Chapter Twenty Two

To Reverend Milton’s amazement, Nubbins told him he would go along with performing miracles and so on.

Dollar signs had immediately begun flashing before Reverend Milton’s eyes, so he didn’t think to ask why the little demon had experienced this change of heart. He assumed, in a vague sort of way, that Nubbins didn’t want to fend off his congregation again.

Nubbins, actually, wasn’t worried about any future congregations. Now that he knew what to expect, any one who so much as thought about trying to touch him would be immediately debilitated by the worst hemorrhoids known to medical science. That would give them something to get all butt-hurt about, instead of worrying about the length of their neighbor’s daughter’s dress.

What he was worried about was Reverend Milton getting the bright idea to do something soul-redeeming while his congregation was busy distracting Nubbins. And besides, Nubbins planned on revealing, after a suitable fervor had built up among the faithful, the source of the miracles: a little demon. One from Hell. Something like that would throw a nice monkey wrench in the church’s works.

He hoped Reverend Milton wouldn’t realize what he was up to. The little demon was confident the preacher wouldn’t, of course. Cyrus had already more or less accepted his damnation, and was busy chasing after dollars and attractive women again. Nubbins was glad the Reverend was playing along so easily, but kind of disappointed at the same time. In the old days, he’d had real challenges. He’d had to turn people who were actually faithful. He’d convinced good men to perform atrocious crimes. Getting a con-artist to be more of a con-artist wasn’t what Nubbins considered his greatest work.

Reverend Milton, for his part, was indeed dreaming of dollar bills and young, beautiful women. He was also trying to come up with a way to get rid of Nubbins, but not having any luck. The demon was too fast to get away from, despite his size, and messing with Reverend Milton seemed to be the only thing which cheered him up at all.

The other day Cyrus had been out walking, and a man on the sidewalk next to him sneezed. Reverend Milton, of course, said “Bless you.” The man who sneezed muttered “Thank you,” seconds before Nubbins grabbed Cyrus’s foot, stuck it out in front of the other man and tripped him. The man, who’d had his hands full with a coffee and his briefcase, fell face first on to the sidewalk.

He got up, cursing, and Cyrus Evander Milton had been forced to run like hell to avoid an undeserved - but justified from the other man’s point of view - beatdown.

This kind of thing happened constantly. Actually trying to do good, such as giving money to a beggar, or helping an old lady across the street resulted in the kind of horrible scenes that get shown on the evening news. Thus far, Reverend Milton had been responsible for the brutal murder of a homeless man (after another homeless man saw the Reverend give the first man one hundred dollars), the accidental death of an old woman (who he’d somehow bumped in to the street just in time for the local bus to run her down when he tried to help a delivery man who’s cart nearly tipped over), and a great number of bruises and sprains.

Truly, fewer people got hurt if he just kept to himself.

So, Reverend Milton did his best to keep to himself. He would ask Grace to run whatever errands he needed done, since the little demon didn’t go out of his way to injure her when she was around. In fact, she was the only person Nubbins didn’t bother too much. Reverend Milton had asked Nubbins about this, and he’d dismissed it at not being worth the effort.

“The only reason she hangs around is because you’re paying her,” Nubbins said. “I don’t expect her to try doing anything nice for you any time soon, unless there’s a thousand dollar bonus in it for her. And even then she might not.”

“Screw you,” Reverend Milton said, “Grace is a good friend.”

“Do you really believe that?” Nubbins said. “I don’t think you do. If you did, the two of you might discuss what you did during your respective summer vacations. She’s a con artist just like you, she just doesn’t spend as much time facing the public. When your money runs out, she’s gone.”

Reverend Milton could not deny she was as much a part of the game as he was. More, really, since she was the one who set everything up. All he had to do was show up and charm the suckers out of their money. He could do the behind the scenes work. He had done it for several years when he was starting out. Grace was better at it though, and he paid her very well for a secretary.

He didn’t like to think about it.

At any rate, Grace took care of the minor errands he needed to have handled so he wouldn’t have to contend with angry butchers chasing him because of their befouled display, or getting slapped by a random woman who thought it was him pinching her butt.

The next revival should be fun, though, since the little demon had agreed to help him conjure some miracles. He’d be able to actually heal people, instead of just convincing them they were healed long enough for other folks in the audience to open up their wallets and make large donations to his cause.

That was good, but even better was knowing Nubbins would not wait in the wings for an opportune moment to leap out again and start humping Reverend Milton’s head. Stuff like that can really throw a preacher off his game. So can fielding questions about why he’s apparently got a small army of demons chasing him around and tormenting him. After all, hadn’t the congregation vanquished the last demon? Reverend Milton really didn’t want to have to come up with an answer for that one. It was better no one knew Nubbins was there.