Wednesday, July 4, 2012

The demon who loved me

I declined to procure the services of a paranormal investigator today, in part, because he didn't recognize any of the entities in the movies, and he could get hurt if he doesn't know what he's up against. After all, I have received multiple injuries at the hands of these demons over the years, and many times from their people.
A demon-allied police officer shot me at point-blank range with a TASER,
which embedded its prong in my rib, both shattering and breaking it
He was generous twice over, though, first offering to be paid to come to my house where the demons aren't at and look at it to tell me nothing about what he knows nothing about. The second act of generosity, I thought, was based on his concern for my safety. In an e-mail, he asked, "What about you?" (As in, Should you be there, if I shouldn't?) I gave him this answer, which has a very different story than the ones I usually tell on this site:
Good question. I mean, I can't ignore the way they act, think, and talk—it's evil, and they have physically and mentally harmed me in ways that could be defined as torture; but, that's not true about all of them, all of the time.
But, regardless, I can't get away from them, so the point is moot. It's large crowds and far distances that limit, or cause them to limit, their ability to reach me. Unfortunately, I can't go anywhere right now (see also Family stalls plan for respite), but I was able to move to a large house with lots of residents recently, and that has made all the difference. The respite from demons afforded me has also enabled me so much free time that I was able to nearly double the amount of visitors to my blog to over 500 hits a day—consistently—just by simply explaining some of the old stuff I've posted before (I was averaging about 250-350 hits a day, every day for the first three months, with a once- or twice-a-week break of over 400).
But, with the financial constraints placed on me by these very well connected demons that occupy a town predominantly populated by agents of the anti-Christ, I can't get the distance I need to break away completely. In fact, I can't even go to jail and get away from them. In May, on my first night in jail, not yet knowing it was only going to be a three-week stint, I was laying on my bunk with my eyes shut, still awake, but in utter agony. Just three days prior, two demon-allied men forcefully sodomized me, but I was the one arrested on the suspicion of having gone on a tire slashing spree shortly afterwards. The culprits, one of which is the demon-possessed pedophile confessing to child sex crimes on video, were still out having fun—doing dope, screwing around—while I sat in jail wondering if I was ever going to get out.
Anyway, after I had been laying there for nearly six hours, I suddenly felt and smelled the breath of a centurion demon being blown gently into my nostrils (read Three things you never knew about a centurion demon's mouth). In spite of my agony, I smiled before opening my eyes because I knew who it was. I had met him before, and the breath thing is what he did the night he first rose up out of my apartment floor. Until that night, I thought centurion demons had to remain stationary, that it was one of their limitations; but, this turned out to be a ruse in preparation for the night that one of them planned to scare the hell out of me by running up on me real quick.
This particular centurion demon must have pulled the short straw, because he was the only one who was chosen to do this. So, when he first appeared, the usual measured, slow breathing, glacial arm movements and non-moving legs I expected were instantly replaced by the horned- and scaled-face of a fanged-mouth sprinter, who, with lighting-quick speed and uncanny agility, stopped running a mere three inches from my face. I was laying in bed when he did this; and, just as his snake-like eyes met mine, I froze—I mean, I stopped moving, blinking and breathing.
Then, without warning, he blew a puff of air into my face, just to drive home the fact that he was real, quite mobile and physical—and not a specter or disabled in any way, shape or form.
But, to his surprise, I recovered almost just as instantly, and, in just one look, let him know that, instead of scaring me, well...let's just say that, for the first time ever, fear wasn't the emotion I felt, and then leave it at that. And, oh, that look was returned, even if just for a fraction of a second.
When he recovered, though, he looked shocked, and I will bet he looked just as horrified as he had wanted me to look, and he froze just as still as I had. Then, he started breathing hard and angry, and scowled in only the way a demon can, and in way that suggested that I had embarrassed him in front of his horde, and in a way that suggested I was dead-meat.  
But, soon enough, he relaxed his posture, and changed his expression to one of bemusement, and to one that suggested that he was also a little impressed, even though there is nothing particularly impressive about being burned out from night-after-night of living in a demon's house of horrors and failing to react appropriately, as a result. Finally, he straightened up, and then walked into the wall adjacent to my bed while laughing—silently, of course.
The next time he came back to my apartment, he was nice the whole time. He let me smell his breath again (which, I told him, was for scientific research reasons only), and he also put his fingertips, which glowed like the butt of a cigarette, through the palm of my hand. He did this by stretching his arm nearly 10 feet from his body, somehow. Where his fingers intersected with my palm, the skin and inside of my hand glowed.
But, back to the night in jail—our third meeting: First, keep in mind that I can't communicate with centurion demons, and they can't communicate with me without me talking out loud and the centurion demons whispering (of course). Since this is considered wholly inappropriate on both sides of the fence, communication occur through intermediaries, specifically, prophesy demons. I can summon prophecy demons at will for this task, if I need to; but, the ones that stalk me are always handy these days. (By the way, even without a prophesy demon's assistance, I can still listen to communications between a prophesy demon and another human without them knowing, but only to the prophesy demon's side of the conversation, even though I can sometimes project language to a human. But, when it comes to centurion demons, my abilities are insufficient. (Have you heard of such a thing?)
Anyway, with the prophecy demons as the go-between, this now-enamored centurion demon said to me, "[I don't] want you in here with this guy (my then-cellie)." The guy was as crazy as I sound, so just imagine.
Sure enough, twenty minutes later, I was inexplicably moved to another holding facility—a much better one, in fact—where I was housed with what I consider to be the best cellie I have ever had, and I've had a lot of them in my day to compare this one to.
Now, I haven't seen this demon since that night in jail, even though I ask about him daily; but, I also I haven't been attacked by any centurion demons since, which used to be a constant problem for several months in a row. So, as I said, they are not all bad, all of the time.
READ |  Demonios ardientes con el fuego
I should also mention that the sucker demon attacks (see also Sucker Demons Join Attack with Red Horde) have ceased completely, and, right now, I am only being hit with light hobgoblin demon magic (which is like bad mojo or bad luck, but in a really bizarre way, and is pissing me off, but only causing minor, reparable damage to ligaments). I assume that's due to the residence change, but also want to believe that it was him, too. (About the hobgoblin demon magic: it's not surprising that he wasn't able to do anything about that, as hobgoblin demons are upper echelon, and answer to no one; apparently, though, they will honor requests by their own kind to a [limited] degree.)
So, to answer your question, which I assume referred to my safety: hell no, I am not safe, in spite of that lovely story and reports of diminished attacks; and, if a train, bus or plane ticket magically showed up on my doorstep that took me at least 150 miles away from where I'm at—even if only for 24 hours—I would be a happy, happy man.
So, how far away are you, by the way?

Rerun