Poor Devil

by Daniels Pritikin

 

The death of God left Satan in an awkward position. God had been the cornerstone of his operation. The basis of his entire marketing strategy. What now? As Satan placed a bouquet of a dozen American Beauty roses at the honorary grave of God at Arlington during the burial ceremonies, reporters could see he was visibly shaken.

Satan was not alone. Any number of prominent religious figures were taken by surprise at the sudden turn of events. After much discussion and a period of consultation involving everyone from Henry Kissinger to Saachi & Saachi, formal negotiations between Heaven and Hell were opened and a general congress of Angels was assembled in Upstate New York to discuss organizational restructuring. Plans were drawn, costs projected, resolutions stamped, strategies assessed.

In due course the question of succession came up. Satan's name was placed in nomination, of course. The Horned One was widely known to have seniority, previous managerial experience, and a plucky can-do attitude. He was undoubtedly qualified to fill the vacancy.

But to everyone's surprise, Satan stood up during the very first day of discussions and left the assembly without explanation.

A deadlock ensued. And then another, and another. And in time the discussions quietly came to nothing. Gradually the Angels drifted apart -- some into business, some into the arts, some into politics, several into the new and burgeoning field of web design.

 

It goes without saying that the more well-known of the Seraphim remained well-known.

Gabriel's album, “Blow This: My Tribute To Miles Davis,” made the number eleven spot on Billboard's jazz charts.

Raphael did a guest spot on “The Today Show,” commenting on the Pope's visit to Nashville.

Michael appeared opposite Callista Flockhart on a special Christmas episode of “Ally McBeal” after his Angel Food series of best-selling diet books reportedly took twenty pounds off Oprah.

And yet -- Satan? He drifted into obscurity.

 

Stories continued to circulate about Satan. One rumor had it that Satan was now running a series of condominiums in the Bahamas. Another story, that Satan had taken to the bottle and could be found snoozing under a knit cap among the many vague figures slumped in the New York City Subway seats at night. Jokes about brief sordid involvements with Britney Spears and Madonna continually cropped up. Rumors of his accepting the position of technical advisor to Stephen King are even now making the rounds.

But only one report can be definitely confirmed. It put Satan at a former Starbucks on East 13th Street in New York, roughly a year ago, having brunch with a reporter for one of the less distinguished supermarket tabloids.

According to a waiter's later comments on the meeting, Satan seemed clearly less than his old self. Circles were visible under his eyes. His cheeks were gaunt, his leathery tail limp and still, his fingers twitching, his horns badly in need of a shower. His suit had an indefinably off-the-rack quality.

He chain-smoked a pack of Kool Lights over a Hazelnut Crunch cappuccino and croissant that the reporter had ordered for him, and when he'd finished the third sip, he reportedly set it down so hard on the saucer, it nearly spilled, and he leaned forward to the reporter interviewing him.

-- Listen, he whispered. Listen, it's a hoax!

-- What's a hoax, the reporter was heard to say.

-- God. God faked his death, said Satan. I know that now. I know it. It's a conspiracy . A cover-up . I know it. I've got proof. Photos -- news clippings -- classified files -- . I – I've been collecting it, and, and -- and it fits. It all fits. Washington's involved in it somewhere -- the CIA -- the Mossad too -- The Russians -- Microsoft -- Mel Gibson -- the Vatican -- the Vatican's fingerprints are all over it.

Satan grabbed the reporter's sleeve.

-- I can name names, he said.

The reporter (who, like Satan himself, had had one too many before the meeting) nodded and scribbled something in his notebook. Can name names, mumbled the reporter, repressing a burp. He nodding again, as Satan gesticulated and lit Kool after Kool and chattered on and drank.

After a long while the reporter smiled and excused himself to go to the men's room. He didn't return, and stuck Satan for the tab. The article never appeared.

Satan would have nothing to do with what he termed ‘establishment media' after that. Now he crashes parties and bar mitzvahs along the East Coast, handing out mimeographed pamphlets explaining his views, badgering the hostesses with heated affirmations of God's existence.

Security guards show him quickly to the door.

 

The End