It happened quickly and without warning.
A group of us--thirteen to be exact--went through our monthly devil worshipping ritual in a, most probably,
futile effort to conjure the Prince of Darkness himself. For more than four years we’d repeated the
same rites, with occasional variations, and had no luck. In the long run our failures didn’t really
disappoint us; I don’t think any of us truly believed Satan was going to appear just because we asked
him to, and besides, we usually had a great time without Him: there was always plenty of alcohol and pot,
and toward the end of the night an orgy ensued that would make both the ancient Romans and Greeks
proud.
But on this particular night, Edwin, he of the small penis and big brain, decided to bring along a special
treat. He called it Devil Weed, a concoction he’d dreamed up one night while sitting at home, alone and
stoned, watching insipid reruns of Gilligan’s Island, over and over, again. The following day, in the
local junior college’s lab where he was a chemistry professor, he perfected the recipe, and a few hours
later, became his own guinea pig. He said it was the best high you could ever hope for: “At first it feels
like your brain is floating above you, released of all inhibitions and free of clutter. Then, after maybe fifteen
minutes, your body starts to tingle, all over, like a thousand tiny tongues licking you simultaneously, and you
start to shiver--but not from being cold--it’s like every pore on your body is having an orgasm of its
own, independent of each other but at the same time synchronized.� He shook his head and smiled at us,
eyes shining. “And the best thing--you guys are going to love this--there are no aftereffects whatsoever:
no hangover, no sluggishness; you’re exactly the same as you were before, except happier and
refreshed.�
It was unanimously agreed that instead of our usual alcohol and an orgy, we would instead try Edwin’s
Devil Weed and leave each other alone to our own devices so that we could experience the effects of the
drug without any outside stimulation.
Edwin reached into a baggie and pulled out what looked like white moss. “Now you won’t need
much, about three fingers worth ought to do it.� Taking some into my hand I noticed a texture similar to
raw wool: soft, fuzzy and slightly oily. Lifting it to my nose I almost gagged: the stuff smelled like rotten
eggs.
“What the hell’s this shit made of, Edwin?â€� It was Horace, the cross-eyed pharmacist. â
€œSmells like sulfur.â€�
Beaming, Edwin replied, “Hence the name. As for the contents, I assure all of you that there is nothing,
nor any combination of the ingredients, in Devil Weed that is harmful--it is perfectly safe for human
consumption.� He continued, “The recipe, however, is a secret. I’ve already started plans to
market Devil Weed before the government intervenes and outlaws it, which most assuredly they will once
they discover its effects, and I wish to be the sole distributor.�
“So we’re to be the test subjects, then,� our oldest member, Sylvia said.
Edwin again: “I’ve already tested it on myself, several times. So I think it would be more accurate
for you to call yourselves a consumer survey group. Now--shall we get started?� Edwin’s
anxiousness and excitement was a little unnerving to most of us, but just the same, I think we all wanted a
taste of this promised bliss.
“You first, Edwin,� someone said.
“Certainly.� Edwin raised the noxious smelling weed to his mouth, closed his eyes, and in one gulp
swallowed it without chewing. After only brief hesitation, the rest of us followed suit.
The instant the Devil Weed touched my tongue it dissolved into a sugary paste--sweet, but not unpleasantly
so. I swallowed and waited. And then it began:
Edwin was screaming bloody murder, his arms outstretched before him in a feeble attempt to ward off the
most hideous thing I’d ever seen: It stood at least ten feet tall, minus the horns sprouting every which
way from its head, and had a face that was most definitely a strange hybrid of a pig, a goat and an ape. The
rest of its body was coated in fine red-tinged fur, and was so well proportioned and muscular any
bodybuilder who’d ever lived would be green with envy. Protruding above an ass that constantly farted
and oozed a thick tarry substance that stank like a cross between human shit and brimstone was a six-foot
long tail ending in a scorpion’s stinger.
Edwin turned and tried to flee, slipped, fell, got up, looked back over his shoulder just in time to see the tail
shooting toward him; it struck him on top of the head, paralyzing him, and before he toppled to the ground
the beast had him in its massive arms, its mouth clamped tight on the hole in his head, it sucked poor Edwinâ
€™s brains out, his eyeballs making a suck/popping sound as they were extricated last. The monster then
squatted over Edwin and shit a large gelatinous ball onto his corpse. The ball shivered, burst open and
released at least twenty miniature versions of the deformed beast. Obviously, these were the offspring, and
it was time to feed. It only took a moment for Edwin’s body to be consumed, bones and all; not even a
drop of blood remained.
I think for the first time since the beast’s appearance I inhaled; my chest was tight, my head was
swimming and my pants were soaked with my own urine. Cautiously, I turned my head to look at the
others, all the while keeping one eye on the demon and its minions: Sylvia lay face down on the ground,
unconscious or dead; Horace had his eyes clamped shut and was mumbling to himself in what could have
been a prayer. The others were in similar states of disrepair: passed out; frozen and speechless; crying or
mumbling; Sally Mumford had actually torn her own eyes out and was on her knees, hiccupping, tears of
blood running down her face.
I turned back to the demon just in time to watch it open its mouth, pick up each newborn by the scruff of
the neck and swallow them whole. Maybe, I thought, the rest of us are safe. The demon gulped down the
last of its children, turned its massive head my direction, smiled, and spoke: “For now, you be safe.
Soon you be sweet enough for my children, but not yet.� With that the demon simply faded from view.
Later, when I’d had enough time to digest the events of that night, a thought struck me. The demon
had mentioned that we’d not yet been sweet enough for its children to consume--but, obviously, Edwin
had. The Devil Weed! Of course! I remembered that when I’d tried Edwin’s drug it’d been
sweet. That had to be it! Edwin, in his zeal, had consumed the Devil Weed how many times? At least one
time too many. All I had to do was make sure the rest of that vile weed was destroyed and the demon
would never again appear, at least not here on God’s green earth. I picked up the telephone and began
the process of calling the nine others--Sylvia was indeed, dead, and Sally was spending her days and nights
in the local mental health clinic--who were there. On the fourth call a voice I barely recognized answered: â
€œTom? Tom, is that you?â€� “Yeah, what’d you want--who is this?â€� “It’s me, G--â€�
The last thing I heard before the phone went dead was Tom screaming.
[END]
Gary West's work has appeared in more than 150
publications, including, Lunatic Chameleon, The Dark
Krypt, The Dream People, Idiot's Manifesto, A RAZOR
OCEAN, SkullGrinder, MindMares, and the forthcoming
anthologies, FUCKING IN THE FIRE, THE WICKED WILL
LAUGH, MIND SCRAPS, among others.
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