It was ironic. Chamus appreciated irony. That was why, in his movements across the world, he had momentarily settled down within the Bible Belt. Georgia, specifically. Hopefully he would be able to lay low in Georgia for a few years before moving on. The on-the-road life had been hard at first but now he appreciated it. He felt free, unchained. There weren't any labels stuck on him and he didn't have to follow orders. Hell, he didn't even pay taxes. Previously, he had been kept down in a figurative cage. Now the tiger was unchained and ready to run free and stretch its legs. In fact, exile could be good for him. He never looked at it that way but it did give him time to be his own vengeful spirit cloud-thing. Demon was such a prejudice term so he was trying not to use it to describe himself anymore. He still had demonic pride but he didn't want to be chained down by labels that would make others biased against him.
Leaning against the side of his Jaguar, he lifted up a black mug to his lips. The mug was decorated, brazenly declaring it's message to the world:
"Sorry, I'm Allergic to Bullshit."
What could he say? It suited him and he had to buy it in the store. As for its contents, well the mug was filled with a strange dark liquid topped off with white cream. Bobbing around inside like passengers abandoning the Titanic to jump into the sea were marsh mellows. The mini kind, naturally. Yes, the great demon from Hell was drinking hot chocolate from a mug in the middle of Georgia while leaning against a 1961 Jaguar Type-E. And, despite the small smile on his face as he took a sip from the mug, he was obviously worried. His shoulders were sagged downwards, there were bags under his eyes and his complexion was a bit on the pale side. The biggest out of all the signs was the fact his hands were violently shaking, barely able to hold the mug in place without sloshing the liquids within all over his outfit. Being a demon he didn't sleep much but the bags were not from lack of sleep. They were from stress, just like everything else. No matter how much he told himself exile was good for him and things were getting better, every day made his vessel's hair grow greyer. He became paranoid, distracted, unstable. Any moment could be his last.
Raising the drink again, he took a long, deliberate sip from it then exhaled loudly. This was bad. When he got worried, he got clumsy. When he got clumsy, he made mistakes. If he made even one mistake, it would mean his head. Figuratively and literally. The Devil would probably mount his head over a fireplace with some sarcastic plaque underneath. There would probably be bits of blood the Devil kept on the head to make it look more realistic. And his face would be frozen in place so the Devil could always cherish the last look on his face before he was destroyed completely.
"Snap out of it," Chamus scolded himself, hitting the palm of his hand against his forehead slightly. What sort of creature thought up their own death in such detail? All this running was getting to his head. He needed a good place to try and relax, even if such a thing was impossible for him. He needed something to distract him from what was happening at the moment. He needed to get his mind off of being exiled and put it somewhere else for a bit to get rid of ome of his stress.