The Pun

Days ago my fourth demon-haunted Christmas passed. But how can something that isn’t haunt me? How can an emptiness be a demon? What does it mean when demonic devils show me to be one of their own?

Where the sky is blue Daemenoth Diablos queries? “If possession is 9/10th’s of the law, how come there aren’t more exorcists with legal firms?”

This devil knows what will tempt me. The Pun. That play on words I can’t resist. It pulls me in with need to make the interaction last. I am one of those odd ones, a lover of puns. I’m an odd because I lost my mate, the other half of myself. I passed to him my love of puns, but I can’t pass on this latest one, as I have so many before it.

In his snapshots, he preserved our mutual love. Screenshot of text from Mom:

In his response, he showed himself to be an odd one’s mate. “Hahahahahah! I laughed very loudly.” My son, my boy, my sweetheart. He appreciated how deliciously, devilishly terrible the pun is. Blood of my blood even got the adverb right.

As young as ten, he knew how to eviscerate a pun gone bad. I don’t remember the pun I created that day, but I will never forget his response. “Mom, that isn’t even worth a disgusted look.” He knew, knew what a pun needed whether a good one or bad.

My son, my boy, my sweetheart wasn’t merely a lover of puns, but a pun maker. Another screenshot of a Mom text he saved:

This time my son, my boy, my sweetheart punned in response:

What a proud Mom I am. How can puns fail to haunt me when I can’t pass on the need for exorcists in law offices to the one who understood that eating paladins made a dragon’s stomach holy with their lawfulness?