“Do you even know what a demon is?”
Archibald Feeney had never considered himself an overly religious man, but he attended church every now and then, and read the gospel if there wasn’t anything good on the telly, and even said his prayers if there was a lull in his bedtime preparations. It was, however, still a bit of a shock to him when he ran face to face with his religion.
He had popped into the local pub for a fish and chips, having been late from work and disinterested in cooking. There might even be a pint in it for him, though he tried not to succumb to those urges too regularly. No more so than the vicar anyway, who stopped in every Saturday, as regular as clockwork.
It was while Feeney was nursing his lager and waiting for his meal that something came in and sat beside him. It was tall and lithe, with reddish skin that was only beginning to show signs of peeling from a mild burn. It wore no clothes, but its bottom half was clearly quite goat-like. The brown