"I couldn't turn Roseman down," Jabber was saying to Fokso. "I didn't know what to do . . . I've already said no to him so many times."

They were in Fokso's kitchen, raiding the leftovers from last night's housewarming party. A warm coal fire glowed in the nearby cast iron cooking stove, casting a cozy orange glow upon the room. Jabber was sipping coffee and eating cinnamon date pastries.

Fokso paused before taking a bite of the massive corned ham, cheese, and lettuce sandwich on rye bread he was holding. "You should've just avoided him." He took a giant-sized, almost humanly impossible, bite from the sandwich. Lettuce, ham, and mustard sauce dripped to his plate in an epicurean deluge.

"I did . . . the whole night, but right as I was about to head home we made eye contact and he was all by himself," Jabber replied. "I thought I'd be able to do a quick goodbye, but he got me, the bastard got me. He's like a leech, attaching himself to your jugular before you know what's happened."

Fokso chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, took a swig from his mug of pomegranate wine, wiped his mouth on his white napkin bib, and then burped lightly before answering. "I'll tell you what. Let me drop you off Sunday. I'll wait outside for ten minutes, then come in and grab you. I can say we need you to close that interdimensional portal my mother-in-law's shade keeps trying to pop back into our lives through."

"No, no," Jabber waved the suggestion away. "We did that last time."

Fokso shook his head in disgust. "Ugh, that man's a demon."

"So your mother-in-law's still haunting your marriage?" Jabber continued, conversationally.

"Just like she swore on her deathbed . . . but I hope with this last move of ours we might have finally given her the slip." Fokso paused and stared off into space for a moment. Then he shuddered, looked down at his sandwich and shrugged. "Actually, can we not talk about that witch? It'll ruin my appetite . . . If only God was still around, He'd have made sure she stayed in the deepest pits of hell."

"Who should stay in the deepest pits of hell?" Eridian asked, walking into the kitchen. She had let the braids out of her hair, which was now tied up with a blue ribbon in a massive messy bun. She wore a navy-inspired jumpsuit – blue pants with large white side buttons, a white polka dot top, and a blue and white navy collar adorned with a large blue bow.

Fokso set his sandwich down and gave his wife a wide smile. "Your mother."

Eridian's eyebrows curled into a revolted frown. "Why the hell would you mention that witch? We just moved."

Fokso held up his hands. "I know, I know. My apologies."

"No worries. This should dispel the energy." Eridian took an incense stick from a kitchen drawer, set it on a wooden tray, and nodded to Jabber, who snapped his fingers to light it. The room filled with its thick sweet scent. "May she rest in peace," she said, while both Jabber and Fokso responded with respectful amens. Then Eridian turned to Jabber. "That was an impressive performance you guys put on last night."

Jabber grinned. "It was. I was surprised we were still that good."

"You two had that old chemistry."

"We did, didn't we?" Jabber sipped his coffee.

"So you drove her home?"

"Yes. She was going to call a carriage but I was heading out anyway, so it seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do."

Eridian nodded, smiling with forced casualness. "Of course, very gentlemanly of you. Especially, you know, with Theodore up there in heaven, and Vicky all alone . . . "

Jabber set his coffee down. Fokso took a bite of his sandwich, watching the two of them. The crunching of his mastication filled the room.

"It's what I do," Jabber said.

Eridian was watching him carefully. "And you only . . . dropped her off?"

"Yes. I merely gave her a ride home and then returned to my place. I'm a very proper gentleman, you know." He smiled at her. "Is there something specific you want to ask me?"

"What? No, of course not. What would I want to ask you?"

"Well, your questions, they're very suggestive."

"No." Eridian shook her head. "No they're not. Can't a gal ask her friends how their night went?"

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Fokso swallowed his bite. "Those aren't innocent questions," he said in a loud voice.

"Not innocent at all," Jabber said.

"Oh you both are ridiculous," Eridian protested in a huff, leaving the table. "And don't eat all the leftover food. I'm not cooking tonight," she grumbled as she left the kitchen.

"Of course my love," Fokso said. When she was gone, he told Jabber in a low voice. "What's it to her? I'm the one who does all the cooking."

Jabber drained his coffee and stood to leave.

"Are you coming to snooker tonight?" Fokso asked.

"Of course. Hamza wants to join us as well."

"Hamza?!" Fokso's eyebrows furled in disgust. "I can't stand that angel."

"What's wrong with Hamza?"

"You know, that GOAT helmet of his he's always wearing. How did he end up a follower of Andreas Tatius? It's disgusting. No one wants to be around that."

"That's true," Jabber said, his eyes lighting up. You could visibly see an idea worming its way through his skull. "No one likes the GOAT crowd."

Fokso continued his diatribe. "It's not even a good acronym. God Ordains Angelic Triumph, indeed! What does that even mean? Who the hell knows what God ordains? It's not like He's around to ask. And why the goat horns, aren't they the sign of the devil?"

"Well that's the whole point, isn't it? They're appropriating a demonic symbol, making it their own." Jabber's gray, comb-like eyebrows were raised in a pleased expression. "They're bastards."

"Honestly, I can't even stand being in the same room as a GOAT." Fokso stared at his sandwich but strangely didn't seem to see it, for instead of hunger there was only disgust on his face. "I don't know . . . if Hamza's there, then I might have to skip out on tonight."

Jabber stood to leave. "That's great! I mean, I wish you could make it, but I agree with your sentiments. No one likes spending time with GOATs."

"Where are you going?"

"I've got to go buy something. I'll see you later."

As Jabber left, Fokso gave a heavy sigh, but then noticed his sandwich and brightened again. He took another massive bite.

***

On Sunday, Roseman arrived at the Devil's Garden early. He was wearing a city suit with wide collars and an extremely large ruffle cravat that puffed out from his chest like the plumage of an upside down peacock. At the hostess's desk he paused and grinned at himself in the mirror. Then he told the hostess he was there for lunch with one Master Jabber.

"Of course," the she-angel said. "He's already here."

"Already here?" Roseman's grin broadened. "Wonderful."

"This way please." The hostess led him into the interior of the restaurant, passed the dark oak bar, and to the small table where Jabber sat.

As Roseman followed her he hummed pleasantly to himself, looking around at the wealthy patrons of the restaurant. When he saw Jabber, however, his face lost all expression.

The magician had a shiny barbarian half-helmet on his head, with large goat horns curling up and out to either side, their points tipped with ivory. On the front of the helmet ran four letters in white: GOAT.

Jabber beamed at him and lifted his hands in greeting. "Roseman! Good to see you! Please, sit . . . sit." The magician offered him a chair.

Roseman scanned the room, noticing some of the patrons frowning at their table. One demoness in a lovely green velvet tea gown turned her head away in anger.

Reluctantly, he sat down.

"I have to say Roseman," Jabber continued chattering, "I'm happy we finally got to have lunch together. Thank you for arranging this!"

Roseman remained sitting on the edge of his chair, as though not quite willing to settle in. He didn't make eye contact with Jabber, but just continued glancing furtively about the room at the other patrons. They all seemed to be shaking their heads at them.

"Yes," he said, "I'm, um, glad this happened."

"And this restaurant! Amazing! Have you seen the menu?"

"Indeed," Roseman mumbled, "I've heard, um, the bread is nice. They have an . . . a demon-trained chef, I believe." He nervously filled himself a cup of water from the pitcher on the table.

"Speaking of demons," Jabber said with enthusiasm. "I've been rethinking your offer to visit the Nether Regions together. I think I might actually enjoy a trip down there."

Roseman coughed into his cup. "Well, you know, I believe that visit might in fact get pushed back."

Jabber smiled. "Are you sure? I really want to see the place Andreas Tatius showed those demons who's boss. You know, where there's still that crack in the black rock where he cleft it with his sword!" The magician made a swinging motion with both his hands and laughed.

"Oh, you know what," Roseman said, standing suddenly. "I completely forgot about another engagement."

"What?! Where are you going? It can't wait?" Jabber widened his eyes, his mouth opening in false disappointment.

"No," Roseman said. "I have a client I forgot about."

"Oh clients come a dime a dozen. Let's finish lunch."

"This one is paying a bit more . . . full possession plus an exorcism . . . you know, the works."

"Can't you get one of your escort friends to take the job instead?"

At this point Roseman was backing away from the table. "No, no. She's a regular and has asthma. Needs a gentle touch. Can't trust this to someone else."

"Fine, fine," Jabber called after him. "Let's arrange another time."

"I'll . . . uh . . . I'll let you know," Roseman said as he fled the dining room.

Jabber laughed to himself and then signaled to the waiter. "Can I get more bread?" Then he looked around the restaurant in satisfaction, even raising a glass to the demoness in green. She didn't toast him back.