[ WP ] While putting your favorite condiment on a sandwich , you accidentally draw a symbol that summons demons .

I ’ ve seen the movies. You ’ ve probably seen them too. The ones where dark cultists summon demons and devils by drawing bloody symbols on the ground. Usually they celebrate by possessing people, speaking in tongues, summoning an army of the dead, that sort of thing. It ’ s all very hardcore. Very “ metal ”. 
 
 Mustard demons, though, now they ’ re a little different. For one thing, there ’ s nowhere near as much chanting. I guess I hummed a little, but I ’ m not sure if that counts. 
 
 I ’ m not a creative guy, but I like to doodle on my food. Like a work of mustardy art. Mustart. That ’ s probably where I went wrong. 
 
 I had just put my knife back in the jar to get a second helping when there was a puff of smoke – a little on the spicy side, if you ask me – and there it was, floating a couple of inches above my sandwich. 
 
 A gloopy yellow blob, its surface seemed to ripple slightly as if moved by its own breeze. Two small points that might have been horns jutted out slightly from the top. Slowly, with almost painstaking effort, it spoke. 
 
 “ What? ” 
 
 I stood there and blinked. Had my mustard just talked to me? 
 “ Excuse me, ” I asked it, and immediately felt awfully silly. Who ever heard of anyone talking to their condiments? 
 
 “ What are you? ” 
 
 “ Mustard, ” it replied in its deep, slightly too rounded voice. 
 
 “ Oh. ” Obviously. 
 
 “ Hurry up, ” it continued. “ I haven ’ t got all day. ” 
 
 Neither did I. I really ought to have finished making my lunch by now. 
 
 “ Don ’ t mind me, ” I told it. 
 
 The mustard sighed in exasperation. 
 
 “ Woooo, ” it chanted unenthusiastically, sending ripples cascading upwards across it. After a moment, it stopped and shivered. 
 
 “ There you go. ” 
 
 “ There I go what? ” I asked. 
 
 “ It ’ s done, ” came the reply. 
 
 “ What is? ” 
 
 “ The ritual. ” It turned and gazed down at the half-finished sandwich beneath it with its non-existent eyes. “ It should be pretty hot now. ” 
 
 I followed its lead and stared uncertainly at my lunch. 
 
 “ My sandwich? ” 
 
 “ Yes, ” confirmed the mustard. “ Can I go now? ” 
 
 I nodded, and the demon vanished with a squelch. 
 
 Without its demonic companion, my sandwich looked rather lonely. For a sandwich. Next to it sat the jar of mustard, the knife still sticking out of it at an awkward angle. I picked it up and spread it across, forever erasing the summoning circle. 
 
 And now it ’ s lunchtime. I ’ ve never had a demon cast a spell on my lunch before. To tell you the truth, it scares me a little. But who ever heard of being scared of a sandwich?
