Transcript Left On the Downstairs Secretary Desk

(written on yellowish parchment of unknown providence. Faint foul odor, best not thought about overmuch.)

Hello? You there! You with the quill and all that. Didn’t know you lot could write. Learn something new each day, that’s what mother always told me when she gave me a good clouting.

Why’re you writing that down? I didn’t ask you to do that. Stop it.

You won’t, eh? Well then, I might as well register my complaint with you then. I’ve got more than enough to complain about here; you’ll no doubt run out of ink first.

Hoy! Don’t be putting your pen there! THAT serves as an inkwell for you? Well, I ain’t touching that pen, that’s for certain. But as I was saying, you lot are making a bloody ruin out our holiday here. A holiday, I will add, that been paid for already. Paid for out of my pocket, I further add. I demand compensation, and possibly travel expenses. Or some such.

What’s that? You can talk then. Almost rather you didn’t. No offense, but you sound rather like a cat being strangled slowly.

Wait, what? You don’t agree, and you should know?

I think our relationship could profit by refraining from relating details of our personal lives.

But back to my complaint-- what do you mean you’re not a complaints demon? You have a pen, don’t you? It doesn’t work like that? What, you’ve some sort of trade guild? Oh, you do. Well, fine then. What sort of demon are you?

That’ll do. Just keep taking dictation and I’ll submit this to the proper authorities, whoever they are. Or whatever they are. I could always ask that little runt brother of mine, he’s more than fascinated with your kind. Should have heard him going on about spotting a snark biled warbler the other day. Would have thought he’d met a girl the way he was cackling so happily. Not that the latter is too bloody likely, of course. At least he’s got a hobby. Could be worse, I suppose. My friend Chumley has a nephew who writes poetry, for God’s sake.

Why are you wincing? Oh fine, I’ll come to the point. Are all you demons so bloody testy?

Why yes, I suppose if someone all chained me up and tossed me out of heaven into a lake of flaming sulphur, it would put me off my feed, too. But I would try to make the best of it. Lemonade out of lemons is wh…

No call for language like that. Get back to your dictating.

Right. So, we’ve got this nice seaside cottage for the month. Nice, at least, until you all fouled the place up. It’s a right proper denial of services attack, it is. I could sue you lot down to your very last set of pitchforks and iron tongs.

I couldn’t? Since when do you demons know anything about law?

Really? Well, I suppose that makes sense if one thinks about it. Can’t say I haven’t had my suspicions.

Be as that may, we’re entitled to a bit of peace and quiet in the house proper, don’t you think? Oh, don’t give me that rot about disturbing migratory patterns I don’t bloody care. I’m not Theo, you know. Notice the lack of a hollow chest?

Say what you like. I’ve earned that belly. You aren’t anything to look at either. Bottom line, all of you need to stop flittering about the house. Stick to fouling the beach, and I’ll call it even.

Or what? You need a threat? I’ve got my blunderbuss, right? How about a nice bit of buckshot about your ears and horns? I could probably toss in a bit of the silverware, too. That’s right, I said silver. That’s your weakness, ain’t it? Hard to avoid getting knowledgeable what with Theo yabbering away at the dinner table each night.

Silver’s for werewolves, then? I suppose there’s a difference?

Well, fine. Still will hurt.

Oh? I’d be willing to wager good odds I won’t miss next time!

Not those odds, no. Father McGiver still tells me there’s a chance for it. How about I just sic my dog Champ on you then? Now, there’s a foul beast if ever there was one. He won’t object to gnawing on you. God bless his fondness for garbage.

Ha! Saw you wince at that one. Got you then. You lay off the property or I’ll be the one crying dog and releasing the havoc of war.

Don’t care how the quote runs, I said it as I like it. Get off, now. Run home and tell your fellow demons what I’ve said.

Dog shall save us.


(David Parish-Whittaker)