Chapter 5

Chapter 5 Undesired Dreams

Issabella shot up, straight up in bed like a car seat being slammed forward. It was three am. Her skull and kitty-print nightshirt was drenched in sweat and her heart raced furiously. “I have three fucking demons to deal with!” She bellowed to the apartment wall, then promptly rolled back off to sleep. 

“Pizza in!”

She threw open the oven door and inside lay a miniaturized world. A vast diorama of small green hills and twisted trees, some were on fire; dozens of small male demons danced around holding pitchforks and handcuffs and wearing nothing more than sheer skin-tight overalls. They were putting on a show for Issabella, a weird choreographed male strip-show. She heard strains of 1970s disco playing. “Tell me something good! Rrrrtttroeeee… tell me tell me tell me… Tell me that you love meee, yeaaah!” One of the small trees went up in a fiery poof, and a party horn blew, almost like a hunting trumpet. It echoed from the back of the oven and rang in her ears. She watched as a giant cake was wheeled to the forefront of the oven. “What the fuck is going on? Is it my birthday?” she thought, and soon the club music enchanted her rhythmically. Her hips swayed, and her eyes danced with the bodies of the devilish men. Even for a jaded demon huntress, some things were irresistible. Prancing and dancing, prancing and dancing, they danced naked around the cake. All smooth, all tan, all completely hot and full of alpha blood. Thoughts of an orgy, or of being tied up in a kinky Gulliver’s Travel style fantasy, pranced and danced through her mind. “Tell me something good!” 

Then suddenly the top of the giant cake burst open, and there stood another devil. He wasn’t sexy like the others. He was a bad one. His face smeared in white make-up with black grease pencil that bled from his eyes. The good-time-show was gone. He was long and tall; and though cake frosting clung to his horns, be damned—this guy was fucking scary. She watched as the rest of the cake split open in sections, falling to the green floor. The monster was peddling a weird bicycle. A bicycle connected to a treadmill, connecting to a pulley system, that connected to a machine that was cranking out… more demons. More demons! An all-male chorus line of dancing and jiggling beasts that rode down the conveyor belt and into the Lilliputian Faustian party land. 

She felt her heart beat rapidly and a tightness in her chest that compressed her lungs. She drew closer with horrific fascination. 

In the flash of a second, the demon’s face inflated. It bobbed at the mouth of the oven, life-size, staring at her with an evilness that flat-lined her pulse. Its eyes were wide, bloodshot, with pupils the size of pen dots. “Issabella! Come hither!” It yelled in a voice so horrid, it could be described as ten-thousand satanic monks chanting while barfing. “We have a surprise for you!!!” It finished, with a serpentine tongue that slapped her forehead.

“Fuuuuuuuucckkk Meeeeeee!” Issabella screamed and woke up again, then continued screaming in one long breath till her lungs ran out. Her voice echoed around the apartment, into the heat vent, through the ducting and into Mr. Lynch’s apartment one floor up. Mr. Lynch had become accustomed to the regular occurrence and concluded that naughty business behind closed doors was not his concern.

“That wasn’t cool! I need coffee, I need coffee. I need coffee—” Issabella chanted and launched from bed like a greyhound out of a gate. 

Sometimes nightmares dissipate into forgetfulness the moment your eyes open, other times, they linger. They pester like a hangnail ripped with your teeth. That face, she could still see it. Wild-eyed and evil. The way he pumped that bicycle, the way his tongue seemed to jump out of the dream and strike her in the head. This one lingered like the steam that rose from her freshly brewed hot coffee. 

She held the cup tight and stared blankly at the demon tank across the room. How many were in there now? The tank was metal and glowed inside with a special mandrake ether that securely held hundreds of the Fallen in micro suspended soul sleep. There had to be a lot… but how many were truly evil? Most of them weren’t like that one she saw in her dream. Most of them were just trouble makers. Demons out to have fun… the wrong kind of fun. Over in the corner was another machine. It looked like an old moonshine still. It converted the demons and fed them directly into the mandrake tank via a series of copper pipes. All courtesy of great grandfather, Constantine Doe.

“But what about Hunsy?” As if her walls would answer. 

He might be useful. He had actually saved her life last night. And damn, she knew he kissed good. Not exactly Mr. Right… but not exactly Mr. Wrong, more like: Mr.-you-made-me-feel-really-good-the-other-night, and again, you-did-save-my-ass. But sexy lips and sexy body do not make the man. Yes, another reason these things aren’t destined to work out.

She opened her purse and poured Azaroch into the first keg.

Perhaps she would make Hunsy her pet? “But was he tame enough?” She wondered. She could certainly use some help around HQ. “He would have to be trained… yes.” But would he be willing? She’d never had a demon as a pet. “Wait… I’m supposed to be ridding the world of these guys, not adopting. But what could it hurt?” 

She looked down into her handbag. “Hunsy, you’re staying in there till I know what we’re doing.”

“Yes Issabella.”—His deep little voice seeped up from inside her purse—“Hey! You got something soft? Hunsy wanna lay down.”

“You’re not even in-body and you know that.” 

“Hunsy want to be comfortable.” He had a habit of slowly over-pronouncing each syllable, much like a big rock stuck in a very slow dryer. 

“Are you kidding me? I can’t believe we are having this conversation.”

“Who saved Izzabella’s butt?” 

“Ehhh!” She gasped in surprise. “Ok Hunsy… Hunsy, of the second generation Satanyic.” She walked toward her dresser as the noise from copper pipes overhead rattled from distillation. “Pink panties, with a smiley face on them.” She laughed and tossed them into her purse.“Hunsy, of the Pink Panty Realm.”

“Thank you Izzabella.” She heard his voice as she set the handbag down on a table. 

Azaroch had entered the thumper keg, and it banged wildly as it compressed the demon. Soon his essence would join the pool in the final tank. Just then, the war-cry of her cell phone, “We Will Rock You,” announced to the world that a call was coming in. The clunking sound of Azaroch timed perfectly with the beat of the ring tone, Issabella smirked. 

“Hello? Do you have a pesky demon? Don’t start Screamin’. Don’t call a plumber, call Demon-Hunters!”

“Izzy, this is Raskal.” His voice was clearly frazzled. “I need that demon removed from the jukebox that you put in there last night! Quickly! Toot suite!”

“Raskal I’ll be right there, what is going on?”

“The building inspector is coming, and if he finds faulty electronic equipment, they will close me down! No more Temple of the Smoothie!”

“Over my dead body!”—Her voice rang loud from her soul to god’s ears—“After a nice shower, I’ll be right there.”

“No shower! Come now!” 

“Fine!”—she hung up the cell—“Shit, where’d I put my purse?”

“It’s over here!”

Hunsy yelled from inside the handbag on the table and Issabella ran over to grab it. 

“Ahh… Hunsy?” Changing her demeanor as if speaking to a child.

“Yes?” 

“Question. If I let you out of there for a little bit, will you behave yourself?”

“Hunsy can’t promise that.”

“Hunsy better promise that!” 

“Yes Izzabella…” his voice, deflated.

“I need to go out for a while. And there are rules.”

“Rules? Demons don’t like rules.”

“I know they don’t. But if you want out…?”

“Fine… Hunsy will like rules.” He spoke slowly as if carrying the weight of a hundred crosses with each step.

She smiled. “Now, there is no breaking things. There is no trouble making in my apartment. Example, do not play with the electronics, do not switch the sugar bowl with table salt, do not eat the house plants. Do not destroy the furniture. Raise the seat if you have to tinkle. Do not eat a stick of butter—”

“Fuck…”

“Don’t fuck me Mr.” Issabella couldn’t believe she was making a deal with one of The Fallen. “If you do good, I might have my way with you later.”

“Hunsy have a better way with Izzabella.” He smiled lasciviously. 

“Don’t make me blush you brute… Oh! And! Do not go outside. Do you understand?”

“Yeeessss Izzabella.” He rasped in a long drawn out line of humiliation.

“Ok,”—she held her breath and clutched the purse tight—“Liber Quod Daemonium!”

Her purse rim glowed, then with a flash Hunsy appeared in the room. Great Grandpa Constantine would roll over in his grave, she thought. Hunsy stood still, looking around her apartment and sniffing. There was something about this ogre that was attractive. In a weird way. Maybe it was the perverse juxtaposition of this big strong monster, wearing nothing but a towel and holding her pink smiley-face panties in one hand.

“I will wear Izzabella’s pink panties.”

“Honey, you’re too damn big. Now settle down. I have to go out for a bit”—She slipped her sweater on and grabbed her purse—“Be good!” .

The door swung shut behind her and Hunsy was alone. He looked around the empty apartment and was suddenly awestruck by a big screen with people on it.

“You are small people, Hunsy could eat you if I wanted.” He spoke aloud.

The people on TV didn’t care. 

“Why no scared of Hunsy?”—He sat down on the couch—”I will watch you, but know that I could eat you anytime.” He grumbled.

“And don’t try to eat the people on TV!” Issabella yelled as she raced by the window outside.

to be continued