[ WP ] A cult tries to summon a demon/God but manages to summon you instead .

Steve blinked. 
 
 The first thing that he noticed was that he seemed to be surrounded by a great deal of red. Not pretty red, like a sunset or a cherry, but a dull, dripping, brownish sort of red exactly unlike that of the brand-new convertible he had been driving moments before. This, he found, was quite confusing indeed. 
 
 The second thing he noticed was that he seemed to be surrounded by a large number of men. This in and of itself was n't all too unexpected for Steve, as he assumed that he had been in some sort of horrible accident involving his brand-new cherry-red convertible and was now on the brink of death. What *was* surprising, however, was that instead of police uniforms or nurses outfits each one appeared to be wearing a floor-length black cloak. This, Steve decided, had been a mistake. They did n't seem to anticipate all of the blood. It was really quite messy. He imagined that taking off one of the cloaks would leave you with a great bloody smear over the back of your head unless you were particularly careful. 
 
 It was only then that he noticed the bodies strewn about the stony floor, forming a circle around his feet. This, as you might imagine, was a bit of a shock. He sincerely hoped that they had not been killed through some fault of his - perhaps involving a certain brand-new cherry-red convertible. He crouched down, peering at one of them, and decided that no, it was not his fault. Convertibles do n't often leave stab wounds, after all. And finally, putting together the dead bodies and the black cloaks in his mind, he decided that he must know where he was. 
 
 He was at a funeral. 
 
 `` I hope that you find the sacrifices worthy, oh great one.'' Spoke the tallest of the hooded figures. `` You will find that there are thirteen, in all - your sacred number carved in blood into their flesh. If they are not as of yet sufficient, we have more waiting to appease your thirst.'' 
 
 Steve did n't answer at first. He was far too busy patting himself down, frantically searching for a knife wound that he hoped he would never find. It was only after the man in the hood cleared his throat that Steve realized that something was expected of him. 
 
 `` Oh... oh yes! They are... most sufficient.'' He said, checking his heels for hidden daggers. `` Very... erm... bloody.'' 
 
 `` Ah! Thank goodness!'' Replied the cultist. `` We did think the blood would appease you appropriately. Will any more be required?'' 
 
 `` Oh... oh no. This is quite enough.'' Steve nodded. Somewhere, deep within the recesses of his mind, a part of him realized that there had been a horrible, horrible mistake. This part promptly screamed, went mad, and was shot by the rest of his brain for almost giving them away. 
 
 `` Now then... if we could get along with the terms of... the contract...'' The man said. 
 
 `` Oh! Yes, the contract!'' Steve exclaimed. ``... What contract is that, exactly?'' Somehow, he doubted it had much to do with his job as manager of a canning factory. 
 
 `` Our contract. Involving the death of a certain... figure of importance.'' The man asked, his voice dripping with confusion. ``... You *are* the great lord of doom *Ste've*, are you not?'' 
 
 `` Y... yes! Of course I am!'' Steve exclaimed, placing his hand on his hips in what he hoped was an intimidating pose. `` You... dare to doubt me?'' Half forgotten lessons from his youth bubbled up to the forefront of his brain: If someone asks you if you are a god... *you say yes. * 
 
 
 The man cowered instantly. `` No! Oh, no, great terrible one! Forgive me, my lack of faith betrays me!'' 
 
 Steve resisted the urge to walk up to the man and pat him on the back. `` There there...'' He said, rather uncertainly. `` It's quite alright. Now, about this... contract business.'' 
 
 `` Yes, the contract.'' The man cleared his throat, regaining some of his composure. `` We could n't help but notice, but our... target... is still very much alive and well.'' 
 
 `` Well, of course he is!'' Steve exclaimed. `` You ca n't very well expect him to just drop dead on his own overnight. These sort of things take *planning. *'' 
 
 `` Yes, well, it is clearly stated in the contract that you had two moons to-'' 
 
 `` Two moons *nothing*! I'll get to it when I get to it!'' Steve yelled. `` In fact, I was just getting around to getting around to doing it when you called me here! It'd be done already had you just left well enough alone!'' Internally, he hoped he had not pushed them too far - but the man simply cowered again. 
 
 `` Yes, well, we're... terribly sorry for interrupting you.'' Said the man, bowing so low that he dipped the tip of his hood into the blood covering the floor. `` Shall we just... send you back?'' 
 
 `` Hmmmm...'' Steve said, pretending to think. `` Well, you can. But my plans are ruined, it's going to take at least two more moons before I can set things up again. So do n't go expecting this sort of thing to get done overnight. It's not magic!'' 
 
 `` Of course, my lord.'' The figure bowed still deeper, and Steve had to resist cringing as the blood dripped down the cultist's mask. `` Very well then. Begone, Ste've, and finish our contract undisturbed!'' 
 
 And Steve's world became blackness. 
 
 When Steve awoke, he was lying face-down with his nose buried in a particularly fragrant patch of grass. He rolled over, weakly. For the second time that day, he wondered exactly what set of circumstances had led him into this particular situation. In this case, sitting on a hill, next to a tree that would have been rather pleasant to sit under had it not had a certain brand-new cherry-red convertible wrapped around it like a monstrous parody of a lapdog. Steve sighed. Things could be worse, everything considered. Absently, he wondered how long it would take for the cultists to realize his deception. If, of course, they ever did. In the distance, a siren blared. 
 
 Steve decided that he did n't have much to worry about.
