[ WP ] You 're main character wants to summon the demon patron of wealth , but instead , they end up with his child , the demon of loose change .

Steve flipped the tome over and placed it flat on the wooden table in front of him, then took a step back. He took a deep breath in and slowly exhaled. He was a little nervous—this would be the first demon he ’ d ever tried to summon. Well, that ’ s not true. There was the one time when he stood in his bathroom, turned off the light, and chanted “ Bloody Mary ” three times as he stared into the mirror. Nothing happened, though, so he chalked that one up as a failure. This would be his first successful demon summoning. 
 
 He was positive it would work. He ’ d done all the research: read dozens of blogs about séances and summonings, watched The Exorcism of Emily Rose twice, and meticulously studied the demon summoning tutorial on eHow.com. He was more than ready, more than prepared—in fact, he had been for two weeks now. The tome, though, proved hard to get a hold of. Barnes and Noble was fresh out of ancient demonic tomes; Borders Books had went bankrupt years ago; and Amazon.com only had one in stock, sold via a third party for $ 24.99. Steve didn ’ t trust third party vendors—he knew they ’ d just steal his credit card. Still, if he was going to summon the Demon of Patron Wealth, he figured getting his credit card stolen wouldn ’ t be the worst thing in the world. 
 
 It took two weeks for the order to arrive from Amazon.com. The seller was located somewhere in Africa, a member of a long forgotten tribe that had recently been discovered, taught the virtues of Christianity, and introduced to the joy of eCommerce. The standard, brown package came on a Wednesday morning and sat outside Steve ’ s Midtown apartment for about six hours. He was home the whole time, but they never even knocked to let him know it arrived. They just left his ancient demonic tome on the stoop outside of his apartment. Steve was furious when he ofund it; as soon as he finished summoning his demon, there was no way he wouldn ’ t be buying FedEx and then firing everybody. 
 
 The tome was pretty standard for an ancient demonic book, if not a little heavy: the cover was plain and brown, clearly forged from stone centuries ago, then hidden for the majority of its life; its pages were worn and tattered, several pointing out at strange angles; several faint, unrecognizable characters spanned vertically down the spine of the tome. It looked pretty authentic. 
 
 Steve didn ’ t wait around long to begin the summoning. He ’ d been looking forward to having his own wealth-producing demon for weeks now, ever since he ’ d seen a documentary about them on the History Channel. The creatures were believed to be responsible for the riches of some of the wealthiest people in the world: Bill Gates, Mark Zuckerburg, and Kirstie Alley. Their businesses—Microsoft, Facebook, and Cheers—were simply façades; their true wealth was the work of a Demon of Patron Wealth, providing them any sum they desired, with, as Steve assumed, no downsides. 
 
 Steve stared at the tome lying flat on top of the table, the pages opened to what looked the most like a wealthy demon, a long inscription scribbled into the page beneath. He ’ d used Google to translate the text into English, which worked surprisingly well, then printed it out and placed it next to the tome. He ’ d waited so long for this moment, spent so many sleepless nights waiting to finally get revenge on the world for not making him a billionaire. Now it was his turn. He took one final deep breath and began the incantation. 
 
 “ Sawubona, ” Steve began, slowly sounding out each awkward consonant, “ ngiyaxolisa ukukuphazamisa ” — the room began to shake slightly — “ kodwa ngidinga lokubiza idemoni yengcebo! ” Steve took a deep breath, then shouted “ Siyijabulele! ” 
 
 The entire apartment began to rumble, Steve ’ s dishes falling off the nearby kitchen counter and onto the floor. He knew he should ’ ve put them away, eHow.com said to keep any breakable items away from the summoning. It had slipped his mind, and now he was paying the consequences. He could just buy more once he got his demon, though. 
 
 The tome slowly lifted itself into the air, levitating a few inches above the table without any assistance. It was working—he was going to be a demonic owner. Its pages slowly began turning over, as if a breeze were gusting across it, quickly lifting and slapping each brittle page down. Steve took a step back, the tome now several feet in the air, almost touching his ceiling, as a black cloud seeped out from its pages. It was inky and dark, as if the Exxon-Valdez had crashed directly in his kitchen, with the edges of the cloud swirling and contorting as it spread across the air over Steve ’ s head. A beam of light erupted from the middle, knocking Steve back and into the wall behind him. He fell to the floor as the room went silent. 
 
 Steve opened his eyes, catching the last of the black, inky cloud slithering back into the pages of the tome. It was now laying back down on the table, just as he had left it. He pushed himself up onto his feet and took a step toward the tome. He didn ’ t feel any richer, nor did he feel any more like a demon-owner. He must have done something wrong. 
 
 “ Hey, ” said a high-pitched voice from behind him, followed by a metallic clink against the ground. Steve turned around. A small, red creature was standing in his door way, no taller than three-and-a-half feet. It was partially naked, a burlap cloth around its waist, small black horns on his forehead. It held a small, brown pouch in its left hand. “ You called? ” 
 
 “ Demon? ” Steve said, his eyes wide. 
 
 “ By occupation, ” the demon said. “ Name ’ s Gary. Why did you call for me? ” 
 
 “ D-d-demon, ” Steve repeated with a stutter. “ Demon! ” 
 
 Gary stared at Steve, his head askew. “ Yeah, we covered that. What do you want? ” 
 
 “ Wealth! ” Steve shouted, a smile streaking across his face. “ Wealth, wealth. I need wealth. Riches. Money. Gold. ” 
 
 “ Well you called on the right guy. How much do you need? ” 
 
 “ All of it, ” Steve said. “ Everything. I want to be the richest, to be the desire of millions. I want it all. ” 
 
 “ Can do, buddy. Just need you to sign here. ” Gary said, pulling a clipboard out from nothingness. It was large, almost larger than himself, with an incredibly thick stack of papers. It looked more like Steve was purchasing several homes, rather than simply summoning a demon to provide him with unlimited riches. 
 
 “ What ’ s this? ” Steve said. 
 
 “ Basic T ’ s and C ’ s. You know, terms. Keeps liability off Satan, few safety wavers to make sure you don ’ t blame us if you hurt yourself, cancellation agreement, one or two dozen torture things, and a small clause about selling your soul to us for all of eternity. Nothing weird. You can just sign on the first page. ” 
 
 “ And then I get the money? ” Steve said. He turned and began rummaging through the desk drawer behind him for a pen, not waiting for a response. 
 
 “ Sure, ” Gary said. “ You sign this, you get the money. ” 
 
 Steve turned around, a small, blue Bic pen in hand. “ Give me it, ” he said, reaching his hand out toward the contract. Gary handed smiled and thrust the clipboard toward him. Steve grabbed it, flipped it over, and quickly scribbled his name across dotted line, then handed it back. 
 
 “ Great! ” Gary said. “ Perfect. ” 
 
 “ Give me my money now. I want it all. ” 
 
 “ Sure thing, champ, ” Gary said, walking toward Steve. His hand was outstretched, the small, brown bag in his upturned palm. He pushed it into Steve ’ s hand. 
 
 “ What ’ s this? ” Steve said, pulling on the strings at its top to open it up. 
 
 “ The money, ” Gary said. 
 
 “ It ’ s all in here? ” Steve glanced inside. What appeared to be several quarters, pennies, dimes, and nickels sat inside. “ This is like $ 1.45. ” 
 
 “ Wow, good guess. It ’ s $ 1.43. ” 
 
 “ I don ’ t get it, ” Steve said. “ Where ’ s my riches? My wealth? ” 
 
 “ It ’ s in that bag, ” Gary said. “ It ’ ll always be in the bag. Check it out. ” Gary grabbed the bag and emptied it onto the floor, then handed it back to Steve. It was still full. Steve glanced inside. 
 
 “ It ’ s still $ 1.43 in there, ” he said, now looking at the $ 1.43 in coins on the floor. 
 
 “ Yeah, you ’ ll always have $ 1.43 in there. That ’ s what it caps out at. ” 
 
 “ I don ’ t understand, you ’ re the Demon of Patron Wealth. This isn ’ t wealth. This is pocket change. I sold you my soul, where is my money? My riches? ” 
 
 “ What? Demon of Patron We—oh. See, you got the wrong guy. I ’ m the Demon of Loose Change. Happens all the time, ” Gary said, laughing. “ Honestly, just last week some guy in Australia did the same thing. He had a better accent, though. ” 
 
 Steve glanced down at the bag. A limitless source of $ 1.43. Maybe he could just tip it over and spill it on the floor all day—but then he'd have to transport hundreds of tons of coins to the bank. Steve let out a long, heavy sigh. It was going to be a long eternity. 

