"AFRICA? AGAIN? Your poems about those drowned monkeys make me sick," the Carma pen said.

     Burny was writing on his yellow pad at the porch and he had imagined that the pen in his hand had turned into a cartoony head that looked like an eleven-year-old Carma and talked to him.

     "They're gorillas and they didn't drown," Burny said.

     "Booooring." The Carma pen yawned. "If I were the one telling that story, I'd drown them both. The mother first. Bye, bye uglies. Bye, bye, Africa."

     "Hey, Africa is our secret word for love. Dad and me."

     "Right."

     "Thinking about Africa makes me happy."

     "Yeah."

     The voices of George and Carma, in the middle of an argument, came out to the porch through the screened door.

     "It's not a waste of time. My son needs a therapist."

     "Oh, don't be so dumb, George."

     In the kitchen, Carma was pouring herself a big mug of whiskey, eyes fixed on the muted videoke channel on cable. George was fixing the plumbing of the kitchen sink.

     "Your son needs a priest to exorcise the demon that has possessed him since birth," Carma said, "and not some money-sucking bastard shrink who pretends to listen to you while jerking off in his mind."

     She poured hot water into the drink. She was making a hot whiskey tea.

     "We have tried talking to priests, remember?" George said. "Exorcism doesn't happen without psycho tests."

     "See? That's what I meant," Carma said. "Psychology is a tool of Satan."

     "How do you know Satan exists?"

     "Hah! Why don't you drop that agnostic facade for your spiritual weakness for a moment, George? Look at the big picture. Shrinks are spawns of Satan."

     George bumped his head on the sink. Oww!

     "Jesus drove out demons," Carma said. "Now the fucking shrinks are trying to negate that by conditioning our minds that demon-possessed people are mentally ill."

     "You're drunk, Carma."

     "Sick perverts armed with P.H.D.'s are winning souls for the Devil and they are making so much money. It makes me sick."

     "I'm still taking Burny to a therapist," George said.

     "Then you better find a more lucrative activity than fixing fucked up plumbing," Carma said, "I'm not working my ass off at the mortuary just to pay a hell spawn."

     George sighed. He would let this one go.

     "Burny!" Carma called.

     At the porch, Carma pen nudged Burny's arm and motioned "you better get inside."

     "Burny!"

     Carma's voice ended Burny's fantasy and Carma Pen turned into a pen again. He dropped everything and rushed into the house...

     "Burnyyyy!"

     "Coming, Mom."

     He found Carma in a bad combination of drunk and deranged mood at the kitchen table.

     Carma pointed at Burny. "You. I hope that the real you can hear me..."

     Burny fidgeted with his hands.

     "Don't mess with his mind," George said.

     Carma ignored George and spoke the words that would lodge in Burny's mind for years to come: "Drive the demon out of you. Kidnap a priest if it's the last thing you do."

     "Carma!"

     She stood up, tottered out the kitchen.

     Burny looked at his feet, Carma's words still ringing in his ears.

     A stifling pain clutched George's face. He slipped out a small medicine canister marked NITROGLYCERIN from his trouser pocket, extracted a tiny pill and put it under his tongue. He took a few deep breaths, and gave Burny a rakish wink to hide his agony.