It is well known but poorly documented that I underwent a Catholic exorcism in the spring of 1971. I had been dabbling heavily in the occult for some months, ritually sacrificing hedgehogs, smoking joints made from Ouija Boards, snorting holy communion — the usual stuff.
Before long it was apparent that I’d accidentally opened a portal to hell. It was the same month my washing machine broke and I lost my favourite jacket, thus proving that bad things do indeed come in triplicate.
The first evidence of the unspeakable evil visiting upon me was when my car keys went missing. Things escalated pretty quickly from there, when a gaggle of horny wench-demons dragged me from my toilet mid-brown and raped me for over six hours. These were gruesome, reptilian creatures: foul-stenched, snarling hunchbacks, hairier across the naval than the scalp. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and I’ll admit to yielding more concern for the car keys issue at the time.
I first suspected that the evil was gradually assuming control of me when I found myself telling a perfect stranger that his ‘mother sucks cock in hell’. I was promptly ejected from the Kindergarten, and the boy’s mother — alive and well — was largely furious upon hearing of the incident. When she confronted me in the car park, I tried to convince her that I’d meant it as a compliment of sorts. She planted her knee into my groin in an act of stout unforgiving.
The possession intensified quickly over the month of March. Most mornings I’d awaken with my head back to front and moon-walk straight into a wall. On the rare occasions my head didn’t sleep-rotate, I’d awake deeply confused and march face-first into the opposite wall.
Projectile vomiting became a feature too. Possessed though I was, it was hard not to be awed by the force and accuracy of this built-in slime cannon. It wasn’t long before I was turning on and off the TV with a short burst of pea-green ooze, or closing the curtains with a sustained torrent of bile.
Over time my plight gained notoriety in the local media, and the Vatican council was compelled to dispatch a a renowned exorcist to rid me of my demonic squatter. By then the possession was so entrenched that my own family barely recognised me: my body was a mess of warts and boils, lesions criss-crossed my face, my buttocks were permanently clenched, and my voice was identical to the character Zed from the Police Academy movies.
The ritual began in earnest on a balmy April morn, as I lay tethered to my bed. An audio recording was made for posterity. I present you now, with a transcript of that recording. Be warned: what you are about to read will likely disturb you.
Me: Your mother sucks cock in hell.
Father O’Reilly: Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Me: Your father…
Father O’Reilly: …sucks cock in hell. I get it.
Me: Well, I was actually going to say something about minge. Would you like to see a display of my power?
Father O’Reilly: Your powers are nothing compared to the power of the lord Jesus Christ.
Father O’Reilly: Are you serious? Separating your thumb? That’s your demonstration of power? My uncle used to do that at parties when we were kids.
Me: That’s only part of it. Watch…this….keep….watching.
Father O’Reilly: Ah Jaysus, you've gone and shit yourself. Ah why did you do that? The stench.
Me: Conas ata tu?
Father O’Reilly: Speaking in tongues will not save you, demon.
Me: Ta me go maith.
Father O’Reilly: Ca bhfuil tu in a chonai?
Me: Ta…ta me in a chonai…FUCK YOU.
Father O’Reilly: You see, you are not the only one versed in the Gaelic tongue, demon.
Me: It matters not. You can not defeat me, priest, for I am legion. We are many.
Father O’Reilly: Oh I understand, demon. You are all the millions of wretched souls in Hades.
Me: Woah, steady on. It’s me, Ted Bundy’s ghost, a few of Hitler’s SS, and a guy called Steve who once pushed his dog around by its hind-legs, like a vacuum cleaner.
Father O’Reilly: Ted Bundy isn’t dead. He’s in jail. This is 1971, remember?
Father O’Reilly: What?
Me: I said can we get on with this?
Father O’Reilly: THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU.
Me: Who’s Mike?
Father O’Reilly: What?
Me: You said ‘the power of Mike compels you’.
Father O’Reilly: No I didn’t. I said THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU.
Me: Oh. That makes more sense. Now what happens?
Father O’Reilly: THE LORD COMMANDS YOU TO LEAVE THIS DISCIPLE.
Me: Fine. The stench is killing me anyway. Believe it or not, most of these hygiene problems were here before I arrived.
Father O’Reilly: Be gone, foul demon.
Me: Sound boss.
And like that, what had taken months to devour my body and soul, vanished in the blink of an eye. Father O’Reilly died of a heart attack 40 minutes after the exorcism. It seems the ritual took a bigger toll on him than me, thank God.