[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
Date Posted: 17:43:39 07/22/01 Sun
Okay, so after partying all night, I drove my mom to Chicago for a triathlon, roasted myself and drove back. And that was just this weekend.
However, I did come up with something on the drive back. See, our hotel room in Naperville had a hell-light--this red light that switched on every time you turned on the bathroom light. That inspired this story.
And, believe or not, I do so love Jehovah's Witnesses. I wish they would stop by my house more often--I have plenty of pamphlets of atheism that they really ought to read.
Soully Responsible
Clark Bennett opens the door to his hotel room and collapses on the bed with a vague sense of relief. Another day of attempting to convert heathens, another batch of rude rednecks to befriend. And today, there had been that annoying atheist who'd attempted to convert him.
Sometimes he hates this job.
Finally, he sighs, peeling himself from the bed. He takes off the suit jacket with his name-tag still pinned neatly on, takes off the striped tie, takes off the cufflinks. He unbuttons his shirt, rolls up the sleeves. Turns on the TV, taunting himself with the Weather Channel--tomorrow would be another scorcher.
Clark sighs again, and heads for the bathroom. The hotel's air-conditioning reduces his room's temperature to sixty degrees, but after spending the entire day in the scorching Iowa heat, he is loath to complain.
"Christ," he says out loud, "I think I would sell my soul to make my job easier."
He opens the door to the bathroom, turns on the light. He stares in wonder at the red glow lighting the room for almost a second before he realizes that there is a man standing in his bathtub.
The man is sharply dressed; he is wearing a tailored black suit with a red dress shirt. His dark hair is slicked away from his face; his shoes, Clark notices, are obviously Italian and probably worth more than Clark himself. His face is classically handsome; he could pass as the model for Donatello's bronze David.
"Can I, uh, help you?" Clark says to the stranger.
"Yes, Clark Bennett," the man replies. Before Clark can summon up the wit to ask how the stranger knows his name, the man continues. "My name is Lucifer. You are doubtless familiar with my reputation."
This is perfect, Clark thinks. Not only do I have the worst day in years, but now I've got a loony standing in my bathtub claiming he's the Prince of Darkness. Great.
It is then that Clark notices the rather distinctive cut of the suit. He's watches the X-Files regularly, and David Duchovny's character wears suits of the same cut. "Is that suit, ah, Armani?" Clark asks. He's a little horrified with himself. After all, he didn't mean to say that out loud--it just slipped out.
The man looks down at himself, then back at Clark with a hint of a smile. "Yes, Clark. It's a fringe benefit of being the supreme representative of evil. You'd be surprised," he goes on, "how many people don't notice that.
"Now, Clark, I'm aware you don't believe I am who I say I am, and I'm on a bit of a tight schedule, so let's get down to the soul-selling bit., shall we?"
"The soul-selling bit?" Clark repeats blankly.
A large legal pad appears in a puff of smoke. Clark wrinkles his nose at the smell of sulfur. "You said, and I quote, 'I would sell my soul to make this job easier.' I'll leave out the taking the Lord's name in vain bit, since I don't want to offend." A pen appears in Lucifer's left hand. "Now, we have some options, Clark. I can make your job easier in a number of ways.
"However," Lucifer continues, looking a little weary, "if you aren't interested, please tell me to just go away now. It's been a long day. I'm sure you understand."
Clark chews on his bottom lip, deciding. Finally, he says, "I would like a few things. First, I would like to never have to listen to atheists tell me why I should stop believing in God when I'm trying to save their souls from eternal damnation. Second, I would like everyone I talk to about my religion to convert to it."
Lucifer looks thoughtful. "I think that's doable," he says. Another poof, and a thick stack of paper appears. "If you'd like to read through this, I can go and come back sometime tomorrow; it's long, but ever since that debacle with Daniel Webster we've had to make this things airtight. If you'd rather not read it, please prick your finger and sign in the spaces. After that, we can both go about our business."
Clark shakes his head. "I think I can dispense with the fine print," he says. "Do you have--"
"Oh, how rude of me," Lucifer says. He snaps his fingers, and a needle appears. He passes the needle and contract to Clark.
Clark hesitates a moment. Is it really worth it, he wonders, to sell my soul to Satan so that others can avoid eternal damnation? Then, Clark realizes something: hell can't possibly be worse than his job. He pricks his finger. Flipping through the contract, he initials and signs on the blanks provided. Half an hour later, he looks up.
"Thank you, Clark," Lucifer says, and both the contract and the man vanish in a cloud of white smoke. The bathroom light returns to fluorescent yellow, and Clark, satisfied with his day, unzips his pants to pee.
***
At a restaurant in Manhattan, a sharply dressed man in an Armani suit is seated at a private table on the rooftop.
A few minutes later, a swarthy young man wearing Dolce & Gabbana makes His way to the table. "Hello, Lucifer," he says warmly, extending His right hand.
"Nice to see you again, Jesus," Lucifer replies. "You ever planning on getting rid of that stigmata?"
"Oh, that," the young man says, smiling benignly. "I've got all eternity to fix it. No need to rush.
"And, by the way, I'm supposed to extend My Father's apologies. He's still deliberating on the ''good intentions' clause you suggested. I'm supposed to drop subtle hints that He wants your help."
Their waiter stops by the table and pours red wine before fluttering off to wait on other customers.
"Well, Jesus, to be honest," Lucifer says, "I wouldn't feel right. After all, Your Father is the Supreme Being. It's His policy to decide; He is God, after all. I'm just His nemesis, remember?"
"I told Him you'd say that," Jesus says, winking.
"If God thinks He needs help, tell Him to talk to Daniel Webster," Lucifer says, leaning forward slightly. "But I don't think He needs help. I think He'll come to a perfectly reasonable conclusion."
Jesus laughs. "I'm sure He'll appreciate your confidence."
"If He seriously wants my input, I've got a case we can try," Lucifer says. "This Jehovah's Witness sold me his soul so that he could convert more people to his religion. It's very straight-forward: doing good in evil's name."
Jesus shakes his head. "You're getting soft, Lucifer," he says, sipping his wine. "You don't want to take that soul, do you?"
"Not really," Lucifer replies. "I felt kind of sorry for the guy. I mean, he ran into one of those belligerent atheists right before he saw me, and let me tell you, I completely understand his annoyance with them."
"I think they're cute," Jesus says. "I mean, not very many people have the guts to inform Me that I am a figment of their imaginations."
Lucifer laughs. "You would think of it that way."
"Anyway," Jesus says, "about the case; well, I'm sure it will help. Dad will appreciate it. We'll ask Daniel Webster if he wants to take it for us. Do you need someone to take your side? I can find a perfectly decent orator, if you'd like."
"No," Lucifer says, "I'll do it myself."
Jesus raises an eyebrow. "You really don't want that soul, huh?"
"Well, think of it this way: if I win, I'll have to send shitloads of Popes and missionaries up to You, and they deserve punishment. Losing one soul is a minor price to pay."
"Evil in good's name," Jesus agrees. He stands up. "Well, Lucifer, it's been pleasant, as always. Father and I will definitely meet you for dinner on Tuesday to discuss preliminaries."
Lucifer smiles. "Say hi to The Big Guy for me."
"Who, Daniel Webster?" Jesus says and laughs.
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
| 
Feedback: 