I found the demon in my kitchen, contemplating my coffeemaker with a look of abstract horror. It was the closest to a human expression he seemed capable of, with his straight saturnine face. “What?” I asked.
“You drink freeze-dried?” he asked, as if he just found out I’d been sacrificing babies to Yahweh.
“I’m not exactly rich, Mr. Creepy,” I informed him. “Why don’t you just materialize some Kona fresh-ground if you’re such a snob?”