A poem in honor of Zhanna Friske
by Christopher Zisi
An antique Ouija board…..
A canister of whipped cream….
Wallace wants to speak to the dead.
Barnabas desires the dead to rise.
Quentin? To travel to an alternate universe.
And Missy awaits an ice cream social.
Barnabas wonders “who invited Missy?”
Quentin did, a sacrifice will be needed.
Wallace packs a ceremonial dagger.
Missy plays with her shopping app.
Quentin recites a satanic incantation in Latin.
Wallace dons a blood red robe.
Barnabas strangles a chicken.
Missy passes around the Purell.
Demons awoken from the underworld.
The skull exudes blue smoke.
Moans emanate from the ceiling.
Missy posts the Necronomicon on her Instagram.
Wind blows open the windows.
In the adjacent cemetery, the dead stir.
QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! …sounds Missy’s iPhone.
“Hi Heather! I’ll call you back,” Missy answers.
Missy disconnects the call.
“Who invited this bimbo?” asks Wallace.
“She is the chosen one,” Barnabas insists.
“Bimbo!?” Missy is irate.
Wallace reaches for his dagger.
Too late, the skank has a Glock.
The wannabe Satanist trio meet a grim fate.
A spray of 40 caliber blessings.
Quentin, Barnabas, and Wallace are no more.
No longer slut of the Ratskellar,
Missy is now Princess Zhanna.
On the dark side of the street she patrols.
Zhanna has found a 21st century body.
Sultry, flirtatious, frisky, and lethal,
Demons know Zhanna is the new law in town.