Wednesday, June 2, 2010

The Demon is Getting More Press Than Francouer

The phone rang on floor #12. Jeff Francouer picked it up. Even after all these years, he never expected the demon when the phone rang, even though that's who called him the most. Instead, he simply gave his standard telephone greeting:

"Why hello there!"

"I've been getting some press," said the low rasp of the demon's voice.

"Maybe. Maybe not though. I still don't know if you're real."

"How do you explain the article, if I'm not real."

"Voices in one's head is often used poetically to refer to a mental struggle or conflict."

"I'm real to you, doesn't that count?"

"Only a little."

"Only a little to everyone else, a lot to you."

"Everything counts a lot to me."

"Isn't that the same as everything counting a little?"

"Only if you have a set idea of the total amount things can count for someone. Maybe I just count higher than your average person."

Silence trickled into the conversation. They would always argue and debate like this, but now that they had reached this impasse, neither was sure if a new debate should start, Francouer should hang up or...

"Why do we always fight?"


"We're always bickering, never really talking about real stuff."

"I'm a demon."

"So? Are you going to let that define you all the time?"

"It does define me all the time."

"There's more to life than that, demon."

"Do you even know what a demon is? You're lucky you only hear from me over the phone."

"Yeah, that's another thing, why always the phone? I don't even know what you look like. That's another reason I'm not sure you're real."

"I'm real to you."

"But-" Francouer stopped himself. "Bye demon," he said, and hung up. A plan was formulating in his mind. He would find out where the calls were coming from. He would gather whatever evidence he had, and one day, he would find the demon.

There was a knock on the door. Francouer went cold. What if the demon heard his thoughts and preempted him. What if he was to face the beast here and now. He wasn't prepared. He didn't even have a bat nearby. He picked up a dinner plate. It would have to do. He opened the door. It was...

David Wright.

"Hey French Man! We're going to get banana splits and play four-square! Are you in or are you in?" Frenchy could see Pedro Feliciano forcefully bouncing a ball in the hallway behind Wright.

"Yeah man. Where's the four-square court?"


Frenchy let out a huge, assenting, exorcising scream. He jumped out the door. Nearly barreling over Wright in the process. The three Met catchers, Barajas, Blanco and Thole, as well as Tatis, the emergency catcher, who was drinking a mysterious blue liquid, were all leaning against the wall waiting for him.

"Told you," said Blanco.

"You were correct," said Barajas.

"You guys are geniuses," said Thole.

Tatis silently sipped his blue drink. The catchers had convinced Wright to put together this game in the hopes it would break Frenchy's slump.

"Why four-square?" Wright had asked.

"Catchers are mysterious," Barajas and Blanco would say in unison.

"Damn Wright they are. Damn Wright."

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