Sean and Wormwood, Canto II, Part ii

The third installment of our weekly serial.

A baneful, desecrated red Corolla sped down the Pacific Coast Highway. You wouldn’t guess it was baneful and desecrated unless you spotted the Jack in the Box antenna topper, and even then you’d have to know a lot more than the average mortal about the true nature of the Buttery Jack to make the connection. “Road to Nowhere” played through the car’s tinny but tolerable speakers

The intern floated above the back seat, peering out over the majestic cliffs to the endless flux of the sea below. Seabirds, facing into the wind, hovered in place as they scanned the waters for their next meal. Looking out over this wildly beautiful seascape, the intern wondered if he could somehow force Wormwood to drive over the cliff, then float out through the window before the car hit the foam-flecked rocks below.

He wasn’t sure how this floating phenomenon worked. When the car had started moving, he expected to be squished against the back window, but instead he moved along with the car as if he were sitting in the back seat like a normal, living, multi-eyed, non-ectoplasmic human being. The intern didn’t know much about normal physics, much less how they interacted with Satanic curses, so he abandoned the crash-and-fly approach.

“So what’s the plan?” said the intern. 

“We’re going to pick up the artifact, then I’m thinking maybe we hit Sweet Rose for some ice cream,” said Wormwood.

“Pick it up? From where, Home Depot? Are you sure you mean ‘artifact’ and not ‘drywall’?”

“Naw, you’ll see.”

“Well, at least tell me what the artifact looks like, so I can grab it if I see it. And, uh, give it to you. To do with as you see fit.”

Sean’s voice was like a dead tree weeping to itself. “It takes the form of an alabaster torus, curved to caress the most intimate reaches of the human—“

“It looks like a toilet seat,” interrupted Wormwood.

The intern cocked an eyebrow. Or rather, its only eyebrow. “Why does it look like a toilet seat?”

“Because it’s a toilet seat.”

“So, we’re going in search of a magical toilet seat.”

“The Magical Toilet Seat of Mad King Malavar!”

“Malavar,” explained Sean, “gave up his kingdom and his wealth for the most perfect of toilet seats, so pleasing and luxurious as to make any mortal man weep to sit upon it.”

The intern wrinkled what would have been his nose if he had one in disgust. “I was hoping to get through the day without having to picture some raggedy old king crying on the crapper.”

“You don’t hope very good,” Wormwood said.

The intern returned to the task of staring out the window. “Love Shack” came on the radio and Wormwood hummed along. The humming gained vigor until the intern realized in terror that Wormwood might start singing at any moment. To stave this off, the intern tried starting another conversation.

“So,” he said. “My former life is kind of fuzzy. I can’t remember too much about it.”

“Yeah,” replied Wormwood, “Originally interns had a pretty good memory of their past, so they could lament over the sins that brought them to this wretched state and whatnot. But it turns out there was a lot of pining for lost loves and wanting to comfort and/or torment their relatives, so we fiddled with the curse to make things simpler.”

“Fiddled with a curse. Fiddled?”

“Yeah, you know, throw in an extra pig fetus, conjugate the incantations a little differently, see what happens.”

“Huh,” said the intern. “I somehow expected infernal curses to be a little less loosey-goosey than throwing together an oatmeal bowl.”

“The process is startlingly similar, down to the frequent use of chia seeds.”

“I knew chia seeds were Satanic.”

“They’re not inherently Satanic. But thiamin is, and chia seeds have lots of it.”

“I don’t know what surprises me more, the fact that there’s an evil vitamin, or the fact that it’s not riboflavin.”

“Your mind is not prepared to know the reality behind that which men call riboflavin,” said Sean. “It would harrow your psyche and leave you knowing only regret and anguish.”

The intern got a sudden chill through his small, gooey body. He assumed at least half of what Wormwood said was just nonsense designed to scare and annoy him, but Sean didn’t seem the sort to go along with that sort of thing. He decided to change the subject.

“Can you at least tell me my name? I have absolutely no memory of it.”

“Oh, that’s because you don’t have a name anymore. That was stripped from you along with your ability to write limericks and your ability to calculate tips in your head.”

The intern was pretty sure than in his former life he neither wrote bawdy poems nor tipped waitstaff, so the name thing seemed like the most important of his losses. “Whatever, you depraved freak. I’ll just give myself a new name. Something forceful and dignified, like…” He couldn’t think of a forceful, dignified name.

Truth told, he couldn’t think of a name at all.

“What’s the name of that guy who played that archeologist?” the intern asked.

“Brendan Fraser?” suggested Wormwood

“No, the one who was president and smuggled space drugs.”

“Nicolas Cage?”

“He smuggled space drugs?”

“I dunno, seems like something he’d do.”

“No, not him.”

“Harrison Ford?”

“Yes! Probably!” said the intern.  “My new name is…” his mind went blank. “What was his name again?”

“Which one?” asked Wormwood.

“I can’t tell you which one, you little maniac! I don’t know his name!”

“Brendan Fraser?”

“No!”

“Nicolas Cage?”

“No!”

“Harrison Ford?”

“Yes! Right! That’s it, my name is….” Again, it was gone.

“What’s wrong?” asked Wormwood, not even trying to keep the smirk out of his voice.

“I can’t remember Harrison Ford’s name.”

“Is Harrison Ford’s name Brendan Fraser?”

“No,” sneered the intern. “Harrisons Ford’s name is not…wait! That’s right! Harrison Ford!”

“Good job! Juice boxes for all!”

“Harrison Ford, Harrison Ford, Harrison Ford,” repeated the intern, intent on not forgetting the name this time. “My new, official, real name is…” Gone.

“Something wrong?” asked Wormwood.

“You know there is, you smug little goblin! What in the juicy fruit ass-packet is going on here?”

“It’s part of the whole internship deal,” explained Wormwood. “You can’t name yourself, only I can name you.”

The intern could only shudder and stare as the implications seeped into every corner of his mind. “Oh, no. Oh hell no!”

“So be nice or we’ll be calling you Princess Cuddlehugs from now on.”

As the intern considered the horror of his plight, Wormwood turned off the highway onto a wide, winding road that eventually led to a gate. The gate was massive, gold, and decorated with a truly grotesque logo featuring angel wings, bat wings, a rose, two human skulls and a deer skull, a chain, a heart wearing a top hat, and several bolts of lightning. In the center of this visual cacophony were two letters in a font that could have been designed by Kaiser Wilhelm during his emo phase: VD.

“Is this a clinic?” asked the intern.

“And I’m free!” sang Wormwood. “Free fallin’!”