Charmed ©2026 by Don Taco

 Charmed                                                                                copyright 2026 by Don Taco

         You're in the kitchen, absent-mindedly making yourself a sandwich to take to work for lunch, and in a more or less typical moment of whimsy you draw some sort of pattern or symbol on the bread with your condiments. There is a puff of dark smoke, a whiff of sulfur, and some sort of demonic being is standing next to you, glowering, and, you guess, very annoyed about being disturbed from whatever it is demons do around the house in their own plane of existence. Rather than panic, as you should, and because, well, you're a bit too stoned for that, and you always wanted to believe in the occult anyway, you calmly hold out the sandwich to the demon, and start to make yourself another. The ethereal being, in all his unholy wrath, peers at you suspiciously, takes a bite of the sandwich, rolls his eyes in delight, and disappears, taking most of his smoke with him. For a long moment, you wonder if any of this actually happened, but then a glance makes you realize that, in fact, two slices of the bread are gone, and the tomato you had just cut is in fact cut. And you wonder if you should have spoken to the being. Or perhaps not speaking to it is best. You have no expertise in these matters, and your reading hasn't ever ventured any closer to this experience than Tolkienn, whose work, delightfully fanciful as it is, doesn't delve into the demonic much at all. So, you finish making your sandwich, grab your coat, and head off to work. Every light turns green before you approach it, and when you arrive and park, you see the new head of Human Resources, a die-hard Republican who has been trying to get you fired since she started working there last year, being escorted away in handcuffs. Nothing seems to go wrong all day.

         A week or so later, there is a polite knock at your door. Your bedroom closet door. From the inside. Puzzled, you open it, and there is a small green creature standing there, looking frightened but hopeful, and making the motions of lifting a sandwich to its mouth. It's so terrifyingly ugly that it's almost cute. You beckon, lead it to the kitchen, pop open the fridge, and set to work.

         At seemingly random intervals, terrifying demonic individuals of all shapes and sizes pop in and politely wait to be treated to a home-made sandwich. You take to keeping the fridge fully stocked, and shopping at the specialty market that you were always disdainful of your yuppie neighbors for supporting. Sandwich-making becomes a guessing game of exhibiting different items and watching for the creatures' eyes to light up.

         You find fifty dollar bills blowing down the sidewalk when you walk downtown. You buy the best pot in the dispensary. You buy a set of the best pots and pans as well. You buy yourself a nicer sweater than you ever owned, and the cute receptionist gushes over it and asks you out.

         Everyone you know remarks on what a charmed life you lead.