A prickle runs up your spine and you freeze in your tracks on your way home from the bar, suddenly feeling uncomfortably sober as familiar footsteps approach you from behind and a hand is placed on your shoulder.

"'Ello, luv. Fancy seeing you here."

It's not the real John. You know it's not, he's off in America which means that this John is the Demon.

Holy shit. You're screwed.