Sol pulled out his dog-eared paperback copy of the Necronomicon. “Alright,” he began, rising to his feet. “As I was saying. Tonight’s the night. No longer shall we be content to merely scratch pentagrams in the school’s desks. No longer shall we look upon our idols with envy. No longer shall we be relegated to obscurity.” His tone became progressively more emphatic. “We have come together tonight to realize our destiny. Tonight is the night when we shall sell our souls to Satan!” he climaxed with an impassioned fervor that thoroughly impressed his friends. “Have all the preparations been made?” Sol asked, looking at his bassist.
“I done everything,” Shane replied, his slow, syrupy voice seeming to stick in the lank brown hair that hung down past his chin. “I made sure the barn was cleared out. I got us a bucket of pig’s blood to paint all them signs with. I got some paint brushes to drip the blood with. Seem like there was something else…” he trailed off, struggling to remember what his other task had been in preparing for this momentous occasion.
“The shotgun!” Sol interjected. “Did you get your daddy’s shotgun?”
“Shit!” Shane shot back, hitting himself on the forehead with a closed fist. He did this four more times.
“Cut that out!” hollered Hal, wrinkling his bare brow, his scalp showing several weeks of growth from the crew cut he’d received from his daddy as reward for the F he earned on his Pre-Algebra progress report.
“It don’t matter,” replied Sol calmly. “If any demons show up, we’ll be ready for them. We’re already on their side anyway. Now let’s go.”
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