The pain sang like wire through his bones.
“AAAH!!!!” Chance gulped air that tasted like matchheads. The demon’s spear hovered, ready to shove him back under.
On reflex, half panic, half prayer, he blurted, “Medicine Garfield, please, please intercede!”
He didn’t know why he said it. Maybe the brain grabs the softest thing when it’s drowning. He fumbled for the words he’d once joked about and rasped:
“Om Lasagna Hum,
Om Monday Banish Hum,
Om Healing Belly Hum.”
The demon paused. Oil hissed. Something blue and ridiculous rose with the steam, round-bellied, robed, cat-eared.
The figure sat on the rim of the cauldron like it was a warm bath. “You know what I hate even more than Mondays,” the cat rumbled, voice like a purr through a subwoofer, “is unscheduled deep-frying.”
He dipped one paw into the oil. The boil softened, thickened, ribboned, becoming noodles. The sulfur sting sweetened into tomato and basil. The demon blinked, speared the pasta experimentally, and looked embarrassed to be holding a single wet noodle.
“Release him,” said Medicine Garfield, not loud, just inevitable.
The spear clattered to the floor. The cat glanced at Chance. “Three things: eat, sleep, laugh. Then decide. Also, log off sometimes.”
He tapped Chance’s forehead with one soft pad. The world flipped like a page.
Chance woke choking on his own shout, sheet-twisted, heart trampling. His room. 3:33 a.m. Laptop lid half-open on /x/; a cold, congealed slice of lasagna sweating on a paper plate; the apartment thick with the smell of burnt oil from someone else’s midnight cooking.
He lay there, shaking, then whispered, “Thank you,” to the dark.
“Om Lasagna Hum,” he added, sheepish, and felt the panic drain away like heat leaving a pot.
Just a bad dream. But he closed the laptop anyway, slid the plate into the fridge, and promised himself he’d try the trifecta in the morning: eat, sleep, laugh, then decide.
