The Golden Girls of Pain

Reddit Writing Prompt: A satanic death metal band is shocked after they summon an angel instead of a demon. They are even more shocked when the angel decides to join their band.

***

“Ready?” Margaret asked.

The rest of the band nodded gravely and watched as she lit the last candle. On the floor before them was a large pentagram, painted in blood, glistening brightly. Such a pretty colour, Betty thought. With solemn faces the four ladies stepped forward, making a circle, their hands joining in a tight clasp. They each took a deep breath.

The ritual had begun.

“Lord Frador the Wicked, the Malevolent, the Destroyer of Worlds, the Taker of Souls, the Pretty Good at Backgammon, hear me,” Dorothy spoke, clearly, with great gravitas. She had been practicing the oath all week. “Come forth oh Great One, come back to this world so that you may feast, so that you may quench your thirst with the blood of a thousand Mexicans”

Franny, the bass player, was always confused by this part. Why not New Zealanders, she’d wondered.

“It’s the extra spice,” the necromancer had told her.

A gust of wind sent the candlelight into a wild flicker, the band’s shadows thrust into chaotic dance on the walls behind them. “He is here,” Betty whispered.

Suddenly, one by one, each of the twelve flames went out. Darkness swept into the room, and a shockwave of anticipation rippled through their frail and cadaverous bodies. Dorothy gasped.

Then, light. Bright, blinding light from the lightglobe above. They all squinted. A short, white figure there stood in the middle of the circle, blurry as the band’s eyes adjusted, and they each put their glasses back on. “What the hell?” Margaret exclaimed.

Instead of the shining black scales, the glowing red eyes and gnarled horns and imposing muscularity of Frador, the figure turned out to be a well-groomed and effeminately poised man in a sparkling white tuxedo.

“Oh hey guys, ta daaa, it’s me, Patrick.”

The women, whose band-name was The Golden Girls Of Pain, were flabbergasted. Patrick clicked his fingers and threw his arms in the air with great flamboyancy. “Something tells me four ladies might be in need of a maaakeover,”

“Who the fuck are you?” Franny asked, sternly.

“Patrick the Angel, you silly dilly,” he said.

“What are you doing here?”

“Because, duh, you summoned me.”

“But, that’s impossible. The oath we spoke was for the Wicked One, the Lord Frador, not you, not some….”

“Sorry to disappoint you babe, Frador’s on leave for a few days, so I’m taking his calls.”

“Why the hell would someone like you be covering for a Demon like Frador?” Betty asked.

“Because, well, he’s my boyfriend.”

The band was speechless. Which Patrick took as an opportunity to showcase a few neat tapdancing moves, ending with a suave slide to the left.

“Wait, do that again,” Margaret said. He repeated the sequence, adding a scuff and backward brush. Betty, the band’s drummer, couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

“Guys, that’s the same beat as we use on Death By Knitting Needle. The exact same,” she said.

“No shit, she’s right!”

The ladies huddled together and whispered in deliberation. After a few minutes, Margaret said, “Patrick, how would you feel about having a jam with us?”

“I’d feel super duper about it I would,” he said with a big grin.

And so they all went to the far corner where the instruments were set-up, excitedly readying themselves for the session. Betty counted them in:

“One, two, three, four…”

The jam was a great success, and so, against his lover’s wishes, Patrick extended his stay and toured with the band through the summer, even following them to Amsterdam, where, as fate would have it, he met a Satanic Warlock named Desco, and was forced to send an envoy crow back to the Dark Realm to break-up with Frador on his behalf.

Frador, naturally, was beside himself, heartbroken, and was unable to play Backgammon, the game he and his lover had played every night after Dawson’s Creek, ever again.

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