Sweet Tooth: Lord of the Pies

by R. M. Huffman

so badly to emigrate to England. These days, the country is as pleasant as can be, with churches closing by the score to be replaced by corner stores and movie theaters, but back then? No, thank you, Church of England (motto: “Basically Catholic, except we’ll let Henry the Eighth annul his marriage”). And you see how well it worked for the Count. The demographic trends are encouraging, though - Islam is the fastest-growing religion in Europe (no problems for me with that particular bunch), and more British believe in extraterrestrials than a God. If I didn’t love my country ‘tis of thee so much, largely by virtue of my feelings that I developed when I was alive, I’d move to Scandinavia in a second. Over the last decade, many of us have.

  Speaking of: just wait until Norway is entirely secularized. Talk about a troll problem. Those smelly giants will come down from the mountains like bears to a campsite barbecue.

  So here we are, and I can’t leave, use a phone, or “yell.” Fortunately, I have a thrall on call. He’s a lawyer named Benjamin ben Benjamin: Jewish by heritage, intellectually agnostic, and with a moral compass that perpetually points in the direction of the bank. We’re connected by a very specific telepathy - a power in the possession of my kind long before it began showing up as a result of science experiments - and I use it to give specific instructions. I need to stall for time, and to gain useful information if I can.

  “So,” I begin, falling into my psychiatrist persona, professional and slightly withdrawn. “Your name is Beelzebub?”

  He bows. “Beelzebub, Prince of Demons, Lord of the High Places, who excites priests to lust and tyrants to destruction. Mentioned by the Son of God by name, don’t you know.”

  “Okay. May I call you Beelzebub?”

  “Call me ‘Bub’ if you want. I don’t care. Excuse me.”

  He opens the door a crack. “Hey! Bring us a pie!” He turns and looks at me. “Tell them to bring us pie. I won’t count it against your oath.”

  I need to buy time, and this will work as well as anything. My lawyer is driving here, his mission accomplished. That was quick, but that’s why I enthralled him. He really does get things done, without regard to ethics or morals if necessary.

  I call to an attendant, a tall girl with curves hiding beneath her plain uniform. She doesn’t ask questions, as demands her job. She brings back pumpkin, apple, and buttermilk, and I take them from her. I close the door and turn towards “Bub,” who has retreated to the cot in the back of the room. “Why do you want pie?”

  “Why not? I might as well use this dirt-body’s senses if I have them.” He curls his mouth into a lascivious smile. “That girl is attractive. Why don’t you call her back in here?” For this, I bare my fangs and hiss.

  Bub laughs. “Why not? Let’s go crazy! I know you want to. That smooth, long neck... Tell you what: you take up top, and I’ll take down below, hmm?” He gyrates and somehow takes a huge bite of pie using only his tongue. I control myself for the sake of the human - my actual patient - he’s trapping now. I stand by the door, he finishes his pie, and we wait. He starts to chuckle and doesn’t stop.

  “Why are you laughing?” I ask, in my most clinical tone.

  “You know what I am, and you can’t cast me out. You can’t say the name.”

  “What name is that?”

  “Chriiist.” He says it slowly. You know the sound of nails on a chalkboard. Imagine the nails are claws, and the chalkboard is my actual eardrum. That’s how it feels.

  He eats the rest of the pie in a manner I might only call obscene. I don’t know how to describe it, and I don’t care to try. I need more time.

  “Don’t stop on my account,” I tell him. “I suspect you know that my diet consists of other things.”

  By the time he finishes the other two pies, I sense my thrall’s presence at the door. Before Benjamin knocks, I unlock it and throw it open, ushering him and the man with him inside.

  “What?” Bub screws up his (not “his,” but the one he’s using) face. “What what what no no no no.”

  “I swore I wouldn’t use a phone or yell for help,” I say, interposing myself between the possessed man and the two newcomers.

  “Then how...” Bub runs his hand in a claw down his face, leaving red streaks just short of bleeding. “Oh, yes. You sorts have telepathy. Stupid, stupid!” He slams his face into the wall.

  “Please, stop,” I request. “How about introductions? Gentlemen, this is Beelzebub.”

  “Bub tonight!” he growls, sounding like he tore his vocal cords to ribbons.

  I silently command my thrall to follow along. The other - a man in his thirties with mildly Asian features - seems calm, which I take as a good sign as far as his possible usefulness to the situation. All I know from reading Benjamin’s thoughts is that he’s a churchman of some sort, he didn’t bring a crucifix, and he was readily available. Oh, and that he’s never seen a demon possession before. Wonderful.

  “I’m Benjamin ben Benjamin, family and criminal law,” says my thrall, eager to please me. Out of habit, he holds out a card to the churchman, then toward the possessed man, but replaces it at my mental urging. “You can call me Benny Junior. Or you can call me BJ.” He’s babbling a bit. Benjamin is not a brave man, and my will is the only thing keeping him in the room.

  Bub’s smile curls up to a cartoonish degree. “But can I call you for a...” I won’t finish what he says, but I think you can fill in the blank. He then begins gyrating on the bed, repeating, “Suck it, suck it, suck it,” and cackling madly.

  As an aside, please don’t think me crude for relating this behavior. In truth, I despise coarse jesting. In my profession, perseveration on sexual themes is not uncommon among patients, but I don’t engage in such talk myself.

  “BJ. That’s a good one. Okay. BJ.” Bub finally ceases his profane display and stares at the other man. “Are you the caster, then? You must be. Come on, then. You know who I am. Who are you?”

  “I’m Nathan Ha. I’m, um, the youth pastor at Calvary Lutheran Church.”

  “Ahhh, Lutheran! Nothing to worry about then.” Bub sighs and relaxes. He tenses and suddenly sits back up. “ELCA?”

  “Missouri Synod.”

  Obviously I don’t employ a chaplain at the asylum, and I’m not knowledgeable about Protestant denominations, much less sub-denominations, but this information causes a reaction. The possessed man hisses like a cat at the pastor, who closes his eyes and moves his lips silently. After he’s done, he stares at Bub.

  “So. You’re Beelzebub.”

  Bub repeats his initial introduction in a tone that causes even me to cringe. Only my mental insistence keeps Benjamin there, and I’m expecting Pastor Ha to scramble for the door any moment.

  “You’re not really Beelzebub,” says Ha.

  Well. I’ll be... (I won’t finish the expression, since conventional wisdom informs me that I already am.) I can tell immediately by Bub’s reaction that the pastor is correct. I’m fascinated now.

  “Beelzebub was mentioned by Jesus himself,” Ha continues. “If a demon that powerful were to possess someone, why would he do it in a way that caused him to be locked up in a mental institution? No, I think the real Beelzebub must spend his time in prestigious colleges, or movie studios, or near a head of state with nuclear codes. You’re just a mischievous imp of no consequence, aren’t you?”

  At this point, you may be wondering why I’m not bothered by the name “Jesus.” It’s a common enough name, taken from “Joshua,” which is itself taken from “Hoshea,” if I’m not mistaken. Jorge’s older brother is named Jesus. Anyway, I’m struck by Ha’s - well, enormous brass spheres of courage. The demon, however, takes this very poorly. With a snarl, and before I can stop him, he takes his hand to his mouth and bites off his right small finger, then throws it at Ha.

  Now the pastor is at a loss. Fortunately, (ahem), I’m a doctor. I give Benjamin telepathic instructions to take the finger and put it on ice immediately. He snatches it up and darts out the door. I start toward Bub, worried th
at he’ll further mutilate his host, but I stop when he points his bleeding stump at me.

  “Stop, stop, stop, I’m done, I’m done,” he says. He cocks his head to an angle that can’t be healthy and licks the open wound. “Mmm. Hey, doc, do you want to come suck it?” Kneeling on the cot, he once again begins thrusting his pelvis and contorting in a bizarre simulacrum of dirty dancing. “Suck it, suck it, suck it.” He flings small arcs of red upon the bedclothes and walls.

  As disgusted as I am at the demon’s behavior, I’m extremely tempted. (Come now, you can hardly condemn me for that.) Part of my successful track record - not perfect, but successful - of not harming humans is my avoidance of situations where my hunger might get the best of me, like in the presence of active bleeding. I’m exceedingly thankful (appropriate to the holiday, and not to anyone or anything in particular) that I trained as a psychiatrist, rather than a surgeon or an emergency room physician. Working in those specialties would be akin to employing an alcoholic in a bar.

  I’m also thankful that Pastor Ha takes initiative now. I sense that he wants to finish this. All I can do is try to protect him while he attempts it.

  “What’s your true name, demon?” he asks.

  “Not telling.”

  “Fine. I don’t need your name to cast you out of this man. I only need the name of Jesus Christ.”

  Ouch. My ears.

  “Wait, wait!” says the demon. “I