The spells are cast, the circle is inscriped; at the seven theologically significant points are, respectively, a feather, a coin, a dish of oil, a piece of fruit, a bone, an old shoe, and a new one. The stars, such as they are, are right.

A billow of sulfurous smoke, like the air over a hot spring, and a voice unlike any human sound.

YOU HAVE SUMMONED ME AND SO AM I HERE
SPEAK YOUR EVERY EARTHLY DESIRE AND I SHALL GRANT IT

Much excitement from the assembly. One steps forth and casts back his hood. He has a babyish face, round and unlovely, a tangled mop of curly hair and a moustache struggling to find purchase on his lip. “Servant!” he cries; his voice cracks a little with excitement. “We have summoned you to teach us your dark and esoteric arts! Give us—”

YES

“Give us—”

YES

“Give us dominance in the crypto sphere!”

SO IS THE CONTRACT STRUCK

Things go great for a year and a half and then the roof falls in when they start embezzeling from their suckers. Demoniacal knowledge is nothing compared to the patience of a determined auditor.

Murderclown is old, and Murderclown is tired.

The face in the mirror is lined, the cheeks grown gaunt with age; the years of rubberfaced malevolence have etched themselves into his skin, and without an active energetic hoist there’s a marked tendency toward hangdog droopiness. Murderclown rinses the blood from his hands, slaps himself twice, and forcibly yanks himself back into an approximation of the old cocaine cheer. “Showtime,” he mutters, and grins. avoiding eye contact.

Murderclown has craft, but the ideas don’t come like they used to.

It’s different when you’re young, you’re crammed to the gills with outside concepts, and something like hiding in a sewer or dressing up like a zombie or going undercover as an escort just to stab a guy seems fresh and wild, but after a certain point you start referencing your own long history instead. It’s easier, and if you don’t feel the same wild hit of experimentation that you used to, well, at least people still whisper your name, don’t they?

Murderclown used to be a horror story. He used to be a legend. Mad dog, they still call him, but lately—there’s an affection there. “Stabbed by Murderclown” is a story now for the out of towners to carry back, the ones who survive, anyway, one more tourist requirement, like photos in front of the arch or a walk down the gentrified remains of the red light district.

These days he’s an institution.

You prayed for a son, and the gods, having questionable senses of humor, saw fit to grant you one in the form of a peach the size of wheelbarrow that came floating downriver to wash up next to your front yard.

You’re too young to worry about your old age, really, but you definitely could use someone to take care of you, because you lugged that peach home and cracked it open on the front porch. Inside was a baby, if you like, curled up around the peach pit like a fist around a thumb. Its six legs were glossy black, its body long and striped, its wings iridescent, its hair a rich brown and curly, its face cherubic and placid. It stirred when the air found it, blinked sleepily, and smiled at you, and you were lost: most of all, it had your eyes, your exact eyes, and what sign more could you want?

She’s a quiet child, your son, but clever and adventurous. You’re forever waking to find her crouched protectively on the wall above your bed, your own warm eyes staring lovingly down at you, wings fanning you gently through the night. You feed her your own food, chew it for her, and she clasps her forelegs in thanks before bending her head to the plate. Your son is an indelicate eater. After dinner she sings for you, in a high clear tenor, melodic words you don’t know in a language you don’t recognize.

It’s a quiet life, but a loving one.

“The bitter irony,” Murphy panted, grinning bloodily down at the shredded remains of the former head of Omni Consumer Products. “Killed by your own creation. Did you expect it to save you?”

The suit, somehow still clinging stubbornly to life, made a horrible burbling noise that it took him a few seconds to understand as laughter. “You… still don’t get it. The goal… was never… to build a police officer that would… never malfunction, never take… an innocent life. The goal was to create one… that wouldn’t care… if it did. My death… all of this… you…just a successful proof of… concept.”

“Look around, you jackass. Your prototype is spare parts, your headquarters is in ruins. Omni can’t come back from this.”

More of that horrible burbling. “It… doesn’t matter. We were never the hand, only… the lever. You can’t shoot an… idea, Murphy. They hate us, they hate me, but… they’ll love you. They’ll make you a hero… they’ll make more of you. The world… needs heroes…”

He died still laughing.

It’s a long string of Polish jokes and first the crowd is hostile, then it’s game, then it’s just bored. The hack is impervious to their heckling, but they’re drunk, they’re horny, they’re a steeltown mob trying to blow off steam at the weirdo burlesque bar and grill and there’s only so long they can put up with this nonsense.

They’re long past the point where simply yelling GET OFF THE STAGE is going to move the needle, so a group of more or less sober welders huddle together for a bit and send their most tactful bruiser up onto the stage. Which, normally that’s verboten, but desperate times, desperate measures; the bartender makes an overt show of turning away to wash some dishes.

“Hey, listen,” the hod says, one meaty, heatscarred hand on the sweaty shoulder of the comedian. “We’re all in your corner here, but don’t you think you should wrap it up?” The comedian doesn’t blink, just rolls right into his joke about the lesbian with a hard-on. The hod shakes him slightly, then harder, but nothing; he doesn’t even make eye contact. With a shrug, he scoops him up in his arms, or tries to, but the hack is boneless as an eel, slips through his arms without missing a beat. One of the other welders, drunker than most, hurls a bottle. It embeds itself dead center in his forehead. “Hey,” says the comedian, smiling mildly. “You shouldn’t oughta do that.”

It’s at this point that they discover the doors are all locked, and the bartender and the waitresses are all gone, but of course by then it’s too late.