As the Council of Trent intended.

I keep a rosary for spiritual defense, since that’s what the Council of Trent intended. Four goth mommies in fishnets and crushed-velvet corsets kick down my door at 3 a.m. “What the—?” I clutch my scapular and blessed crucifix.
Hurl holy water at the first one; she hisses like a cat and melts into a puddle of black eyeliner. She’s out.
Draw my pocket-edition Catechism on the second; quote paragraph 1857 on mortal sin. She misses the gravity, laughs, and keeps advancing, so I wing the hardcover at her forehead. Thunk. She drops, concussed by the weight of doctrine.
The third lunges with a spiked choker. I parry with my guilt-complex; decades of repressed desire form an impenetrable shield of Catholic shame. She bounces off, stunned by the sheer force of my unresolved Oedipal panic.
Last one corners me by the crucifix night-light. I panic, genuflect, and accidentally trigger the hidden reliquary under the floorboards. Out rolls the femur of St. Anthony—patron of lost things. I swing it like a bat. Crack. She crumples, exclaiming “Hail Satan" as she blacks out.
Sirens wail in the distance; the parish priest arrives too late to give last rites because the wounds from a saint’s bone are, by definition, impossible to absolve.
Just as the founding fathers of the Counter-Reformation intended.