The demon’s arm sweeps out high while its writing tentacled underbelly shoots forward towards Malcolm. With a deft slash of his knife Malcolm parries the beast’s hand to the side but his legs get caught in the tentacles wrapping around his feet. Slamming down hard onto his back his wide-brimmed hat flies off and his knife slides into the darkness behind him. The creature opens its maw, filled with teeth churning like a powered saw, and the tentacles start to draw Malcolm forward. Saliva drips down into his legs and a rumbling from the demon’s gullet shakes the floor beneath him. Against all logic, Malcolm produces a pistol from his waistband and shots the monster in the mouth a dozen times before the gun starts to dry fire. The tentacles release and the creature roars in agony and anger.

Malcolm scrambles to his feet and drops his gun, it doesn’t have the stopping power he needs to kill the beast. His legs hurt but he puts it out of his mind as he reaches over his shoulder to draw his sword. As the blade slides free of his scabbard Malcolm presses his thumb into the hilt just below the blade. Jets of liquid fire pour out of small vents on either side of the blade and roll down the groove carved in the center of the blade. Malcolm charges the monster and in the illumination of his sword he sees the unimaginable horror of the demon. Hesitation was the first thing he learned to kill and a swift mental jab at his brain prevents him from faltering in his course. He launches into the air, sword held tight in both hands, and falls onto the beast. The pummel of his blade digs into his gut as he uses his own weight to drive the flaming sword into what he assumes to be the creature’s face.

“Back to hell with thee.” Malcolm whispers as the monster screams.

Malcolm falls into the creature as it dies, its body turning into sticky  green ichor. He chokes back vomit and presses the button on his blade again. The flames die off and he lets himself descent through the corpse of the beast until his face touches the cold steel floor once more. He lets a moment pass before he pulls himself to his feet. The he makes his way over and retrieves his lost hat, gun, and knife. While reloading his pistol he assess the situation out loud to himself.

“Five gutters down. Sohog Queen came close to the surface, odd. Fire and light worked. Dangerous for her. This is not good.”

Malcolm trails off in his thoughts as he glances down at his burning legs. Whatever slime those tentacles produced it wasn’t for lubrication. His pants are almost completely dissolved just below the knee and his legs look badly burned. He watches for a moment as the slime continues to eat away at his pants before pulling his knife back out and cutting the fabric. If he wasn’t such a dower man Malcolm would look comical standing in his newly cut-off shorts and big black steel boots. He makes his way over to where he dropped his satchel early in the fight and pulls a flask from inside. He begins to unscrew the cap and the pungent odor assaults his senses. He gags as he pours the fluid over his burned legs, from one sick smell to another. White foam starts building up wherever this new substance comes into contact with the monster’s slime and soon his legs stop burning. The pain remains.

“Bless Saint Roberto Francesco Romolo Bellarmino” Malcolm whispers to himself as he cleans his wounds.

As Malcolm begins his long walk back to his parish a man steps out of the shadows and addresses him by proper name. This newcomer smiles a devil’s grin that sets Malcolm on edge. His attire doesn’t help either. The suit the man wears is high-waisted, wide-legged, tight-cuffed, with pegged trousers, and a long coat with wide lapels and wide padded shoulders. It’s a fashion not seen on Earth since before the end. His coat and trousers are black but the shirt underneath is crimson red, the forbidden color. Malcolm assesses him quickly and determines he’s unarmed, he doesn’t stand like a man with a hidden gun. This all goes to make Malcolm extremely uncomfortable.

“Padre Malcolm Travers Francis MacGregor. Pardon my intrusion. I surveyed your battle from the shadows and was most impressed. Your skill and prowess are unparalleled. The stories I’ve heard about you are not of mere legend. Allow me to introduce myself, you may call me Mister Coat.” The man is practically speaking through his grin.

“Silence devil. Thou speaks of lies and trickery. I shalt not hear it!” Malcolm bellows and places his hand on his knife.

“Padre Malcolm Travers Francis MacGregor. You are mistaken, I am not an agent of the Morning Star but a simple and humble agent of the gutters. Now please, dispense with your archaic tongue. It makes you hard to understand.” Mister Coat says, wolfish grin still in place.

“No proper man could live this far from the light.” Malcolm, slightly confused by this creature, holds fast over his blade.

“Padre Malcolm Travers Francis MacGregor. You are correct, I am not a proper man.  As I said, I am an agent of the gutters.” Mister Coat shimmers as he says the final words.

“I don’t understand you. What are you, Mister Coat?” Malcolm says quietly.

Winner
He is a hallucination that Malcolm is having.