Phlegm Smear, now known on the streets as "Phlegm the Really Violent Demon Master", stomped timidly into the bar, looking around for Luci, and trying to slip into a vacant booth without her noticing. As so often happened to Phlegm, fate flipped him the bird. Luci was waiting for him in the booth he had sneaked into.

"How are you doing, Phlegm?" Luci hissed.

Phlegm gulped... twice. "Fine?" he begged.

"Do you have any idea who I am?"

Phlegm thought for a moment. "The bitch who I used to have violent sex with who now beats the shit out of me on a regular basis which I don't very much appreciate?"

"And why do you think I do that?" Luci asked, reminiscent of Mrs. Monnet, Phlegm's first grade teacher who always made him stand in the corner for ramming paper clips through Becky Goggin's right nipple.

"You're just mad because all the freaks and weirdos like me better?" he entreated.

"Let me rephrase the question before I rip your throat out," Luci said calmly. "Just what do you think it means to be a devil worshipper?"

"I get to wear weird clothes, and have sex with animals?" Phlegm answered hopefully.

"You did that before," Luci warned.

"I get to be gross and disgusting and do unspeakable things to people?" Phlegm tried.

"You mean just like before," Luci said with visible irritation.

Phlegm was starting to panic. Sweat poured down his already putrescent body. "I get to do rituals with dead animals that I kill with my own bare hands, draw pentagrams with their blood, light candles of their flesh, and possess the souls of a bunch of fags?"

"Now we're getting somewhere, Phlegm, but can you look the Devil in the eye and show no fear?"

Phlegm jumped up and pounded his chest. "Satan is a fag!" Phlegm announced with faux-chutzpa to the world in general. It took about an eighth of a nanosecond for Luci to transform into a fifteen-foot demon from hell with razor sharp fangs, evil-looking claws, and one hell of a bad attitude.

Phlegm shit his pants and hastened elsewhere.

Luci, back to normal before anyone noticed, teased her hair into place and flashed her sublime gazongas to Professors Klaus and Jerund just to see that look on their faces and bring them that much closer to heart attacks. The sticky sweet saccharin strains of Jimmy Buffet's "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw?" pooped onto the floor and lie there reeking and there was nothing Luci could do but glare at V.D., who shrugged, smiled very, very sweetly, and walked away.

Daphne Bloodwash-Stilletto knew from the gales of laughter that greeted her arrival that the patrons of the bar had not forgotten the infamous videotape of her lesbian encounter that she herself only vaguely remembered. But one thing was certain... She had sinned one whooper-dang-doozy of a sin and it would be just as certainly atoned.

Daphne went to a booth and waited for V.D. to dance by. "Do you have a light?" Daphne asked as demurely as she could muster.

V.D. sat down next to her. "Are you OK?" she asked.

"Actually, I need to talk some more. Could we go outside again?"

V.D. licked her lips. "Sure, Daphne." V.D. followed Daphne outside to her car.

Angela strolled into the bar, accompanied by the U.S.C. Trojan Marching Band playing "Tusk." They happened to be in the neighborhood, and, well, she was Angela...

"Angela, I swear your entrances get more dramatic all the time," Clifford remarked, pouring her regular.

"I'm just having a really good day today," Angela replied with a smile so sweet it lit the room with a heavenly light. The crowd sighed the obligatory unison sigh.

Meanwhile, back in the Oldsmobile, Veronica Denise Clapton was getting worried as she found her hands tied to the steering column with her brassiere, and her panties stuffed in her mouth to keep her from screaming. She thought they were going to get into some really kinky sex, but it appeared as though Daphne had other plans.

With a look of holy terror, Daphne pulled Butch Stilletto's Rambo Replica Survival Knife from underneath the driver's seat and, without hesitation, plunged it into the heaving belly of V.D. Bloodlust overcame her. She kept stabbing and stabbing until she couldn't stab anymore. V.D. was dead well before the 37th puncture wound.

Phlegm Smear sat on his throne constructed of discarded microwave shipping crates surrounded by his thirteen followers who were more pathetic than himself and stayed around only to save a 'nad. He was an angry Really Violent Demon Master and took it out on his followers by party-stomping them in the face with well-worn combat boots and chanting random incantations as they screamed. Only now, in a brief moment of introspection, he wondered if he had what it took to be a leader, or even if he was indeed worth of the title Really Violent Demon Master since he had shit his pants and run from the only demon he had ever encountered.

Phlegm made a management decision. "Bring me a virgin," he ordered. All thirteen followers got up and fled the alleyway, leaving Phlegm alone and a bit despondent.

Phlegm, in his boredom, bit the heads off several rats, drew a pentagram with their blood, and began practicing some incantations until Luci stuck her head out the door and said, "What the Hell do you want now?"

"I'm trying to summon Lucifer himself to kick your ass... bitch," Phlegm replied foolishly.

"Phlegm, dear, I'd like you to meet two of my friends. I just like to call them 'The Fags'. You guys play nice." She started to leave, but then turned back to Phlegm. "By the way, Phlegm, you mispronounced a couple of key words. You've got to learn to be careful what you incant for. It gets taken literally."

Two butt-ugly, gruesome, cross-dressing demons, who stood about 6'19", hiked up their skirts, each sporting a lallapalooza of a love pump. For the next 66.6 minutes they took turns ramming those purple-helmeted warriors up Phlegm's fudge factory. Nobody heard his screams.

Daphne re-entered the Dirty Dwarf, freshly showered and feeling self-actualized and springtime fresh after mutilating and burying V.D., just as Luci stepped up to the mike, made sure her G-string was slightly sharp and screamed into the mike, "Fools jump in when angels fear to spread! This one's for all you goddamned fans who secretly want to fuck the brains out of Angela! It's called, 'Hit Me with Your Love Whip!'"

Poke me in the thight with your penis,
Dare to doink me with your donger,
Let me lick your love muscle,
Ooh baby, you know what I like!

Hit me with your love whip
Hit me with your love whip
Hit me with your love whip
Fuck you!

Maul me with your manhood
Love me with that long lizard,
Ravage me with your big, red one,
Split me right in two!

Hit me with your love whip
Hit me with your love whip
Hit me with your love whip . . .

Just as Luci was about to gratuitously finish her song, her voice was drowned out as a golden shaft of light poured through the roof and onto Clifford Godson, and a host of angels much larger than the Vienna Boys' Choir burst forth in song. All in the bar looked up through the light and glimpsed eternity. Angela smiled and held her arms out wide in welcome as glowing spheres of diaphanous light began swirling around her playfully, while God reminded Clifford that it wouldn't hurt to call every once in awhile and that this little "phase" he was going through had about gone far enough.

Clifford apologized profusely, though defended himself by explaining that change was a part of living as an immortal amongst mortality, and suggested that perhaps a more discreet time and place would be more appropriate for such a conversation. The golden shaft of light disappeared through the ceiling, leaving the patrons of The Dirty Dwarf all amurmur.

Daphne Bloodwash-Stilletto nodded knowingly. Surely this was the sign from god she had been waiting for... an affirmation of her acitons that would lead to the death of Clifford, the unworthy Messiah. She wasn't afraid to kill. She knew that now. The same blade that had struck down the brazen whore would bring down the Messiah as well, making the world safe for the only true religion... one without an actual, living Messiah to contradict righteous redneck interpretation.

Luci, not giving a flying fuck about Daphne at this point, had some serious damage control to do. Hearing the voice of God and seeing a blissful and miraculous glimpse into the realm of angels always detracted from a solid Satanic movement. So she screamed nto the microphone, "I'm not fucking finished yet!" When she had everyone's divided attention, she began to play "Stairway to Heaven" backwards, revealing the oft rumored, but never exposed, Satanic messages that linoleum was the Devil's tile, teenaged boys should kill their mothers, and girls should masturbate eight times a day. She repeated this song, faster and faster, until the roof opened up and rained fire and brimstone, creating a terrible mess in the bar, but confusing the patrons to the point where they almost universally decided to write off the entire evening's events as to having too much to drink and possibly some bad pickled eggs.

Phlegm Smear wandered in on the tail end of all this, walking with extraordinarily bowed legs and covered with demon jism. He walked into the storage room and emerged carrying a case of toilet paper and a large bucket of water then disappeared into the men's room mumbling something about buying a one-way ticket to Alaska.

Clifford, feeling no explanation was necessary, rang the shiny brass bell and announced last call.

Moments later, he reluctantly awarded a point to Luci for the recently mutilated V.D. Clapton, though he was too concerned about being in trouble with his father to care one way or the other.

Marilyn Janice Snow looked into her drink just as a little cowpoke about the size of a couple of olives lassoed her and pulled her into the drink. The cowpoke tipped his hat to Marilyn, who was now his size, and proceeded to shoot the buttons off her blouse with his trusty six-shooter. Finding she had eight buttons, he pulled out his less-trusty six-shooter and took precarious aim as a pirate swung down from the straw, sword swinging, hacking the cowpoke's head and arm off in one fell swoop. Marilyn was but momentarily relieved as Peg-Leg Pete, with a gleam in his eye, began dipping his wooden leg in vaseline just as Melvin Studly, star of stage and screen, popped up from behind an ice cube and shot ol' Pete full of that good old American lead. Marilyn disrobed quickly and waited for him to ravage her, but Melvin laughed a hearty laugh, called his dog, and drove off in a pickup truck to find his kidnapped partner.

And she ran screaming from the bar... .