Shima sat on his bed, writing quietly in his diary.
'He's so beautiful,' It said, 'I don't know how any of the others can fight him. That trashy way he dresses really fries my butter. I wish they could see in him what I do- a possession. I want to own him and lock him in a cardboard box and forget to feed him and then feel sad when I find his corpse and then be happy when I realize that he's been reincarnated because he is a demon. He smells really bad, like a kid who just moved out of the house that doesn't like to bathe because they have the freedom to do whatever they want sort of. Like me. I hate bathing. But I love Amaimon. There, I said it. Not as a person, no- that's silly. If you love something view it as a possession, like a brick, or a microwave. Once it doesn't serve its purpose to you anymore, you throw it out into the street where it gets hit by a bus and then you replace it. That's what love truly is. And I truly love Amaimon.
Most people don't know it, but as someone with a very strange unnatural hair color, I know that associating somebody's hair with a food is a way of making an extremely sexual pass at somebody. That's why when Amaimon's hair as all fuzzy I took my opportunity to compare it to broccoli. He immediately felt threatened, offended, and victimize, so he kicked me in the ribs. Little does he know that I like being kicked in the ribs because sometimes it gets me out of doing work. "But I got kicked in the ribs, remember?" I'll whine, and others will say, "Oh, yeah. Go ahead and sit this one out." I don't even mind bugs. I just pretend to mind them because it makes people feel bad for me. I always want to be the center of attention. That's why I make sexual passes at everyone. I'm not really in to most of them, but it directs the attention around from how good they look to me! But Amaimon is different. Someday, somehow, I will find him in plain sight as something manageable and make him my own.'
Some time later, Shima wrote in his diary again.
'He is hiding from me. He thinks I don't know that he is now a hamster. I've seen him on Mephisto's desk, in all his green glory, munching on seeds. He is small and manageable now. I just need to wait until Mephisto leaves his office. Then I can seize the hamster I love off his desk, put him in a box somewhere, and forget to feed him. Very, very soon he will know my love. Nobody will suspect me, either. As soon as he is mine I will style his fur like dozens of patches of broccoli. He will always know the things I think when I look at his unnatural hair. Some day, he will return one of those passes to me, vocally, and that will be the day I grow bored of him and wait for the 4:15 bus to come by, five minutes late as usual, to run over the flaming hamster cage. That will be the day.'