Written by Ken Carman
I work the night shift. My wife works the day shift. My wife wants to have a child. Maybe if we can get together long enough, we can.
My wife doesn’t really know what my job is, even though she’s visited me at work. Who she sees isn’t me, but a demon, posing as me. He has a strict hands off policy and damn well knows not to touch her. My Master would not be pleased if he did. You don’t want to piss him off.
So the demon sits at the desk where the night guard sits, stares into nothingness while pleasing himself with dreams of tormenting babies and slicing open little girls, while I shed my skin: give it to him. He pulls in all his sharp, spiny, horns and then puts it on so he looks human, and I go to work. All I have to do is step across the spiritual divide
My job isn’t that great. Brush up spilled brimstone and stuff it into the orifices of the damned, check the temp. Too cold? I’m the creature of the night to make it just right. The nastiest, meanest, foulest jobs in Hell: me. But I do them with joy, for my Master has told me I have a purpose.
You’ve heard of Jesus, right?
Once my shift is done I return. The Demon sheds my skin and steps across the spiritual divide. I pull in all his sharp, spiny, horns and then put my skin back on and go home.
I work the night shift. My wife works the day shift. My wife wants to have a child. I want to have a child. Maybe if we can get together long enough, we can. Maybe today’s the day, when she comes home.
For my Master tells me soon I shall serve him well.
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