Everyone else in this realm has a guardian angel. But I have a guardian demon. There was a clerical error at the Pseudocelestial Being Staffing Agency that they refuse to acknowledge. So, I'm stuck with him. One of the benefits of having a guardian is being able to name yours whatever you want. But I never did. I've regretted it no more than I do today. My demon has generally been a trickster. He'll hide my car keys in the tissue box. He'll cause my radio station to play the same Jack White song three times in one day. One time he just put on a matching set of clothes and copied my every move throughout the day. My coworkers were not amused. I giggled once, and no one has let me forget it. My demon has been on the job for 30 Earthan years now and that's usually when demons finally earn their horns. But due to what his superior officers called "a peculiar and unacceptable choice in vocation" he'll never get them. He went on a rampage. He never hurt anyone, mind you. Acting somewhat like an angel for three decades sort of softens you up. But he broke a lot of things, made several dozen people late for their yoga classes, and ridiculed a mallard to the point of tears. Yeah. They can cry. Look it up! It comes out of their tear ducks. Eventually, my demon was so exhausted that he could do no more damage except for a few nasty remarks to hipster college students passing by. One of the students stopped in his tracks and turned. His eyes gave off the familiar silvery glow of an archangel. He was being temporarily possessed. "Are you Pseudocelestial Being 97843740?" the archangel asked.
"I am," my demon replied, about to rip his own face off.
"Ah. We've been looking for you. You were supposed to earn your angel wings this morning."
"I'm a demon."
"We know. We made an exception."
"Uhh..."
"Did you make all this mess?"
"Well, yeah."
"Never mind, then."
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