As the coterie began to prepare, the figure put his hands into his pockets and withdrew a single cigarette, and a match. "So," he said quietly, though still easily heard, a strange combination, "are you my enemies?"
He lit the cigarette and then tossed the match to the ground. It continued to burn. Suddenly, Abaphomel took a long draw on the cigarette, and an impossible amount of gray smoke began to spew forth. It ignited, filling the space surrounding them and weaving about in a threatening dance.
The billowing smoke set to flame parted, and figures, shambling forces of undead, some wearing bits of clothing, began to surge into the crossroads toward the coterie.
"Sammy…?" came a voice out of the smoke.
"Bad day," was the stunted response.
It was another voice, darker, more sinister, yet set almost to music. "Aren't you two just precious…"
"This is not the time, douchebag!"
"It's never the time for us, is it darling, never a kiss to send me to my rest, never a…" the voice seemed to take in the shambling force that was still growing. "Right, well—" several of the undead exploded as a red mist surged through them, then briefly coalesced into the form of a man in the black suit. "Lovely time, boys. Pleasure doing business with you."
As Abaphomel drew back his hands, and more of that sickly gray smoke billowed toward the form, he seemed to melt away an instant before the smoke could reach him. The smoke seemed to grow fingers and features, some of them human bodies crying tearfully and in great pain, until they eventually morphed back into human-looking hands, and his bright blue eyes pierced the veil of smoke.
"A knight of hell should be treated with more respect!" he bellowed, rushing forward into the fray, as what remained of his forces moved with preternatural grace to scoop up rocks, stick, or whatever else they could lay their hands on to fight.