“Why Does No One Summon The Good Spirits?” by MJ Miken

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Take a look at these idiots.  Would you take a look at these idiots?  The guy here is wearing a Children of Bodom t-shirt and is sporting a moustache that looks like he watched a 1930’s Max Fleisher cartoon, saw the cartoon devil in it, and thought to himself, “That’s the look for me!”  And the girl here, what a disaster. Don’t even get me started on her. These two have no idea what they’re doing or what they’ve gotten themselves into. The guy is doing an incantation ritual, trying to summon a demon – for what possible reason who the hell knows – and he completely fucked it up by reciting the names in the closing portion in the wrong order.  He was supposed to go in the reverse order of the opening naming part, but goofball-moustache here recited them in the same order. Now, not only is the demon he summoned – yes, he did actually summon a demon, Yilzanzzipal – a rude fella but he is now attached to the girl. She has an attachment. And those aren’t easy to get rid of.

I feel bad really.  Not for the girl. Hell, she deserves it.  Serves her right for hitching her wagon to this stringy-haired dipshit.  But for Yilzanzzipal. Yilly had to come, he had no choice, since he isn’t a 10-and-5 guy.  See, in the most recent collective bargaining agreement, entities who have existed for more than ten centuries with five centuries in the same location have to waive their “no summons clause” in order to be sent from where they are to a new hangout spot.  Many of the veterans turn down the summons unless it is just too good to pass up. Yilly though has only existed for about 800 years – he came into being in the early 13th century – and he’s only been in his current spot for about 250 years.  He had actually been in semi-retirement since his name had not come up in a conjuring in some time.  So he found himself a quiet place on the astral plane between the Fourth and Fifth parallel dimensions.  But since this chancer mucked up the ritual, Yilly is here now and hooked onto this guy’s friend. Oh well.  Yilzanzzipal will make the best of it and I’m sure he’ll get back into the swing of things soon. I see he is already giving her chest pains and breathing difficulties.  Mild oppression should follow soon and then a full on possession. And if he doesn’t, he’ll just make himself at home and torment the bejesus out of her: nightmares, black moving masses, growls, voices, depression, anger – the usual routine from a low to mid-level grinder-type demon.    

The saddest thing, is that this all could have been avoided.  Not the summoning ritual, oh no. People are going to do that shit and call in demons from now until doomsday.  Hell, it’s been going on since the First Age of Earth and we’re in the Fourth Age of Earth now, and it’s not slowing down at all.  Especially now that there are all these ghost hunting shows on TV and money trap ghost tours. Kids and other assorted weirds think it’ll be cool and fun to grab the good ol’ Ouija board or go to a black magic shop and buy a book of incantations from the person working there who himself hasn’t see the daylight in years and then see who or what they can talk to or even talk into showing up.  Like it’s a parlor trick or the demon is like a magician you hire for two hours on a Sunday for your kid’s birthday party. Well, it isn’t. Granted, most of the demons the knuckleheads get involved with are more the Star Trek red shirt types. But they still can be pretty nasty, particularly depending on their place of origin and what they’ve been feeding on. And sometimes, like the nerd on prom night, anyone, even by blind luck, can fumble and stumble into something and get in way over their heads and end up with someone powerful.  Now, the top elite tier mother fuckers, it takes a big time sinister superstar to get one of those elite bastards to show up. And, that hoss would have to waive his “no summons” clause first. And I already went over that.

No, what the shame is, is that most of these possessions and dark energies and hauntings and shit could have been prevented.  All the twats would have to do is summon one of us, a Shamira, in first. It’s like the last time I got hit up. The last time…hell, it must have been, Fourth Age, 19th century.  Shit, two hundred years.  Jesus. That means I’ve done a big squadoosh for two hundred years.  But as I was about to say, see, this white witch Carol was performing a séance at the home of some rich cunts in oy oy England.  One of those regulated manners and ballroom etiquette families. The kind you’d see in a Jane Austen movie on PBS. For some reason, I guess same as nowadays, occult and macabre shit was the vogue thing going around the poshies.  Must have been all those gothic fictions and penny dreadfuls. People have always been stupid. Want to touch the flame even when they’ve been told not to and their brain says don’t fucking do it.

Now instead of the usual soiree these people would throw – coats with tails, gowns, masks, talking shit about others – they wanted to have a Dark Arts Night.  So they asked around and word on the streets of London town was this lady, the aforementioned Carol, who lived up in the Outer Hebrides, was the bee’s knees when it came to spectral shenanigans.  So they hired her for the night, ferried and buggied her down, invited all their pretentious friends over saying it’s the event of the season and any-gentry who’s gentry will be there. At the shindig, after they all ate roast woodcock and larded oysters or whatever fancy people eat before they play Scattegories and the category is “Bad Ideas starting with S”, Carol takes over and has everyone sit around the table.  Carol really was A#1 when it came to this stuff. She could see, chat with, and, oh boy, could she summon things that would scare the pants and bloomers off these knobs. But she was also a sweetheart – bless her heart – and as dumb as they were, she didn’t want anyone getting scarred. Demons can mark you and change you bad.

So I’m dancing away at this club called Metaphysikal in the Eighth parallel dimension, club’s hopping and the mighty Apis Bull – legend – is DJing and dropping one hardstyle banger after another.  I’m chatting up this smoke female light being and I start to feel a bit of a twinge in, you know, my mind; and next thing I know I’m zooming through the aether like at the end of 2001: A Space Odyssey.    Now I’m standing in the middle of some bougie parlor with a bunch of puffy people.  We get hit up, we have to go. No choice. We’re conscripted on “right thing to do” grounds.  Keeping the peace and keeping John and Jane Doe from their own dopiness.

Carol has all these self-important muppets sitting around a table and holding hands. Soon as I get in the door I know where this is going.  And I know Carol knows I’m there. Hell, I swear she can even see me. Third eye shit. She starts up the ritual and she’s got her grimoire open, she’s reciting the incantation, and she has bones and teeth and some other trigger stuff that she’s playing with and she’s speaking in old time Gaelic and I’m just laid back because she’s a pro and I’m on the scene.  Then her voice gets all raspy and evil sounding and her eyes are turning white, rolling back, and she’s twitching and some of the women at the table start flipping out. And even though I’m still thinking about that bombshell and am a bit chapped about being yanked from her to here, it’s a grand time in this joint.

Then all the candles go out.  A cold wind blows through the room.  They all start geekin’, saying something is around them, they’re hearing voices, and something’s touching them.  Carol is passed the fuck out. I know this is all Mnenomet’s bit. That narcissistic asshat has always had a flair for the theatrical.  Carol knew what she was doing in calling him in. This lot wanted a performance and she gave them one. That’s a good businesswoman right there.   Know what the clients want and give them what they need. I wasn’t about to deny these good people their Saturday fun so I reposed and let Mnenomet sashay and strut about.  He cast some shadow figures, knocked on the walls, threw crap across the room, got their chests tight and heart rates way up, and even made one of the mingers vomit up her pudding on her dress.  Like I said before, this shit isn’t game night. So before he got to Act 2, I stepped in.

Ok, show’s over.

Souls…he snarled.

I reply, Not going to happen.  You trashed this place, ruined a dress and some pantaloons from the smell of things, and gave them a good fright.  Now let’s call it a night.

He didn’t like that.  These B-minus list assholes, especially the temperamental ones who think of this as a “craft” and an “art” are always a pain.  They’re not top shelf, never will be, so they compensate with attitude and arrogance. He said he had used up a good amount of energy taking the form of a little girl – little girl voices, especially with a posh monotone British accent, are just creepy as hell – and wasn’t about to let this go to waste.  He gave me a whole song and dance about how this was the first good job he’s gotten in a while and if I could give him a break and… and I wasn’t having any his hokum because I knew he was just coming off a long term residency at an abbey in France and he even possessed a couple priests while he was there.  That’s a good gig. He did get exorcised and tossed out on his ass by a brute of a bishop; but he’s only been out of work about 120 years. So I wasn’t buying his scam.

But he says, but I can’t turn back out of this body for another two days.  Let me at least oppress ascot man. Just for a minute or three?

Don’t give me that ‘can’t turn back’ crap, I say back.  Mnenomet, I say, you’re an ethereal entity. You can take any shape you want at any time.  Look, I’ve already waivered on my ethics and let you have way more fun than I should have. And as much as I admittedly would like to see ascot guy get roughed around for a bit, I cannot.  Carol, the one who summoned you…

I like her, he buts in.

I bet you do, I say, but she there called me to keep shit from getting bad and keep these yahoos safe.  So take a bow and get the fuck outta here.

Well, he wasn’t listening and got a bit aggressive so I had to give him a pasting.  That changed his tune. He shifted back to his demon form, and on his way out – he’s all dragging ass and shuffling his hooves and hanging his head – I told him he had some talent and I was sure something long term would come along again soon and he’d be a real star.  And that seemed to perk him right up. He bowed and then vanished and went back to the nearest, most convenient space between dimensions. Piece of piss.

That’s the last time I went into work.  Over two hundred earth years. A whole lot of bad shit has been gotten up to and gone down.  Shit that should never have happened. That’s a whole lotta shit that could have been prevented.   Like Wu-Tang say, protect ya neck. And you’d think they’d learn. But they never do. They never fucking do.  And then next thing they know, someone is being dragged up their wall and speaking in Sumerian or marching into…

You know what, to hell with ‘em.  Fuckers don’t want the help then they ain’t gonna get the help.  And that doesn’t affect me at all. Doesn’t affect any of us. If we’re not being called on then that just gives us more time to read scrolls and watch videos at the Akashic Record or… aw, shit. Tonight is Ladies Night at Metaphysikal.  Maybe she’ll be there. And Hiyoribō is on the decks. So can’t be assed.

 

MJ Miken is a writer and DJ.  Written work can be found at Soft Cartel and Terror House Magazine.  Sonic work can be found at
https://soundcloud.com/metasonicfolios.  His current location is Earth-planet, Universe; or, the nearest gym.  He does not skip leg day.
He can also be found on Twitter: @DanseMusick

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