From his satchel, Isaac removed a broken wooden crucifix and a bundle of papers tied with string. Maloc, tight-lipped, looked over the objects curiously.

“This cross was used in the exorcism of a brethren of yours named Rumael in 1809.”

Maloc tentatively placed a fingertip on the top piece, eyes squinted as if he expected to be shocked. When nothing occurred, he became bolder and picked it up, feeling its weight in his palm. “Rumael,” he repeated the name and was openly disappointed. “The name means nothing. I had recommended the crucifix used to exorcise Asmodeus.”

“That cross is a major relic. It’s currently under armed guard in the Vatican.”

“I know it’s a major relic,” Maloc hissed. “That’s why I wanted it. I could’ve gated back to Hell in style with that. I may have even earned the favor of Asmodeus himself. This,” he jabbed his finger down hard on the broken cross, “is like riding the bus.”

“You needed a cross used in an exorcism. You got one.”

Maloc ran his tongue, which was the color of boiled liver, over his front teeth while eyeing Isaac suspiciously. “I suppose it should do well enough,” he conceded. “My turn?”

Isaac nodded and the demon opened his coat and removed a folded black cloth secured with string. Inside was a small stack of tarot cards. The top card depicted a man dressed in white robes standing atop a rocky hill. He was lifting a gleaming silver trumpet to his mouth and a black crown adorned his head. The borders of the card were adorned with strange red markings that shimmered and shifted as if being constantly redesigned. Isaac reached for the deck but a hiss from Maloc stopped him.

“No touching.”

“I need to see the other cards.”

“You’ll have to figure out how to do that without me removing your hands at the wrist.”

Isaac nodded in resignation. Maloc smiled, proud of his bullying, then watched in surprise as the cards spread themselves across the table, fanned by an unseen hand.

“What magic was that?” Maloc asked, his eyes narrow with suspicion.

“Telekinesis,” Isaac answered casually, without taking his eyes from the cards. “So, I didn’t touch them.”

The cards were each different and as exquisitely illustrated as the first one; a black mountain surrounded by white clouds, a marching parade of the dead, a hoofed jester with fangs, a chained man bleeding from a thousand cuts. The cards were breathtaking in both their beauty and their hideousness.

“Well, there you have it. One of the original Black Tarot decks. It’s far from complete but these few cards would still fetch a fortune. You could sell these for a king’s ransom and never have a care in the world again. Or you could use them and be damned,” Maloc said. “But I think you’re damned already.”

“Maybe so.” The magician patted the rolled papers. “Here are the diagrams and chants needed to open your gate back home. I assume that we can conclude things here?”

Something across the bar caught Maloc’s attention. The big biker was standing in front of the jukebox scrolling through the selections. Bandana-man shouted out, “Hey Panzer, pick something decent this time!”

“Panzer. Panzer,” Maloc said with a dreamy sway, as if remembering a long-lost love. “That’s a good biker nickname. Hey Isaac, did you know that that was the word for the German tanks in World War Two?”

“Yeah, I know,” Isaac sighed. The deal was off-track again with another Maloc tangent.

“The panzer Tiger was a wonderful machine. It would have won the war for Hitler if he hadn’t run out of gasoline. Lucifer has one in his private collection. Now that is a collection of art to be admired. When you finally get damned to Hell you should really check it out. It’s open to the public on Tuesdays and Thurs...” Maloc’s voice trailed off when Panzer’s selection began to play, and the acoustic twang of country music filled the bar. “Oh, we can’t have this,” Maloc said, his voice becoming menacingly low. “Not on my last night on the earthly plane. I won’t go out to country.”

“It’s not so bad,” Isaac lied. Country music had been playing all night and it bothered him that suddenly the demon was offended. Trying to redirect back to their conversation he asked, “You were saying something endearing about the Nazis?” But Maloc didn’t respond. He had turned to stare at the jukebox as if it were a living thing that had affronted him. “I thought you liked the whole country-western scene?”

“Only the hygiene part,” Maloc said and headed to the jukebox. He studied it for a moment, as if searching out the weak spot, before smacking his open palm against its side with such force that the machine scraped several inches across the floor. The country song ended abruptly and was immediately replaced with a more mournful sounding electric guitar. Isaac recognized the song as “House of the Rising Sun” by The Animals.

Maloc turned back to the magician, a large smile on his face. “Now this is music to arrange infernal machinations by!” he shouted, clapping and singing along as he returned to the table.

“You mind not beating on my property like that?” Ed shouted. Isaac could see that the man had had about enough of Maloc’s clamor. But the bartender’s expression changed to curious confusion as he listened. “I didn’t know this song was on there.”

“It isn’t,” Maloc said laughing.

Ed looked from the jukebox to Maloc and back again. Then, appearing uneasy, he moved to the other end of the bar.

Maloc sat back down at the table. “That trick always spooks ‘em. Now then, where were we?” Isaac leaned across the table and held up a piece of the cross in each hand, but before he could say anything, a loud, gruff voice boomed.

“Hey, I was listening to that!”

The voice belonged to Panzer, who was glaring menacingly at Maloc. Once again, the smile vanished from the demon’s face and Isaac slouched back in his chair.

Maloc winked at Isaac before shouting back. “That’s right. You were listening to it. Now you’re not.”

The sharp retort seemed to confuse the biker for a moment. A man of his dimensions was probably not used to back talk. He paused, his gears grinding, before one of his companions said something to egg him on.

“I’m going to give you to the count of three to switch it back.” Panzer crossed his arms across his barrel chest.

“By the time you count to three, this song will be over. And it’s a really long song.”

Isaac winced at the last statement as he scooped the cross and tarot cards into his satchel. Maloc watched from the corner of his eye but seemed unconcerned. The demon had his dander up and was doing his professional best to heat the situation to a boil. The Devils surrounded the table.

“What did you just say?”

Maloc tipped his cowboy hat back and looked up at the giant. “I said I don’t give a fuck about who you are or how high you can count.”

At this Isaac held up his empty beer bottle. “Hey, I’m getting another. Anyone want anything? My treat.” No one responded so Isaac hefted his satchel, slinked out of his chair, and walked hunched over, like a man exiting a running helicopter, to the bar.

“Don’t go too far Isaac,” Maloc called out and the threat in the statement was clear.

“That’s it. Get this punk up,” Panzer said.

The two bikers who had been playing pool each grabbed one of Maloc’s arms and lifted, but they may as well have been trying to uproot a tree. Maloc didn’t resist or retaliate. He simply sat with a smile and let the men jerk on his arms. Panzer stared incredulously.

“Oh stop. I can’t take it. Please have mercy,” Maloc fake-begged, his voice high and whiny.

“Get him up,” Panzer ordered again.

“He weighs a ton,” one said, and as they tugged and yanked at the grinning demon one of them knocked his hat from his head. Suddenly Maloc was on his feet. Both bikers fell back in surprise. He had caught the hat before it hit the floor and was cradling it lovingly in both hands. Isaac noted that Maloc was even more disturbing with a bare head. His hairless scalp was covered in dark blotches and scabs. Eye-to-eye with Panzer, he calmly put his hat back on and straightened out the brim.

Isaac had sat down at the bar. Ed was watching the scene with a smug I told you so. “Your boyfriend has it coming. King of Shit huh?”

The magician found that he couldn’t disagree with the man’s logic and he just ignored the “boyfriend” comment and turned back to the confrontation.

“Look man,” Panzer said, “you’re really sick or crazy. I’ll cut you some slack. Just get out of our bar.”

“But my songs not done.” Maloc waved his hand at the jukebox and the song ended abruptly. “There it’s done. I bet your song is next and then we can all be friends again.” He put a finger to his ear and cocked his head toward the jukebox. The familiar strumming of “House of the Rising Sun” began for a second time. “Oh, wait, it’s my song again.” He burst into laughter at this and the bikers exchanged confused glances.

“Look mister, I’m getting real tired of you. This is your last warning,” Panzer ordered, but his tone had become less threatening.

Maloc sighed and folded his hands behind his back. “Panzer,” he said sternly, like a teacher about to lecture an unruly student. “I want you to know how disappointing this is for me. I’ve been expecting this situation to savage up into violence much quicker. You and your stooges are professional assholes. On any other occasion if someone talked as much shit to you as I have you would have beaten them to death by now, right?” The biker gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Then why is that I’m still standing?”

Panzer seemed to regain some of his bravado under Maloc’s bullying questions. “Maybe it’s your lucky day.”

“No. I’ll tell you what it is. Right now, there’s a little voice inside your head. It’s whispering a warning to you, but you can barely hear it.”

The biker snorted in contempt.

“You know I’m right Panzer and I’ll tell you what that voice is. It’s instinct. A very minor form of sixth sense. Every mortal creature on earth possesses it to some extent. Only humans have learned to ignore it. At this moment your inner voice is warning you, but it doesn’t scream as it did a few thousand years ago. It’s atrophied to a whisper that you’ve forgotten how to listen to. But you’re hearing it now, just a little, and it’s trying to save your life.” Maloc smiled, smugly impressed with his own speech. “That’s why I’m still standing here.”

Panzer looked utterly perplexed. He thought, long and hard, which appeared to Isaac to be a futile process, and glanced at his companions, who could give no intellectual assistance other than shrugged shoulders. Finally, he turned back to Maloc and said, “Huh?”

Maloc gritted his teeth and for a second Isaac thought that this was it—the killing spree was about to begin. But the demon shook off the anger, apparently only so that he could launch into another self-righteous soliloquy.

“Ok, let’s go about this another way,” Maloc said. “Do you know what ‘panzer’ means in German?”

“Tank,” Panzer said quickly with a grin. Reminding himself of the ominous nickname seemed to restore some of his confidence.

“Yes. And the most fearsome tank was the Tiger. A tiger, as you all know, is a ferocious carnivore. Now, if there was a tiger right here, right now, it would tear all of you to pieces. But it would never fuck with me. Do you know why?” No one answered so Maloc just continued. “Instinct. Such animals, despite being powerful and vicious, still listen to their instincts. Humans are the only things on this earth that would be stupid enough to fuck with me.”

Panzer again didn’t get the point. He laughed, if not whole-heartedly, and addressed his biker brethren. “So now he’s not even human.” Seeing their captain laugh encouraged them and soon they were all chuckling at Maloc.

At the bar, Isaac shook his head. He almost felt bad for the bikers because Maloc was right. A demon telling the truth was an ominous sign. Pride was indeed going to get them all killed.

Maloc waited patiently for the laughter to subside. “I see that reason avoids you. So, let’s be more direct. I’m not leaving. Don’t you think we should just settle this now? I tell you what,” Maloc said, removed his hat, and set it gently on the table. “I’ll give you first hit. You can even use these.” Maloc pulled a set of brass knuckles from his pocket and tossed them onto the table.

This bold move stunned Panzer. It was probably the first time in his gigantic existence that someone had ever challenged him so directly. He narrowed his eyes, searching for Maloc’s angle.

Santa chimed in. “First hit? Damn, Panzer, with those knuckles it’ll take his head clean off.”

The goading was all it took to override Panzer’s momentary good sense. He rolled his shoulders and threw a few air-jabs to loosen up and then slipped on the knuckles.

“Panzer,” Isaac called out from the bar. “You’d be better off using your bare fist.”

The giant biker snorted and pointed at Isaac. “You better be gone by the time I finish with him or you’re next.” He turned back to Maloc. “You asked for it, asshole.”

“You could even say I was begging for it. Which side would you prefer?” Maloc waved his hand at his face as a salesman would at a new car on display.

“I’m right-handed. So, I’ll need...” Panzer paused.

“You’ll need my left side then. Idiot.” Maloc stuck his chin out.

That was the breaking point.

Panzer put all of his strength into a right-handed haymaker, which landed flush on Maloc’s cheek and sent him stumbling backward, hands cupping his face. The bikers let out victorious cheers and congratulated Panzer, each pat on his back raising a cloud of road dust from his jacket. Panzer was smiling as well, gratified that he had finally belted the asshole, but seemed disappointed that Maloc was still standing.

“Did that hurt old man? It looked really painful,” Bandanna-man asked mockingly.

Maloc still had his hands over his face and was making weird moaning noises. To the bikers, it was the pain of a man who had just got his comeuppance. To Isaac, it was horrendous over-acting.

“Take this asshole outside,” Panzer ordered. The rest of the Devils stepped toward Maloc, who suddenly held his arms out straight to his sides as if to say TA-DA. His rotten teeth were outlined with a thick black fluid, which dripped from his lip with the consistency of honey.

“That actually hurt more than I thought it would,” Maloc said and raised his fists in a boxing stance. “My turn.”

Panzer fell back, bumping into two of his cronies, who stumbled back in turn, suddenly not so confident in their champion anymore. “Get away from me you freak!”

“C’mon Panzer. It’s my turn. Put your chin out.”

“You ain’t touching me!”

“We made an agreement. You took your turn and now you want to renege on our deal?” Maloc's voice became low and threatening.

At this point, the atmosphere changed. The air seemed to become hot and stale and the room itself seemed to shrink, drawing all of its occupants closer together. At the same time, Maloc seemed somehow bigger. He stood up straighter. His shoulders seemed broader. A wave of fear swept through the room and every man shivered. Every man but Isaac, who could only shake his head in resignation at what was about to occur. Maloc’s demonic aura was expanding, leaking from his body, filling the room. Which meant the demon was angry.

And playtime was over.