“You had one job,” came a harsh voice from the shadows. “Your failure subjected you to decades of fiery torture.”     

    “True,” I replied.

    “So, why would we give you another chance. The time for The Dark Lord to fulfill the prophecy and rise again is near. We cannot afford more mistakes.”

    “I will not fail you again.”

    “Last time we let you lose on the world we set you down in the middle of world war. Should have been easy. You had them singing Christmas carols,” hissed the voice, anger seeping from the shadowy speaker’s voice like sulfur leaches through the cracks of this forsaken realm, filling the air with a wretched stench that starts to burn you from the inside out.

    It was true when I possessed the soul of a soldier during what humans now call the First World War I ended up causing both sides to sing Christmas carols. I had meant it as a distraction, but now history looks upon it as one of the most redeeming moments of an otherwise dark time in human history.

    “I have learned from my failure,” I replied, “and from my punishment. Now it is my time. The humans have become godless. My mission will be far easier than it was back then.”

    “For your sake I hope so.”

    “You will not regret this.”

    The process of demonic possession of a human vessel is a most peculiar sensation. Abstract tingling that knows no outer limit is replaced by paralyzing pressure as your essence forces itself into the confines of a human form. Colors swirl and sound rushes in with disorienting intensity as you adjust to corporeal sensations. Slowly, like waking from a dream, you gain control of the limbs and of the senses.

    Seeing a mirror in the corner of the room I go to examine my solid form. I wear a uniform, have a beard, and am strapped with muscles. In the corner I see a map of the area. I am in Crater Lake in Oregon. In the corner of the room I see a television. An eclipse is mere hours away. I do not have long to create the perfect conditions for His resurrection. I grab the map and head for the door.

    Outside now I hustle down a wooded path.

    “Hey mister,” a voice cries, “Want some ice cream? We have a new flavor, Devil's’ Fudge. Want to try?”

    I figure what could be the harm. I buy the treat and lights flash.

    “Congratulations, sir. You are our one millionth customer! You win the grand prize!”

    As the cameras come out from the shadows and people shake my hand I see the eclipse happening, the time for His return has past. I am famous, loved by many, but I have failed.

    “Damned Devil’s fudge,” I mutter looking down at the devilishly delicious treat.