The Stump Hotel's neon sign (a letching beaver biting seductively into a pirate's wooden leg) reflects in the muddy carpark. You spot a portable smoke machine beside your car and, in the pocket of your coat, use your keys to create a Wolverine-like fist. Fake smoke swirls excitedly as you approach.

Hurry up if you're gonna rape me.

Satan emerges from behind your car, Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to his navel, smiling goofily: stupidly handsome, beatific, blonde, chiseled, he's standing on two dainty cloven hooves - really more deerlike than caprine.

You release the keys in your pocket.

I Want to go Through Hell for You

What's good?

Can you not come looming out of the darkeness like that - you really creeped me out.

I wanted to make a grand entrance but it's hard in a carpark.

I can imagine. Did you have to bring a generator for that smoke machine?

Yes, but whatever. Can I drive you home?

Can your hooves work the pedals

Satan shifts his hooves shyly.

Besides, I don't think that's a good idea.

I'm not gonna do anything - I just wanna hang out and eat Doritos and watch late-night infomercials with you.

I'm so drunk. I just wanna throw up in the shower and go to bed.

So let me drive you.

I can handle it.

You only summon me when you need something - I'm not a genie, you can't just call on me to grant wishes -

Dude, you call that a wish? You've ruined drinking and parties and bars for me. They were like the only thing I enjoyed. Now I never know -

Excuse you, I did exactly what you asked.

Oh yeah, like this is what I wanted. To be arguing with you in a carpark on a Saturday night.

That's so unfair, you only summon me when you -

Oh like fuck - did I summon you tonight, did I ever say I wanted to see you?

You know I've really been here for you. I've seen you cry watching Call of Duty cut scenes and still wanted to hang out with you. I've heard you mispronounce 'epitome' and 'hyperbole' so many times and never corrected you. I let you tell me the same anecdotes over and over again. I politely ate that disgusting thing you cooked with the cheese and corn.

Calm down.

And I shaved your -

That cheese thing was great.

I really just want to hang out with you.

Too bad.

You pull up the pyjama shirt you've been wearing all day to reveal the tattoo below your right breast. He tilts his head to the side while he watches you lick your thumb and run it along the words: Daddy's Angel.

Please get home safely.

Don't tell me what to do.

As soon as you lift your thumb from the tattoo, Satan is sucked backwards through a portal in his own belly button. All that's left is hoof prints in the mud of the car park and his smoke machine chugging sadly beside your car.

If tattoo activation to summon and dismiss bad guys reminds readers of the vallains from a famous YA story, let that tell them something about how that author achieved her success. The bargain J.K. Rowling struck was that she would be famous and successful beyond any existing measure, but that she would desecrate her legacy by being an idiot on Twitter. Satan made his offer in 1996, long before Twitter even existed, so it sounded reasonable to Ms. Rowling at the time. When Twitter launched a decade later, she felt herself inexorably drawn to the platform: after all, she was an internationally beloved author, year after year she outsold the Bible, world leaders read her books to their children at night, she was the most popular single mum since Princess Diana - surely people would want to know what she thought about foreign politics and the latest scandal surrounding YouTube personalities.