Boiler Room, and I'll be damned straight to Hell before I transcribe another stupid spell, so here's what going on visually as Shut Up Daddy chants Craptin: John kneels above the sigil, upon which he's placed six lighted candles in the appropriate corners, and slices open the palm of his hand to drizzle blood into a bowl of what I'm guessing is a lip-smacking mix of acacia and oil of abramelin. He next drops a lit match into the bowl, which erupts into a great, big sparkly spray of festively flaming fireworks. The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon approves. John shakily rises to his feet and darts his eyes nervously around the room. Just when we think his masterful conjurations have all been for naught, Frederic Lane from several dismal episodes of Lost pops into the frame dressed as the hospital's night janitor to piss all over John's demon-summoning parade. Or does he? "I can explain!" John bleats. The janitor's all, "Yeah, explain it to security, jackhole," before he orders, "Follow me!" By way of response, John whips the fucking Colt out of the back of his jeans and aims it at the janitor's head. "How stupid do you think I am?" Do you really want an answer to that question, Shut Up Daddy? The janitor grins a little before giving up on his charade and slipping into his Thriller eyes. And then? The Ceiling Demon most awesomely smirks, "You really want an honest answer to that?" Hey! That's what I just said! Well, almost. But you can tell for whom I'll be rooting for over the rest of the evening, right? Right.
In any event, two temporarily possessed hospital employees emerge from the darkness beyond The Ceiling Demon to take up positions on either side of Shut Up Daddy, the better to ensure that any subsequent physical altercations will be decidedly one-sided. "John, I'm surprised," CD mockingly admits once his minions are in place. "I took you for a lot of things, but suicidally reckless wasn't one of them." The way Frederic Lane enunciates "suicidally reckless" makes me grin like the demon-loving fool I am. "I could always shoot you," John parries. "You could always miss!" The CD gleefully taunts, pulling a Fosse-inspired back-lunge, complete with toothy grin and jazz hands. Hee. "Did you really think you could trap me?" The CD condescends. "Oh, I don't want to trap you," John assures him, and to prove his point, he lowers that fucking Colt to his side, un-cocking it as he goes. After a beat, he eyebrows, "I wanna make a deal." Horns like the upward wailing of a tornado klaxon howl on the soundtrack before The Ceiling Demon's broadly grinning mug gets swallowed by the METAL TEETH CHOMP!