To the Devil, a Lawwell

Dr John Reid held the cock by the head as Lawwell ran a knife across its neck and warm blood gurgled out and over the naked body of Herald editor Jonathan Russell and at last he was consecrated as a member of the inner sanctum of Lawwell's sinister brotherhood. Then the chanting started and Father Wormwood materialised over Russell and rogered him senseless, everyone cheered and then repaired to the lounge to remove their scarlet robes, sip cocktails and celebrate their diversity by singing songs about killing British soldiers. Just another lively party at Schoenhausen then.

It was Saturday night and Lawwell had arranged the infernal baptism of Russell at short notice in order to hold him to the puff piece he required of the Herald to absolve the club of any flack heading its way over the Green Brigade's appalling display during the Aberdeen game. Once he'd been baptised in Lawwell's Satanic ritual, there was no way back and as expected, Monday's piece on yet another Celtic Poppiegate read like an article out of the Celtic View. Hurrah then, we all cried and everyone queued up to shake hands with Mark McGhee who was there accepting plaudits for handing Celtic a morale boosting 9-0 win. As McGhee was raised on the shoulders of the sports staff of the Daily Mail who these days led the field in their refusal to disguise their Celtic leanings, I heard someone say my name to my right and turned to see Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter standing there, brazen as you like.
'What are you doing here and in the middle of all this?' I goggled.
'Mass hypnosis, Spiers. It's easy. Nobody knows I'm here except you. This is all very interesting, the Scottish press selling their souls en-mass to the devil and here you are, right in amongst it, a very willing participant. A minor cog these days though, eh? After all, who reads the Scottish Times anymore?'
I ignored his attempts to rile me but noticed that I was receiving a few odd looks for as far as anyone else was concerned, I seemed to be talking to myself. Then again, since no one else usually spoke to me anyway, this was nothing new.
'So what are you doing here?' I asked, surveying the room to make sure that sneak Charlie Gordon wasn't lurking anywhere - he's the one you always have to look out for. He did for Wendy Alexander at Reid's bidding and I was sure he wasn't going to get me too thanks to an invisible Jorg Albertz.
'I have a feeling this gathering is going to need me tonight,' said Albertz. 'You and I know that the demon Screwtape has possessed Lennon and I'm sure Lawwell knows too but I've heard mutterings in the underworld that Screwtape's intentions and Lawwell's aren't the same. You can't trust demons, Spiers - they're liars by their very nature and I suppose that's why Lawwell thinks he can control them since there's no bigger liar than him (tour of Japan indeed) but they can't be controlled, they work to a different agenda and the infernal grapevine tells me that something big is going to happen tonight and I'm here to put all the bits back together once Lawwell's witless plan falls to pieces. Nobody wants an Inquisition Demon running amok in Glasgow. Well, nobody sane anyway.'
Then as if on cue, there was a scream and Neil Lennon stood up from the table where he was sitting having his nob stroked by Mark Guidi and all hell broke loose, Lennon's head rotated 180 degrees and he vomited all over Roddy Forsyth who was waiting on line to take over from Guidi. 'Your mothers suck cocks in hell!' he screamed and then fainted and wet himself as he lay on the floor although such is Neil Lennon's behaviour these days, nobody noticed anything odd about this. Except Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter.