Pentagramatical Put Down

The incantations were read. The chicken slaughtered.  

And Deborah waited, trembling. For a thunderous crash, the stench of brimstone and then-she hastily touched up her lipstick, she would be his. To do with as he pleased. Whenever he pleased. 

And in exchange: power. Beauty. So no man would dare spurn her again. Never. Oh how she’d make them grovel. Squirm. Beg to be her slave.

Starting with Dominic in accounts. That prick-

It was begun.  

Inside the pentagram a small grey cloud had appeared. Every second it grew larger, fizzling and crackling as it coalesced and took shape.

Finally, after months of painstaking preparation her moment had come and shit, she hoped he wouldn’t be too rough.

Too late now. The cloud had disappeared. There he stood. Her master. Lover-

Yawning, a can of lager in one hand, fag in the other. In jogging bottoms and a faded t-shirt.

Frowning, Deborah said, ‘You’re the…?

A belch. A nod.

Deborah threw open her robe, ‘Then take me,’ she gasped, ‘Body and soul I am yours.’

The Devil sighed, said, ‘No thank’s love,’ and vanished.