“Well Panzer, if you’re not going to let me hit you, then I’ll just hit him.” Maloc gave Bandana-man a sudden backhand that sent him spinning to the floor.

All of Maloc’s warnings about instincts, all the fear spread by his aura, and all the hesitation in the Asphalt Devils evaporated. Panzer charged with a bellow, expecting to bowl the demon over, but instead slammed into an immovable object. The other bikers leaped in, grasping for limbs, trying to restrain him. Bandana-man crawled to his feet, mouth bloody and long hair dangling from his now bandana-less head, and lunged into the fray.

The superior numbers did not help, and it was quickly obvious that Maloc was toying with them. He easily blocked or ducked their punches and when one attempted to grapple, Maloc would slither out of their grasp or simply toss the man aside. But the demon refused to land any serious retaliatory blows. As frustration set in, the Asphalt Devils escalated the situation by pulling knives but discovered that they couldn’t cut Maloc anymore than they could hit him.

Maloc’s rotten smile never left his face and it egged the Devils on. In the background, the jukebox began playing “House of the Rising Sun” for the third time.

“Shit!” Ed bellowed. “They’re destroying my bar!”

Isaac hopped from his barstool an instant before a Devil smashed into it. “Ed!” he leaned over the bar and shouted over the din. The bartender turned to him, a wild mix of panic and anger on his pudgy face. “Get out of here Ed.”

“What?” Ed scrunched his face as Panzer threw a chair that missed its mark and broke to pieces against the wall.

“Get out while you’re still able.”

This got Ed’s attention. “What do you mean still able? You two up to something? You’re in this together?” Ed’s eyes grew wide as he apparently believed that he had uncovered some kind of plot. “This is some kind of robbery isn’t it?”

Isaac chewed back a remark about the obvious dollar value of the establishment. “No. I’m trying to save you.”

“Listen punk,” Ed aimed a sausage-link finger at him. “Nobody comes into my place, starts trouble, and then throws me out! Not without answering to Wilma!” He ducked behind the bar and emerged with a sawn-off 12-gauge pump-action shotgun. Engraved on the stock, in fancy script letters, were the words Wilma Wagon Fixer. All of a sudden, the short, unkempt bartender had transformed into the tough owner of a Dodge City saloon.

Isaac froze, not wanting to give the man an excuse to blast him by making any sudden moves. “Ed, this is not a robbery. That guy is just crazy.”

“This is a permanent cure for crazy,” Ed said and fired the gun into the air. The blast was deafening and brought an immediate halt to the battle. The bikers were exhausted and battered. Maloc was grinning like a kid on Christmas.

“Enough!” Ed shouted and aimed Wilma at Maloc.

“Ed, I love it!” Maloc exclaimed happily. “You broke up the bar fight with a shotgun blast. That is so western. You want to wear my cowboy hat?”

“Shut up freak! I’ve had enough of you. I should put you down and do the world a favor. Now take your last chance and your boyfriend,” Ed tilted his head at Isaac, “and get out.”

“You’re just throwing us out? These clowns get to stay?” Maloc waved his hand at the panting bikers, mock incredulity on his face. “Well, that’s just not fair Ed.” Maloc turned to face Panzer and made an exaggerated shrug. “I guess we’ll just have to wrap this up.”

Shit. Isaac resisted the urge to shut his eyes. He’d known from the start how this was going to end.

Maloc threw a punch that caved in Panzer’s face. The demon’s fist, embedded up to the wrist inside the man’s head, made a wet slurping sound as he pulled it free. Blood flecked with bits of flesh, nose cartilage, and skull fragments dripped from his fingers. Panzer toppled over, his arms and legs twitching with futile resistance to death.

Panzer’s companions froze, eyes wide in shock, as they stared at their knight, their champion, laying faceless on the roadhouse floor. But they recovered quickly. They were, after all, seasoned men of violence.

The demon went with a new strategy for this round. Instead of playing defense, he did absolutely nothing at all. Like a cooperative Caesar, Maloc gave himself up for sacrifice and the remaining Devils surrounded him with plunging knives. While the steel cut skin as well as they’d hoped, all other expectations were dashed. He didn’t fall or cry out. He didn’t bleed—just more of that slow molasses oozed from the wounds. He didn’t even stop smiling. All the Devils accomplished was to bring themselves into his orbit.

After weathering a dozen attacks, Maloc snatched Santa by the beard and hauled him nose-to-nose. “I offered myself up like a canvas and all you could do is hack away like I’m a side of beef. Not one of you even tried to carve an interesting design into me.” He shook his head in disappointment. “Art is truly dead.” With that, he effortlessly pulled Santa into a headlock that ended with a twist and a crack.

As Santa’s lifeless body thumped to the floor the Bowie knife whistled from its sheath. Maloc was indeed an artist with the weapon and two precision strikes dropped both the pool players, leaving only No-Bandana-man, who bolted for the exit. Not wanting to throw his Bowie, Maloc scooped up a dropped Devil blade and hurled it. It caught the biker in the back of the neck, and he managed two more gasping, gurgling steps before he collapsed.

In the time it took to draw a deep breath it was over. Ed stood stupidly behind the bar, Wilma hanging loosely in his hands. Isaac, not surprised at the outcome, was still shocked at the speed and savagery. Silence reigned for several moments before the jukebox started up with a click and once again “House of the Rising Sun” filled the air. Maloc turned to face the bar, pivoting slowly and deliberately, making the movement as dramatic as possible, bloody Bowie dripping. “There is a house in New Orleans,” the demon sang along.

Isaac stepped away from the bar when the demon’s eyes turned to Ed.

“Hey King,” Maloc called out. “They’re playing my song again.”

Ed snapped out of his stupor and, despite his trembling hands, successfully fired the shotgun. The buckshot peppered Maloc from waist to sternum and knocked him flat on his back, where he lay motionless. Ed let out a heavy breath.

Isaac could only sigh. “Run now, while he’s down.”

Pumping another shell into the rifle, Ed whirled and put the barrel in his face. “Listen asshole,” the pudgy man growled, emboldened now by the power of his weapon. “Get out”.

Hands held high Isaac made one last entreaty. “He’s not dead. He’s of a demonic stock that is near impervious to human-made weapons. You knocked him down. You messed up his clothes. But all you really did was piss him off,” Isaac rambled quickly, not pausing to take a breath. After all, he wasn’t immune to buckshot.

“You’re crazy. And I got the cure for crazy. Just like I told you.” Ed raised the weapon to his shoulder and for a second Isaac thought he actually intended to shoot. But when Maloc stood up the bartender completely forgot about him.

“Look at that,” Maloc said, holding out his shirt to examine the buckshot holes, “what a mess.” The demon gave Isaac an admonishing look. “You spoiled my surprise. I was going to leap up when he came over to my corpse. Just like the serial killers in the movies. It would have been a hoot.”

“Maloc, you’ve had your fun. Let Ed go. You said he was a good bartender.”

“Hell needs better bartenders.” Maloc was apparently in no mood to let Isaac spoil his night. The demon turned to Ed. “You see Ed, I’m going back to Hell tonight—and not alone. All these Devils will meet me there. And so will you.”

Ed brought the shotgun to bear on the demon and took a step back, only to bump into the rack of booze, bottles rattling. He was gasping, gulping for air like a drowning man. Wilma shook violently in his hands. Maloc angled the Bowie just right to reflect the light into Ed’s face. The bartender fired, but his aim had faded with his confidence, and the blast went wide, shattered the glass top of the jukebox, and permanently ended Maloc’s theme song.

“Oh, you bastard,” Maloc hissed and flicked the knife underhand, like a softball pitch, and impaled the bartender squarely in the forehead. Ed somehow stayed on his feet. A thin string of blood dripped from the wound and ran down his nose. His eyes rolled back, and Isaac wondered whether it was a natural reaction or if the man was trying to get a look at the knife handle protruding from his forehead. In either case, Ed stood very still like that for several heartbeats, the shotgun still aimed at Maloc with hands now as steady as stone.

“You’re dead King. Now fall over,” Maloc ordered.

The bartender let out a final breath, which almost sounded like he responded “oh” to the teasing. Then he followed the directions and slumped over. Wilma fell to the floor with a thunk.

“All Hail the King of Shit.” Maloc bowed reverently. He picked his hat from the debris and placed it lovingly on his head. “I have to admit, you seem pretty composed for a man that just saw a cemetery worth of death. Most magicians do very badly with violence.”

“I played a lot of violent video games as a kid.”

Maloc snorted. “Why don’t you hop over the bar and grab my knife.” He pulled up a barstool and sat down.

Isaac did as ordered, hoping to placate the demon now that his bloodlust appeared momentarily sated. He knelt over Ed’s body. Sightless eyes stared up at him. He tugged on the handle and was disgusted when Ed’s head lifted with it. Placing a foot against the bartender’s scalp, he yanked it free and set it on the bar. “You know you still have a knife stuck in your back?”

“Oh, so I do.” Maloc took a deep breath and scrunched up his face, like someone pushing out an uncooperative bowel movement. The weapon popped out of his back and clattered across the floor.

“Neat trick.”

Maloc set to cleaning his blade on Ed’s dirty bar rag. “Now then, how about giving me back my property.”

Isaac obliged and removed the crucifix pieces and the bundled scrolls from his satchel. “Well, good luck to you Maloc. I hope that they have a giant banner that says welcome home when you get back to Hell.”

Maloc studied the objects. “Something’s missing.”

“What? Everything’s there.”

“Nope. I’m positive something’s missing.”

Isaac frowned. He should have known he wouldn’t get out of here so easily. Just as he had with the Asphalt Devils, Maloc had set the situation to simmer. “So, what’s missing?” he asked. As he did, he reached out with his telekinesis and wrapped it around Wilma Wagon Fixer. It was a bit heavy for Isaac’s telekinetic might to lift, but he could drag it and Ed’s pooling blood aided a silent slide across the floor.

“Well, I had some tarot cards before those goons started that fight.”

Isaac fought back a curse. “The cards are mine, fair and square.”

“Isaac, Isaac, Isaac,” he repeated condescendingly. “You all of people should know that a demon’s definition of fair and square is quite different than that of a mortal. I used you to get the job done. You were like a flesh puppet.” Maloc smiled, impressed with his own creativity at the insult. “So, hand over the cards.”

“This is a shitty thing to do.”

“Oh, quit whining. I’m a demon. Consider it that whole ‘teach a mortal the folly of dealing with demons’ shtick. Besides, you can’t stop me from taking them. Do you really want to continue arguing?” Maloc’s jaundiced eyes twinkled.

“Fine. Be a jerk.” Isaac tossed the satchel onto the bar.

Maloc smirked like a bully that had just taken lunch money, until he opened the bag and saw it empty. He shoved an angry hand around the interior. “Where are they?” he growled.

“They’re in there.” Isaac took back the bag, reached in, pulled out the cards, waved them around, and then put them back before handing it over once again.

The demon opened it again. Still empty. “Parlor tricks now Isaac? It’ll be hard to do sleight-of-hand after I chop them both off.”

“Actually, the bag is an opening to a dimensional pocket that only I can access. So, there’s nothing you can do to get them out. I call it my Everbag.”

The demon let out a snort that sounded mildly impressed. “What you’re saying is that I have to now torture you until you agree to pull the cards out?”

Isaac frowned. “Yeah...I suppose that was really the only outcome of this strategy wasn’t it?”

Maloc leaned forward. “I’ll be honest Isaac. I was always planning on killing you. But just like I did for King Shit there, I was going to make it quick in appreciation of your work. But now, with all these silly games you’ve been playing,” he held up his Bowie knife, “I think I have time for one last artistic endeavor. I wish we had some music, but King shot up the jukebox.”

“So, you can play a song on a jukebox even though the song isn’t on the jukebox, but you can’t play a broken jukebox?”

Maloc shrugged. “It’s just the physics of that spell. You know how it is.” He waved the knife. “You ready?”

Isaac snapped his fingers and Maloc’s favorite song began to play. Not from the jukebox but from the air itself. As Maloc looked around in surprise, Isaac telekinetically pulled Wilma up into his hands, chambered a shell, and shot the demon in the face. The blast knocked him off the stool and sent him sprawling to the floor.

With Wilma tucked under one arm, Isaac snatched up his Everbag and disappeared out the front door.