So Now There’s a Demon Smelling My Urine

Michael Ray Laemmle

            Ever since Sabrina and I had sex there's been this demon following me, smelling my urine. He's an ugly little prick, looks like a troll. Picture Yoda having a bad hair day.  I know Sabrina is somehow responsible for his appearance. I'm going to find out how.  But for the moment she's disappeared.  Witches do that sometimes—poof, they're gone.    Sabrina is a witch. Like in the television show Sabrina, the Teenage Witch.  Sabrina is a popular name for witches. It's like Patrick for the Irish. My Sabrina is forty though, ten years my senior. Of course that's just how she appears. For all I know, when her anti-aging spell wears off, she's an ancient, emaciated hag who looks like she hasn't had sex since Millard Fillmore's presidency. She sure acted that way last time she visited.  That itself was suspicious. Whenever Sabrina shows up at my door wanting sex she has some shady ulterior motive.           

            It was no different this last time. She came around ten o'clock midday. I hadn't seen her in two months. She said she was leaving town for awhile. Where she was going she couldn't have sex. She wanted to get laid beforehand. She said I'd better be good because I had to tide her over.

            "That's too much responsibility," I protested.

            She blew me a kiss and winked, "You can handle it, tiger."

            "What trick's up your sleeve?"

            She fell forward into my arms, gorgeous breasts pressing against my chest.  Sabrina was forty, but she was damn good-looking, with the body of a woman half her age. As a lover she couldn't be surpassed. She always had some sense-tingling potions on her person. Eye of newt, sprig of alfalfa—you know, witch stuff. She'd sprinkle some on your genitalia, chant a few Latin phrases backwards. You'd swear you were getting a hand-job from Aphrodite herself. She could turn a young wizard into a full-blown warlock overnight. Many fell in love, but her heart was not to be won. 

            Against my better judgment, I succumbed to her advances. The sex was okay, but there was a strange scent emanating from her crotch. Not bad, just unusual. She even remarked on it.

            "There's a smell coming from my vagina," she said.

            "Yeah, I noticed."

            "Is it bad?"

            "Just different."

            "Different good or different bad?"

            "Different neutral. Now can we please just get over it?"

            "Sure," she said. 

            I collapsed beside her, breathless. "I can't do this anymore," I huffed. "Guess I'm not as young as I used to be." Besides being out of breath, I'd stopped for another reason.  I'd had her on her back, rump slightly uplifted, hanging my head down to watch the pelvis-thrusting action. I thought it was pretty hot. I was getting into it when all of a sudden Sabrina breaks out into uncontrollable laughter. Cackling like she's the audience at a Jay Leno monologue. 

            "What's so funny?"

            "Nothing," she choked, giggling her head off, "I swear." She covered her mouth with her hand, eyes squinting with silent guffaws. 

            My pelvis froze. "What the hell are you laughing at?"

            She shook her head, "Nothing, nothing!" 

            She finally recovered, but I was pretty much done with the whole experience. "I didn't want to fuck in the first place, now something's totally uproarious?"

            "Ohhh, what's wrong with baby?" she said in a patronizing baby-talk way.      

            I'm not insecure, but she had me judging myself. Though not chubby, I'm not in as good of shape as I could be. I drink too much beer. Sabrina isn't a bodybuilder, but she's definitely toned. So I wondered if my gut was a little too loose while making my thrusts.  Hanging in some awkward way, swaying or bulging. We'd been having sex in daylight hours with a clear view of each other's bodies. That could have been a mistake. Maybe my physique was like a movie, best enjoyed in darkness. 

            At thirty, I was developing the perfect body for radio. I've always been ashamed of my love handles. They're not huge, but big enough, with stretch marks on them. Not disgusting, just weird. My hair is thinning on top. As I bent over to look at our genitals bumping together she could see the top of my head. Maybe from Sabrina's view it was hilarious. Or she was laughing at me for looking, like that's some lame jack-ass move.  Or maybe the bitch just recalled an episode of Seinfeld.  

            But now I believe something else was going on. Sabrina hid something in my body, some potion or concoction that lures this demon. It was in her vagina, and she transferred it to me during sex. She got out of bed soon after I collapsed and left my condo with a big smile on her face, like she was real proud of herself. Then she drove off.  In a car (witches don't fly around on brooms unless they have to). 

            The next time I pissed, my urine smelled rich and musty. Not bad, just unusual.  It didn't hurt to pee though, which I considered a blessing. Then a vaporous mist started shooting up out of the shower drain. I ran from the bathroom before flushing and turned around. The mist transformed into a three-foot demon-troll, now draped over the toilet bowl drawing in deep satisfying whiffs through his nose, almost frantically until his eyes rolled back in his head. As he fell backwards in a faint, he turned into mist again and shot back down the drain. 

            Now, whenever I use a public restroom, this demon crawls from the shadows of a neighboring stall, or manifests from a smoky plume that shoots out an air-vent. He'll stand over the urinal I just pissed in, sniffing the air until his eyes roll back in his head.  Maybe he was chasing Sabrina and she needed to throw him off her trail. Maybe he's just a pervert. In any case, Sabrina would hear about it when she returned.    

            In the meantime, I had to do something about this demon. Get him off my scent, literally. He was an embarrassment. And kind of gross, to be quite frank. Not only did he look like something the cat dragged in, his behavior was nauseating. I know demons have their own thing going. We can't really judge their actions according to the same standards we'd apply to those of humans. But come on—who goes around smelling people's piss?  Doesn't seem right, whether for a demon, an angel, or anybody qualifying as a sentient being. There should be an unspoken rule throughout the metaphysical realms—anybody wanting to smell urine should just go ahead and smell their own, leaving other people's alone. One's piss is a private thing. I feel the same way about semen, feces, sweat, and anything that is peeled, pulled, or picked off one's epidermis. As far as I'm concerned, if it came off or out of your body, it's none of my business.   

            I knew trapping this bogey was job one. But how? My first attempt was with a burlap sack, which I carry my workout clothes in. I know what you're thinking; What kind of dipshit carries his workout clothes in a burlap sack? But look, burlap breathes, so clothes dry faster and don't stink nearly as much. A ventilated bag is great for storing sweaty garments, but not so for capturing demons. At least not those who turn themselves into smoke and fly out the little holes in your sack. The burlap didn't work. 

            My second attempt was with a garbage sack. Nice and new. No rips or tears. But the smoke that a demon turns itself into is not like normal smoke. It's not malleable. It has force, and it felt like I had the little bastard himself in the bag. He kept elbowing and jerking around, then poured right out the opening and down my sink.

            The only bright idea I had left was sucking him up with a vacuum, but I don't own one. I consider carpets played out. I have stone floors. It's strictly a broom, mop, and Swiffer household. 

            I realized if I was going to catch this bugaboo, I'd need assistance. The one recourse I had was to pay a visit to Vivian, bartender at a secret witch's tavern downtown.  One could only get in by entering a dark alleyway across the street from Happy Burger.  Entrance hours were midnight to one o'clock. It was in another dimension. If you came before midnight or after one all you found in the alley was a brick wall and a dead end.    

            Now I don't truck much with witches. I find their wily ways unpalatable. Their constant intrigues can be disorienting, especially for one like myself, who feels no compulsion to participate in their cliquish drama. Besides, I grew up in a science town.  I like cold, hard facts, and material cause and effect. Witches disdain facts, and throw material cause and effect out the window whenever they cast a spell. But in this town a guy can't escape witches. Throw a piece of gum or cigarette butt out the window—you're as likely as not to hit some witch upside the head. And if she gets your license plate number, don't be surprised if a week later you've got scabies on your balls and eczema on your eyelids.

            It was 12:30 in the AM. I went down the alley and the doorman damn near blinded me with his little flashlight. He was looking at me skeptically. I knew what he was thinking.

            "No, I'm not a witch," I said. "Now could you please move aside. I'm here to talk with Vivian." The doorman sarcastically bowed and laid his palm out, directing me into the bar as if I were royalty.                         

            Thanks, jackass, I thought. Witches and warlocks could sure be smarmy. Vivian was glad to see me though, and even bought me a beer. After getting her to lean in close, I told her about my problem. She nodded her head like these incidences were all-too common, and she knew exactly how to handle it. She claimed a special vacuum was needed, not just any ordinary Dirt Devil. Spells needed casting; chants needed saying; blood needed spilling. 

            When I was taken aback by this last bit on the itinerary, Vivian thwarted my dismay. She said I needn't fret much about that, witches had mice which were specially bred for these kinds of rituals. I felt bad for the mouse, but in the final wash I didn't think its petty existence trumped my inalienable right to a decent piss. Vivian promised she'd come by the next night, enchanted vacuum in hand. I thanked her, swigged my beer, and wished her good night.

            Vivian knocked on my door just past eleven, and when I invited her in we got right down to business. "You need to pee?" she asked.

            "As a matter of fact, I do," I said. I'd been storing up the urge for some time.

            "Good, let's go," she said.

            I was game. We went to the master bathroom. I tried to close the door, but she stopped it with her foot.

            "What's up?" I asked.

            "Don’t close the door," she said.

            "You're gonna watch me piss?"

            "I gotta catch the demon, don't I?"

            "Look, I'll open the door when I'm done. Then you can come crashing in heroically with vacuum at the ready."

            "It won't work. I need to get this little bastard when he first comes out of the drain. If he manifests and sees me, he'll be gone in a flash. It might even get a little dangerous."

            "So you're going to sit there watching me pee?"

            "That's the plan."

            "But it's embarrassing. First of all, nobody has seen me pee but girlfriends.  Secondly, my piss smells weird. I don't want anybody taking a whiff."

            "I'm going to smell it anyway."

            "Yeah, but if you don't actually see it coming from my dick, I can kind of pretend it was just there in the bowl when I found it. You know, like it's not mine or something.  I know you'll know it's mine, but it's just a small psychological compensation."

            "Well no-can-do, so suck it up, buster, and get to peeing."

            "Whatever," I said, opening the door for her.

            "So where does he usually come out of?" she asked.

            "So far he's always come from the shower drain and left down the sink. Well, a couple times he came out the air vent, but mostly it's been the shower."

            Vivian set herself up by the shower stall and readied the hose of her vacuum. I stood before the toilet with my fly open for a long time, occasionally peering at Vivian in the hope that she wasn't looking. But each time she was there, impatiently waving me on with a circular rotation of her hand.

            I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. Focus, I said, but focus in a way that doesn't feel like focusing. Be Zen. What is the sound of one hand clapping? Better yet, what is the sound of urine splashing into the water of a toilet bowl? What is the sound of a waterfall, a sink tap, a spraying hose, rain falling? And when I was good and relaxed, the urine poured forth in a glorious stream, and for a moment I'd completely forgotten Vivian was staring at me. When finished, I zipped up, and turned my eyes to meet Vivian's. I raised my eyebrows; she nodded in applause. Then she smelled the air and wrinkled her nose.

            "What, is the smell bad?"  I asked.

            "Not bad, I guess, just weird."

            "Yeah, no shit. Come on, just act like you don't notice."

            "Whatever makes you feel better."

            Just then a whooshing sound was heard from somewhere down the pipes of the shower. Vivian put the end of the hose against the drain, pressing on a switch at the back of the unit. There was a sucking sound and a high-pitched squeal, and before long the vacuum started to bump around, and there were knocks against its surface as if something living were trapped inside.

            "We got it!" Vivian yelled.

            "We got it!" I yelled, and we even kind of hugged, albeit awkwardly.

            "Good job," she said.

            "You too!  Can I flush now?"

            "You sure can."

            I depressed the lever on the tank, and a satisfying flush echoed off the walls of the bathroom. I brushed my palms together a few times for a job well done, then went to the sink.

            "You don't mind if I just pretend to wash my hands because a girl is here, do you?  I don't usually soap up unless I get urine on me. My hands get real dry otherwise."

            "Doesn't matter to me," she said, and I quickly turned on the tap, pretended to get my hands wet, then pretended to wipe them dry on a towel.      

            Just then there was a knock at the door. "Who could that be?" I asked.

            Vivian shrugged. "FedEx?"

            "FedEx?" I said. "It's almost midnight. FedEx doesn't deliver at the bewitching hour."

            I opened the door. There was Sabrina, standing on my welcome mat with a big grin spread across her face.

            "Speak of the devil," I said.

            "Indeed," she agreed, pushing past me. 

            "Gee, come on in," I grumbled, closing the door behind her.

            When she saw Vivian she squealed, "Did we get him?"

            Vivian's face lit up. "He's right in here," she said, pointing to the vacuum. Then the two women gave themselves a big congratulatory high-five.

            "I hate to interrupt the party," I said, "but what the hell is going on here?"

            Vivian pinched me on the cheek before I could push her hand away. "We caught our little demon, that's what's going on."

            "Hold on a minute, you two were in this together?"

            Sabrina and Vivian looked at one another and broke out laughing.

            I rolled my eyes, "Oh, what the hell!"

            It was Sabrina's turn to pinch my cheek, "Come on little baby, what's the matter?"

            I flicked her hand away from my face. "What's the matter is that you used me as bait to catch this ugly fucker. What is wrong with you fucking people?"

            "Us witches?" asked Sabrina.  

            "You witches. Did it ever occur to either of you to just ask me?"

            "Of course," said Vivian, "but you'd never have agreed."

            "You're damn right I wouldn't have. Do you know how annoying it's been having this demon popping out of air vents all the time to smell my urine? Not to mention that every time he manifests at my place the smoke alarm goes off."

            Sabrina pouted.  "Ohhhh, we're sorry," she said in utterly insincere baby-talk.  Man, that baby-talk habit was getting on my nerves.

            "I thought you two hated each other, anyway," I said.

            They looked at each other again, breaking out into cryptic laughter.

            I shook my head. "Is somebody going to tell me what's going on? You're acting like schoolgirls here."

            They looked at each other. More synchronized tittering. I held up my hand, "You know what, never mind. I don't want to know. Just take your little demon and your little magic vacuum and get out of my house."

            When they were down my front walkway a few paces, I leaned out the door and yelled after them. "Yo, Sabrina.  If you ever show up at my door again, be ready to give some hand-jobs. Bring the eye of newt—economy size, because you're gonna be a busy beaver. Don't forget Ben-Gay for your wrist, either. Wouldn't want you coming down with tendonitis."