Tag: writing

“Ger! We talked about this! No satanic rituals at the dinner table!”

It was the third time this week that I had come home only to see Geronimo laying out his weird arrangement of symbols and sticks on the table. I mean, you would think that after a multitude of centuries in existence he would be able to understand the requirements of basic sanitation.

Let me introduce you to Geronimo; the cowering hunk of muscle and smoke currently residing in my dining room. He’s been my best friend since the day that he accidentally scorched my diapers. Don’t worry, I returned the favour by yanking on his horns until sticky black tar dripped from his eyes and nostrils.

During my childhood years, I named him after my favourite book character Geronimo Stilton. By the time I had grown out of that phase, it was too late to retract that name as it had stuck. After a decade or so of moans and grumbles from my best friend, he grudgingly accepted his name. Lucky for him, as if he hadn’t, I would have reverted to my endearing childhood nickname for him; Buttface.

Anyways, I recently moved into an apartment with him. Just Geronimo and I. And for your information, it was just as hard as it seems to find a roommate that could tolerate both Geronimo and I’s, how would you say, vibrant personalities.

—

I rubbed my temples in frustration as I surveyed the guilty demon and the mess he had made in our rented apartment.

“How are we going to get these blood stains out of the table? You do know this is mahogany,” I questioned.

Geronimo horns twitched as he suggested, “How about some water and soap?”

“Wow. I totally didn’t think of that. Wait, I have another idea; how about I skin your hide and use it as a rag?”

“What a great idea; threaten your guardian demon who’s a foot taller than you and could actually throw you into the pits of hell!”

“Bitch please, you were the one wailing like a banshee the other night when I accidentally stepped on your tail.”

Wisps of smoke started to rise from his pelt and I could practically feel the angsty demon hormones radiating off of him.

“At least I wasn’t wailing over a stupid mortal man that smelled like an Axe body spray warehouse with the personality of a rotting carcass!”

I stumbled back, slightly wounded that he would bring Ryder up.

Geronimo’s eyes glowed and his nostrils flared as he sensed the blend of anger, disappointment and loathing that radiated off of my aura. Taking a few steps back, he swiftly returned to his arrangement on the dining table and methodically started to fiddle with some of the particular symbols. Muttering some incantations in an ancient language, he began to furiously slam his paws down on the trembling table. As he raised his paws and slammed them down on the table one last time, his last howl rattled the plates resting on the drying rack.

As he turned back to me, I noticed that his glowing ruby eyes had returned to their usual russet colour. I silently thanked the gods that his anger hadn’t been destructive this time as Geronimo tended to lose himself when he lost his temper.

“At least one problem’s solved,” Geronimo stated as he started to exit the dining room.

“What problem?” I asked. His remnants of his ritual were still lying on the now red dining table and blood had started to drip off the edges onto the floor. Great.

“For some reason, Ryder Matthews has mysteriously gone missing.”

“You did not.”

“Let’s just say that I hope he’s having fun in whatever alternate dimension I shoved him into.”

I rushed over to Geronimo and gave him a hug. He quickly reciprocated the sentiment, almost crushing my ribcage with his returning hug. As we stood there reconciling for a few minutes, I then piped up to say,

“You do know you’re going to have to summon him back soon.”

“Maybe someday.”