"SATAN LIVES!"

This was screamed at me when I was about 7 years old. I was just an innocent child riding my bike, when a man sitting in his car on the side of the road threw his fast food trash at me as I passed by, peeled out, and stopped next to me to yell, "SATAN LIVES! I WORSHIP HIM!!!" (By the way, he looked like the black haired robin hood from the 80's British TV show. The man in the car. Not Satan.)

I never thought anything of this (I mean besides being terrified and emotionally scarred for life), until I actually met The Lord of all Demons.

Last night I’m turning off all my lamps in my hotel room so I can sleep, when this giant black flying bug the size of China comes out of the curtains. Not wanting the beast to fly into my face while I’m dreaming peacefully, I try to open my sliding doors to let the “little guy” out. But guess what, they're electronically LOCKED. (I guess so drunk people won't try to jump over the edge) No go there.

Of course while trying to open the doors DESPITE the lock (I actually considered pulling out the wires in an act of desperation), the monster vanishes. I poke around the room for awhile, but nope. Nothing.

3am. I hear this rapid clicking sound, wind blasting into my face from the giant wings of Satan himself. I get up. Grab a towel. And smote the demon on the side of the wall.

Being quite proud of my kill, I pick it up to admire my prize. The thing had pincers that could bite through solid cast iron, eyes that glowed bright red, and claws that Wolverine would be jealous of. I couldn’t waste such a trophy in the toilet, so I put it on the bathroom counter, figuring it'd give the maid a little scare.

Now I could return to my wonderful dreamland. The evil presence had been lifted from the room.

Brushing my teeth in the morning, I vaguely remember the battle that ensued just hours ago.

I gotta take a picture of this thing!

But wait....its nowhere to be found. Not on the counter where I so carefully placed it. Not under the counter. Not in the trash.

I'm not sure what's worse. The thought that the bug crawled away to die somewhere respectable (leaving a decaying corpse under my bed or in my underwear), or that something even bigger carried it off.

Sometimes I wonder what ever happened to that guy who screamed at me. Was he aware that Satan was staying at the Westgate? I would love to find him today, and see the look on his face when I tell him that the demon he so worshipped is now rotting in my hotel room.