The scene is a small home office (otherwise known as mommy’s basement). We see a young gothgirl demonolator sitting in a worn swivel chair, consulting a clipboard as she speaks. Seated on the bed is a demon.
Gothgirl: So, you foster unrest in racially tense environments, and consume the souls of rats and other vermin, yeah?
Demon: Indeed. I also provide aid and succor to racists, but only on weekends.
Gothgirl: Right, well, I’ll get back to ya, okay?
Demon exits, muttering to itself.
Gothgirl: Next!
A slimy demon enters, and perches on the desk.
Slimy: Thou hast summoned me, mortal… Do not waste my time.
Gothgirl: So, tell me about yourself.
Slimy: I am Quimartus the Wretched. I delight in incorrect change, unreadable reciepts, and 45 minute breaks. Also, I enjoy moving small objects horizontally, back and forth, for no apparent reason.
Gothgirl: So, basically, you’re the patron demon of snotty teenage retail clerks, right?
Slimy: Indeed, mortal. Politeness and speed is the bane of my existance, the fly in my ointment, and the tack in my seatcushion.
Gothgirl: Well, I think we could work something out… Can I get back to you early tomorrow?
Slimy: Annoy me not, insignificant fleshling. Those who fail to give me a callback often find themselves cursed with pox, boils, and occasional irregularity.
Slimy Demon disappears in a cloud of roiling green smoke, but can be seen crawling out the door, under cover of the cheap smokebomb.
Gothgirl: Hmmm. Let’s see who’s next on my list…
Stagelights fade, curtain closes. End of Act 1