Demon Drinking Contest

Bottoms up
Bottoms up

When Father Higgins heard I was calling from a bar, he recited the serenity prayer. When I begged him to repeat the blessings of salt and water, he thought I’d fallen off the wagon.

“No matter what you hear, I need you to keep repeating.”

Setting my phone on the table, I aligned the speaker with a glass. Checking my watch, I poured some table salt in, praying O’Brien still watered down his drinks.

The demon Naromach leaned over my shoulder.

“What’s all this?” He nodded toward the lines of shots.

Sweat trickled down my brow. “A drinking contest.”

Naromach sat. Candles flared. His talons tapped the Long Island Iced Tea at the end. “And this?”

“Something to wash it down.”

Naromach’s forked tongue licked his lips. “What’s at stake?”

“My soul.”

“We have your soul.”

“My soul, tonight.”

“And if you win?”

“A reprieve.”

Naromach smirked, “Agreed.” Without warning he swallowed the first shot.

I raced his demon constitution, downing my drinks with one hand, making the sign of the cross with the other.

Naromach was sipping his Long Island by the time I was halfway down the line. I kept on until he slurped the last drop. I was seeing two demons by the time he clutched his throat.

“What was in those shots?”

“Whiskey, but the water in that Long Island Iced Tea, was just sanctified by a priest.”

Naromach tried to grit his teeth, but his jaw dissolved before he could.

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