidewalk below in a heap of carbon based ash.

The hunter remained still for a moment, the Demon Arc energies subsiding within him to wherever they went when not called upon.  He watched the street and the life that moved within it; passing by the heap of decay as if it were nothing.  Not a hint of a man.  Not a pile of flecks of humanity.  Simply a pile of dirt or trash that didn’t belong to them.  After all, to the complacent, what died remained dead, never again having any role in this land of the living.  Ignorance, as they said, was bliss and Caleb Wayward was wretched.