The Normalizers

“…and I’m telling you, as the exorcist, I have full U.N. backing to take…” Harry said, the phone actually feeling physically hot as the shouting man from the NYPD interrupted him and tore him a new asshole over the phone. As the man’s voice starting rising again Harry did what he had done throughout the conversation and held the phone away from his face, allowing the screaming to echo out into the void of his apartment. “Such language is unbecoming, friend,” Harry said when he moved the phone back to his ear, putting as much sing song insincerity into his voice as possible. He was, after all, allowed to have his fun.

After another half hour of the words “chain of evidence” and “proper procedure” being shrieked into his ear, Harry laid on his bed, staring up at the familiar cracks in the ceiling as the TV droned on. He was going to Japan. They couldn’t stop him. Exorcists had absolute jurisdiction when dealing with demon related crimes. And he was going to deal with whatever was going on with this book himself.

“Today we ask the question, why are more people willingly making contracts with demons?” the news jackass said. Harry looked up, his eyebrow arching. Great, exactly what I need right now, he thought. Thinking of those people.

“You’re asking me?” Harry asked the television, doing his best not to sound bitter about the topic. “Because they’re weak. Or insane.”

“Many people say demons are misunderstood extradimensional visitors who…” the commentator started before Harry turned the screen off, plunging the room into darkness.

“Normalizers. Making demons seem safe,” Harry said to the darkness, as if daring someone to disagree with his assessment. He still remembered the first time he saw one of the red arm bands up close. A sewer gator was working in a grocery store, stocking shelves like it was perfectly normal seeing a six foot tall anthropomorphic alligator wearing slacks and a blue shirt. Harry had starred at him, the red armband signaling he was not a dangerous demon.

Not a dangerous demon. As if it were a thing.

“Why? Why give up your humanity?” Harry had asked, the words slipping out before he knew he was saying them. He intimately knew how demon possession worked. A voice from nowhere spoke to you, telling you the things it could do for you, if only you opened up and let it in. The body then became owned by two souls, human and demon, both working together. It was why demons still possessed traits from their hosts, despite whatever physical changes took place. As Harry had looked at the monster wearing a corporate grocery uniform, he couldn’t understand. Demons helped people get money, power, vengeance, blood. They didn’t work in supermarkets. They didn’t get special permission to live like god damn refugees. What were either of them getting from the deal?

“For my family, sir,” the sewer gator simply said. The answer rattled around in Harry’s brain for weeks after. What the hell did it even mean? What family would want their dad living as a monster?

Those thoughts swirled through his brain as he walked through the airport, JFK bright and full of life. He still saw it full of blood and screams and body parts in the days after D Day when he let his mind wander. Harry tried to push the memories of death away, forgetting when he saw creatures which now worked in grocery stores tearing people apart.

“Don’t touch me! Freaks like you should die!”

Heads turned. A woman in an expensive looking coat was spitting her venom at a woman who was possessed by a mothman working at a deli counter, the bright red armband declaring she simply wanted to exist. The mothwoman leaned back, clearly not the aggressor in this situation, her fuzzy insect face furrowing in panic, her wings fluttering rapidly. Harry took a quick walk down memory lane, recalling all the times he encountered mothmen, the ways disasters seemed to follow their presence. But here one was, trying to sell god damn sandwiches.

Not my problem, Harry thought, continuing on through the airport. I’m an exorcist. I fight demons. I contain them. I’m not their babysitters. They kill. I stop them. Simple. If Harry kept walking he would be beyond their voices and he wouldn’t have to think about what made a normal woman let a dangerous monster have partial control of her body.

The mothwoman looked like she was trying to explain. The woman heard none of it. As soon as the demon worker reached for the woman’s credit card again, the woman reared up, hand raised, ready to strike as hard as she physically could. The mothwoman raised her hands to block the blow, a pathetic whimper escaping her mouth.

The hand never struck. Her arm was stopped by meaty fingers wrapping around it. The woman looked up the see Harry Vickers glowering down at her, her arm in one of his hands, his magical sledgehammer crackling with energy in the other.

“You…go kill the demon!” the woman screeched, pointing at the mothwoman as her eyes traveled between Harry’s face and his hammer. The mothwoman backed up a step, her hands up, armband clearly visible. Harry heard the manager somewhere close by, yelling about Aisha having cancer, how she wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. Harry’s eyes dipped to the nametag on the mothwoman. Hello Aisha.

“I don’t kill demons. I contain monsters,” Harry said, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on the woman’s arm.

“But it…”

“Isn’t hurting anyone,” Harry said, letting go of her. She glared at him bitterly, rubbing her arm. With a quick turn she stomped away, sandwichless and humiliated. How many people you loved died at the hands of demons ten years ago, Harry wondered as she walked away. How many died since? Does it make how you reacted right?

His eyes flicked to the mothwoman. How scared of cancer must you have been to let a demon in, Aisha? Is your life better now?

Harry walked away without saying a word, without even looking the mothwoman in the eyes, his hammer disappearing into a burst of crackling energy. He was suddenly tired. Politics pissed him off. People compared the normalizers to middle east refugees, to fascistic colonizers, using any words they could to make their versions of reality the right one. Protesters and politicians and people who have never ever seen a demon in real life making their voices heard.

Well screw ‘em all, Harry thought.

Harry Vickers knew right from wrong. Demons were monsters. It was a fact. It was why he survived D Day. It was the people the demons possessed who were complicated. A gun can protect or destroy, after all. Were demons so different from weapons? And Harry always had a simple philosophy on guns.

You use one to hurt innocent people, you forfeit your right to be called human.

The same applied to demons.

He leaned back in his airplane seat, eyes closed. No more politics. Figure out the book. Stop the bad guys. Smash any demons in his way with his hammer. It was all simple. Easy.

And if he tried real hard, he even believed it.