Satan Loves You Read online

  “Is this a joke?”

  “Naw, man. You’re just a little bitty chopped off head. Your body’s up here running around like a fool.”

  “Then why the hell ain’t I dead?” Earl asked.

  There was another muffled boom and a less muffled whump and then more screaming from yet another part of the race track.

  “Can’t they keep them damn cars on the asphalt.” Earl snapped.

  “It’s chaos up here, man,” Dale said. “I’m coming down there with you. Everyone’s all blown up and on fire and running around hollering. I don’t like this at all.”

  “Come on down,” Earl said. “But bring my damn body with you if you can. And bring me one of them beers. My mouth’s as dry as a prick.”

  Death stood before Satan’s desk, head lowered.

  “What were you thinking?” Satan yelled.“WERE you thinking? I mean, the cars go into the stands, the cars blow up, the people catch on fire, the people die. Weren’t you the one saying that you wanted to work more racetrack disasters?”

  Death raised his head to speak.

  “No!” Satan said. “Don’t say a word. I’m not finished. Weren’t you aware that this was scheduled for today? Did you even try to make it? Do you even care?”

  “My Dark Lord and Master – ” Death began in the sepulchral voice of the tomb.

  “Not in here,” Satan said. “Save that for the groupies.”

  Death cleared his throat and continued in a normal tone of voice.

  “I sent one of my assistants. They were supposed to take care of it.”

  “You know the rules: fifty or more deaths and you have to handle it in person.”

  “I – ”

  “If that’s an excuse coming, I’m not interested.”

  “I – ”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I’m...sorry.”

  “You’re sorry? We’ve got one hundred and thirty-two supposedly dead people running around and you’re sorry?”

  “I could go kill them now,” Death said, helpfully.

  “You can’t go kill them now. Now is too late. These people have been on the local news. They’re negotiating merchandising rights. They’re getting interest from network television.”

  Satan got up, hoping that walking around his office might calm him down, but it only made him angrier, so he sat back down again.

  “You used to be so good at this,” he said. “You were with it. On the ball. The Black Death. The Crusades. Hiroshima. The Holocaust wasn’t to my taste, but you did a terrific job with it. And now look at you. You look like a cartoon character. What happened to all those suits I bought you?”

  “They felt funny.”

  “Funny?”

  “Constricting.”

  “So you just keep on wearing that smelly old robe. Look at it, it’s more hole than robe. And frankly, you smell bad.”

  “I’m supposed to smell bad.”

  “Who says?”

  “The cold stench of the tomb. And all that. Everyone.”

  “And if Everyone told you to dress up in a pink bunny suit would you do it?”

  Death knew that this was a trick question, but he couldn’t quite figure out the trick.

  “Maybe?” he ventured.

  Satan threw his hands up in despair, and at that moment Death’s scythe, which had been leaning against the wall, toppled to the floor, leaving an ugly scratch behind it in the paint.

  “And why are you still lugging that thing around? Do you think it’s threatening? Because it’s not. It makes you look Amish.”

  “It’s part of my image.”

  “But what good does it do?”

  “It can cut grass...and things.”

  “Right.”

  There was a long pause.

  “I hate it,” Death finally said. “I hate the scythe. It’s always getting caught in doors and tearing my robe and poking people in the head. Every time I sit down I have to find something to do with it and usually when I lean it up against the wall a minute later it falls back down again. I want to throw it in a volcano.”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  “The same reason you keep this place running. Habit.”

  “That’s...that’s an entirely different issue,” Satan said. “Don’t even compare what I do to what you do, because right now I’m keeping this place open with sweat and luck and elbow grease while you, on the other hand, are the biggest screw up in all Creation. You know I don’t believe in micromanaging but times are tight. It’s not my decision, there’s pressure from upstairs and I don’t like it, but I don’t see any other options. I’m going to have to let you go.”

  “But I’m Death!”

  “It’s hard. I know. If there was any other way – ”

  “Pressure from upstairs? From who? You are upstairs.”

  “I’m under a lot of pressure that you don’t even know about,” Satan yelled. He saw Death start to shut down and so he changed tactics, opening a drawer and pulling out a pair of withered, mummified hands.

  “We all pitched in and got you this,” he said, handing them to Death. Death cracked them open. Inside lay a gold wrist hourglass.

  “It’s got an inscription...” Satan began.

  ‘A watch?” Death roared. “After twelve thousand years of service I get kissed off with a watch and a pension plan?”

  “Actually, I had to cut the pension plans,” Satan said.

  “I wish the Creator had destroyed you!” Death yelled. “Because Heaven would run a better Hell than you!”

  And he threw the hourglass at the wall where it shattered, then he whirled on his heel and stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him. It was a very dramatic exit. Satan would have admired it if he hadn’t had such a hideous headache.

  Ever since The Fall he had been subject to headaches, colds, stomach cramps and shooting pains in his legs. He could barely get drunk. He didn’t need to eat or drink. He couldn’t have an orgasm. But the Creator, in his wisdom, allowed him to have headaches. From time to time Nero would tell him about some new pain killer that the humans had invented and he would buy it in a fit of optimism, but it never worked. He was doomed to never get an aspirin. He just had to suffer through his headaches. He massaged his forehead with his fingertips, but all that did was give him a bruised forehead.

  “Hello, boss,” Nero chirped, popping into the office. “I just bumped into Death on the way out and it looked like you really gave him heck about that Summerville Speedway incident.”

  “I fired him,” Satan said.

  “Come again?”

  “I fired Death,” Satan said. “This wasn’t the first time he screwed up, and I can’t take that anymore. If you’re going to work in Hell then you have to be responsible for your actions.”

  In life, Nero had been known as quite possibly the most irresponsible of the Roman Emperors: creeping out of his palace in disguise to beat up drunks, exhausting the treasury on unnecessary construction projects, fiddling while Rome burned. But in death he had embraced responsibility with the passion of the convert and become Satan’s personal assistant. No one was a more ardent and fervent believer in personal responsibility than Nero, but even he thought that firing Death was beyond the pale.

  “Don’t you think this might be you acting out.” Nero asked. “I know things have been stressful for you recently, sir, but why don’t I get him back and you two can revisit this issue tomorrow?”

  “It’s done,” Satan said. “It’s about time I started making some strong decisions around here.”

  “But what about the Ultimate Death Match?” Nero asked. “Who’s going to wrestle for us?”

  “Oh. Right,” Satan said. “I’ll...figure something out.”

  “Like what, sir?”

  “Something!”

  “Such as?”

  Satan was frustrated. He stood up and began to kick his desk. It was an ugly lump from an overstock warehouse. He hated it.

  “Somethin
g, okay?” Kick, kick, kick. “I’ll figure something out!” Bang, bang, bang. “I’ll make it work because I’m Satan and I have to deal with it. I have to deal with everything! I have to pick up everyone’s garbage! I have to deal with everyone’s mess! If other people don’t want a problem they can just pass it on because good old Satan’ll take care of it! Isn’t that what he’s there for?”

  Kick, kick, kick! Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Satan stopped, exhausted.

  Pant, pant, pant.

  “Feeling better, sir?” Nero asked.

  “Actually, I do,” Satan said, surprised that once again physical violence had turned out to be the solution. He was always underestimating violence, but it really was a terrific way of dealing with things.

  “Try not to make a habit of it, sir,” Nero said. “I don’t think we have the funds to replace your desk if you ever actually do manage to break it. Now, there are a few things that you need to take care of.”

  “They’re all horrible, aren’t they.”

  “Oh, no sir” Nero said. “They’re actually all very nice.”

  “Really?”

  “No, sir, not really. I was just trying to cheer you up. Minos’s demons have gone on strike again.”

  Satan moaned.

  “Come along, sir. From what I understand they’ve cobbled together a list of demands and they want to see you right away.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “The point,” Nero said, hauling Satan up out of his chair, “Is that no one else is going to do it.”

  Dragging Satan behind him, Nero led his Dark Lord through the terrible corridors and caverns of Hell.

  There has been a lot of debate over what Hell looks like. Christians serve it up Dante style, with caverns of fire and lakes of lava. Muslims change the names, but they’re mostly on the same page. The Buddhists have Naraka, with its pus rivers and infinite tortures. Jews have an undesirable piece of real estate where everyone gets Saturdays off and someone’s always burning garbage. But when damned souls of any denomination finally come face-to-face with the real thing what they generally feel is disappointment, and that’s the genius of Hell.

  Hell falls short of expectations. Hell disappoints. Hell underwhelms. Hell is always worse than you thought it would be. Tackier. Cheaper. Dirtier. Uglier. Hell looks like someone slept in it the night before and didn’t wash it afterwards: it’s soiled, rumpled, stained and unpleasant. Almost everything in Hell is broken and hardly anything works. The things that do work have been repaired so poorly, so many times, that they’re actually harder to use than before. Dante got the general gist – he was there, after all – but, being Italian, when it came time to write it up he couldn’t resist making it seem romantic. Hell is about as romantic as a soup kitchen. A soup kitchen where everyone is naked, dirty and dead.

  Hell is half-assed. Demons flog screaming souls but they swing from their elbows, never getting their shoulders into the blows. Flesh is indifferently flayed with dull knives. Once, lining the road between the Sixth and Seventh Bolgias, there had stood an impressive arcade of crucifixes. Over time their crossbeams cracked and their arms broke, leaving them lopsided and, rather than actually taking the trouble to repair them, the demons just made do. The result was an avenue of the crucified who had one hand waving free and, occasionally, a foot, too. It looked very stupid, but no one cared. It was Hell.

  Hell was the Broken Windows Theory in reverse: as more and more small things were ignored and the minor aspects of the realm fell into disrepair, it caused a ripple effect across the realm. A feeling of despair infected every corner of Hell, and not just the normal Hellish despair of souls bound in eternal torment, but a more Earthly “Why Bother?” shrug. Fifteen-minute coffee breaks became hour-long naps. Where once Centaurs had scourged, violated and destroyed souls now they just scourged and violated them and their violations were by-the-numbers at best. Gluttons had once been drowned in hot lead, but now the lead was microwaved until it was merely lukewarm. The gluttons suffered, but mostly from boredom and lead poisoning.

  The budget cuts didn’t help. A demon who lost his trident or whip knew that it was unlikely he’d be issued a replacement. The Malebranche’s famous lake of pitch was now more of a pond and well on its way to becoming a wide puddle. The flatterers of the Second Bolgia had once been buried in human excrement, but now there was only enough excrement to bury them up to their necks and as a consequence they wouldn’t shut up. It drove the demons appointed to stomp on their faces crazy.

  With so few physical resources at its disposal, the important thing about Hell was keeping morale up, which is why self-starters like Minos, who took genuine pride in their work, were so important. And that was why it was even more disturbing that he and his crew were now on strike.

  Satan and Nero arrived at The Gates of Hell where a mob of demons were walking a picket line. A small clot of souls were sitting nearby, suddenly seized by a deep commitment to social justice which required that they never cross a picket line. They hoped that their newfound solidarity with labor would spare them from the fires of Hell for a little while longer. Standing on a rock by the Gate was Minos, chanting on his bullhorn. Seeing Satan and Nero approach, he redoubled his efforts.

  “Four, six, eight, ten, we won’t be burned for Satan!”

  “Hey hey, ho ho, toxic fumes have got to go!”

  “One, three, five, seven, give us benefits like they’ve got in Heaven!”

  “I’m going home,” Satan said to Nero.

  “You must take decisive action, sir.”

  “I don’t want to be decisive,” Satan whined. “I’ve got a killer headache.”

  “Excuse me?” Nero shouted at Minos. “Excuse me?”

  “Whaddaya want?” Minos yelled back.

  “I’ve got his attention, sir,” Nero said. “Now talk to him.”

  “Hi, Minos,” Satan said.

  All the demons were suddenly staring at him. Satan figured he needed to do better than “Hi.”

  “So, what’s going on?”

  Instantly, Satan regretted saying this because a) he didn’t actually want to know and, b) it sounded weak.

  “We’re on strike,” Minos roared from his barrel chest. “And if you don’t meet our demands we’re gonna get you put on the lista Unfair Metaphysical Employers.”

  “This is Hell,” Satan said. “It’s supposed to be unfair.”

  “Didn’t you read our signs?” Minos asked.

  He pointed his long, scaly tail at a placard held by a minor demon that read, “UNfair doesn’t mean UNsafe.”

  “Do you know what it’s like ta live the life of a demon?” Minos asked, rhetorically.

  The mob murmured.

  “We work around open flames all day long with no protection,” Minos bellowed, playing to the crowd. “We may be fireproof, but our hair ain’t! I useta be a hairy guy, now look at me! Bald as a bat! All day long we inhale offensive and hazardous odors. I may be a demon from Hell, but does that mean I don’t like nice things? Why can’t we have some potpourri in da break room? Why can’t we spray down with Febreeze at da end of the day?”

  “Yeah!” the demons yelled. “ Potpourri! Febreeze!”

  “We deal with all the souls who come in here,” Minos ranted, really getting on a roll. “All day and all night. And they’ve all got complaints: ‘I didn’t do it,’ ‘I led a righteous life,’ ‘I was President of the United States.’ And we haveta figure out an appropriate punishment for eacha dem. And you know what? These torments haven’t been updated in centuries. They’re outta date! Did ya know that some fetishists are coming here because they wanna be buried in excrement? Andrew Johnson loves it! And what about online bullies? Where do they go? Why ain’t there a setta guidelines for these chumps? How come every time I get someone who was born after 200 AD I haveta start from scratch?”

  “We want better rules and regulations!” the mob of demons shouted.

  “I get a new demon, and I gotta train him
from nuthin’,” Minos said. “You know how much time dat takes? Last week I hadta transfer some giants from the Ninth Circle up to the Fifth and all they wanted ta do was hit people in the head with rocks. It took me two days to gettem ta stop and no one paid me anything for my overtime. If you don’t start addressing these problems then we’re all gonna quit and we’ll see how you like that.”

  “But...but if you quit, where will you go.” Nero asked, unable to contain himself.

  “Heaven!” Minos shouted, and the cavern suddenly got quiet. “They already said they’d take us back.”

  “They did?” Nero asked.

  “Yeah, because we’re sick and tired of being treated like dis.”

  Nero noticed that Satan’s face was slowly turning red.

  “Sir?” Nero said. He was alarmed at how red Satan was turning. “Sir?”

  “Well, GO!” Satan exploded.

  “Sir!” Nero gasped.

  “Ever since we restructured and moved you guys up here from the second circle you’ve done nothing but piss and moan. You didn’t like being down there with the wanton and all that dust from the infernal hurricane, so I listened and relocated you up here and now you’re complaining again. What’s it going to take to make you happy? You know what I just did? I fired Death! And now I’ve got to find a replacement. What are you doing tonight? Going home, to eat your little snack cakes and your ham? I’m going to be on a plane to Los Angeles – LOS ANGELES – to deal with this Death situation. Have you ever been to Los Angeles? It’s a giant moron carnival!”

  “You really fired Death?” Minos asked in his indoors voice.

  “Yes! I really fired him!”

  There was a long silence. No one ever got fired in Hell. This was new.

  “You’re not gonna fire us, are ya, boss?” Minos asked. “Because we were all jus’ blowin’ off some steam here.”

  “Yeah,” a few demons muttered. “Blowing off steam.”

  “I haven’t decided yet!”

  “Well, you know me. I’ve always been a team player,” Minos said. “We’ve all been team players up here at The Gates. And, um, obviously this is, um, a very bad time for you, and so why doan you go do whatever it is you need to do and doan worry about us, because we all know you’re doing your best, Mr. Boss, and we’ll all jus’ go back ta work and talk about this later?”