The truth is out there. I’ve heard that phrase often enough, either rolling off the tongue of a X-Files fanatic or just in every day parlance. However I have recently begun to question the authenticity of this bold claim, after coming face to face with the devil herself. Lies flow freely and all manner of misbegotten ideals spew forth, when questioned the beast resorts to childish name calling and more falsehood.
Still I persist in my quest for the cold hard facts, not daunted with a few insults and mindless drivel I rush headlong at the problem. In my eagerness to attack I fail to look at the bigger picture, how does one defeat El Diablo? After all I have left my sacred relics back home; The True Cross is sequestered in a hidden place, The Lance of Longinus is buried in some unmarked tomb, The Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch is in Brother Maynard’s safe keeping and The Crown of Thorns is giving me gyp.
I stutter and fall to my knees, it is at this precise moment that the succubus reveals her newest dastardly trick – she has minions. Hangers on and toadies to do her dirty work for her, they scutter towards me foolishly thinking me defeated. I explode into action, if Beelzebub herself failed to daunt me what chance these foul demons? It is over before it has even begun, the still warm corpses are left as a warning to any others foolish enough to believe me easy prey. The blood stains my skin a pleasing crimson as I stalk towards my target.
Vanished like the cowardly cur that she really is. I search the area, my sense heightened by the thumping of my heart and the singing in my veins, to battle they cry! I have found my calling and it is vanquishing evil in all its forms, that and sandwiches. However my thoughts betray me and my mind wanders, distracted I fail to hear the hiss of my snake like foe coming from behind me.
An icy dread creeps up my spine as the pariah whispers her foul deceptions in my ear, the stench of the grave assails my nostrils as my lunch threatens an impromtu meeting with my shoes. Rooted to the spot I struggle for a riposte, her voice so ugly and reptilian has memorising qualities. Am I dealing with some sort of Medusa here? Dare I take the chance and look the fiend in the face? And do I have any further names left to describe this depraved temptress?
However my salvation is close at hand, for hidden deep inside me is a memory long forgotten. Bubbling upwards at a rate of knots is an idea of such stupendous cunning and guile that it could run for Prime minister, I tense my muscles ready for anything. Time slows as I turn and face my nemesis, looking her squarely in the eye I unleash my Hail Mary.
You know what? I don’t like you and don’t want to spend time with you.