Cinnamon Demon

The Cinnamon Demon lives in the juices of his own being. He haunts the stomachs of the young who constantly sip at his mead… and the foolish “un-young” looking to revive their youth.

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This story was originally published on Medium.

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“How do people do this night after night?!” I screech through a scratchy throat.

“What do you mean? You used to do this night after night!” Chris laughs as he stands over me like a giant, confidence radiating every which way.

I roll out of bed, pushing Chris out of the way with weak arms. My bare feet touching the floor hurts… it hurts my feet… I feel pain in my legs, my hips, my stomach. I dry heave. Whew. Nothing.

“Yeah, that was a decade ago.” I remind Chris.

Back in my 20’s I could drink copious amounts of alcohol each night for a week straight. Back in my 20’s I could have a night out at a bar where I drank five beers, two mixed drinks, and two shots of some liquid straight from the anus of the Cinnamon Demon himself… finish the night off with a greasy meal and less than four hours of sleep… and I’d wake up the next morning with nothing but a bit of grogginess. I’d have a protein shake and a shower I’d feel just as good as if I’d stayed in the night before and got a full eight hours of sleep.

Now, I have three beers in one single night, one slice of pizza, and I’ll experience hours of heartburn before I go to bed… I’ll have dreams of heartburn… I’ll dream of the fires of Hell living in my chest… The Cinnamon Demon would be there again… I’ll wake up the next morning as I have right now… a vice grip clutching my head… uncomfortable, heavy heat all over my body, an overfilled stomach, the pain of a marathon I never ran prodding at all my muscles.

“It was two nights in a row… of just a few beers… and some pizza.” Chris says casually as if that isn’t a death sentence to my 30-something body.

I dry heave.

“Don’t say pizza.” I collect myself. “What was that topping you put on it last night?”

“Artichokes?”

“That’s what it was. Artichokes. I can’t do artichokes on pizza… and beer… my acid reflux…”

“So, two nights in a row of pizza and beer…”

“With artichokes.”

“And you’re on the floor?”

“I’m standing.”

“On the floor.”

“Where else would I be standing?”

“You know there are 50-year-olds that are able to drink multiple nights in a row.” Chris says condescendingly.

“I know, and I don’t understand that. How?”

“We didn’t even finish the 12-pack of beer. Over two nights.”

“Maybe in my old age I need to switch to something else.” I ponder, sitting down on the floor, my joints and muscles weak. “Maybe I can’t do beer anymore. Maybe I should start drinking–”

“Maybe we need to perk you up with some shots! I got Fireball!”

I dry heave. But it feels wet. The Cinnamon Demon. His ass is on the scene.

“Don’t say Fireball.”

I clamor to my feet and sprint for the bathroom.

“Can’t say Fireball, can’t say pizza, can’t say artichokes. You really are fragile aren’t you?!” Chris calls out to me as I have flung the toilet seat up and begun to return the artichokes to the sea.

“We didn’t even have Fireball last night! How did that set you off?!” Chris calls out.

“It’s a terrible alcohol!” I scream back between artichokes. “No one over the age of 25 should drink that or even utter the name of it!”

“I’m gonna go out and get us some breakfast. Maybe you need some carbs or something. That might help you to feel better. What do you want?”

I think for a moment. I am relaxed. I am finished here. I clutch to the coolness of the porcelain for just a bit longer as I gather my thoughts.

“I could take a muffin!” I call out.

“Perfect!” Chris is heading for the exit. “Place down the street does an excellent cinnamon muffin.”

Artichokes.

Cinnamon Demon, I have avoided your tempting ways for over a decade. I have ignored your wicked ways, but you have still come back to battle me again. You have won again. Now leave me be. Leave me to my quiet lifestyle. I will never bother you or your brethren again. None of the other flavored spirits will cross my path. Those are drinks of a young man… a young man which I am not.

Leave me to beer-and-a-half Friday nights with an early bedtime, sensible light dinners, and full nights of rest. I will leave you to the bellies of the young. Now go. I never wish to battle you again. You cannot be conquered. I know this now.

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