Streets of Hope

I've powered through the first season of The Exorcist and, well, shit. The Damned apparently take classes at the Snidely Whiplash School of Hammy Overacting. Big props to Father Simon for being so syrupy and and sarcastic his actual role could be predicted from a mile away.

Oh, and Pazuzu? Pazuzu's a big wuss who needs a pacifier and a blankie.

*he chuckles darkly*

"I'll admit to having liked seeing the old Assyrian cad eating his just desserts. Rags! Oh, Rags, stay with me, even though I've been a psychologically abusive monster! No, Rags, don't leave me here, in the darkest recesses of your subconscious! Noooo!

Otherwise? It's the standard Demonic Schtick, even in my own case. We're usually bottled up for so long that even the barest whispers of corporeal existence are enough to make us want to whip out the boater's hat, striped vest and bamboo cane. Hello my darling and whatnot. Swap showtunes with wanton sadism, and you get the idea. I'm more the type to want to rub my own success and stability in the face of my own peers, though.

You hear that, Belial? I'M NOT GETTING EXORCISED ANYTIME SOON!"