I killed them.
And that's not all. I stood and watched as the demon Grotesqueer consumed them. Well, one of them – Uncle David, the familial friend of the business acquaintance who hired me for the exorcism on Fire Island. It was an abysmal sight.
Grotesqueer's sunken catcher's mitten of a mouth elongated and unfurled itself around David’s bony corpse. The black ichor the demon had been spitting into his stained ascot now sizzled on contact with the man's leathery skin, causing David’s flesh to fall apart like a roast left to cook too long in a crock pot. The demon's blubbery lips slurped at the dark green mush on the linoleum floor. Grotesqueer burped and only Uncle David's skull with its three golden teeth remained. And still I stood there as the demon saint of old gay men fashioned an appalling contraption using Uncle David's skull paired with an outdated mobile phone fished from the forlorn beach cottage's early eighties decor.
