by Ted Neill
“Very interesting. What is the fob for?”
“The gates of hell.”
“The gates of hell are operated by an electronic fob?”
“Essentially, yes.”
“I mean, shouldn’t you have some gothic-looking key?”
“Oh, my daughter used to stand there with one, but she’s too busy recruiting young ingénues for jobs in the porn industry. So, we decided to go remote.”
“How efficient.”
“Thank you.”
“Isn’t there supposed to be a dog of some sort too? With three heads, if I remember correctly.”
“He’s too busy now with his consulting business—private security—drug lords, arms dealers, and dictators mostly.”
“Oh.”
A commercial came on, urging watchers to buy their products before Christmas, which was a month away.
“Christmas must be a slow time of year for you,” Martin said.
“You kidding? It’s my busiest.”
“Oh, of course,” he said, unsure of as to why though. “When do you take a vacation then?”
“Halloween is always nice. I usually go down to Georgetown in DC, where they filmed the Exorcist. It’s very sentimental for me.”
“I imagine.”
The news anchor was introducing a story about a cell of domestic terrorists who had been arrested for bombing an Apple store. They were a self-described anti-corporate, anti-technology socialist group, dedicated to the cause of sustainable living and ecological responsibility. Their bombing had killed six staff members, fourteen customers, and injured dozens more.
“Now there are some young people I’m sure you can get behind,” Martin said.
The Devil sneered. “I applaud their methodology. Bad message though.”
“They’re against technology and industry. They’re socialists.”
“Exactly. I have a lot invested in those things and capitalism in general.”
“Actual cash investments?” Martin asked, wondering what the Devil would be like as a customer.
“Think bigger, you hairless primate. What’s the first commandment?”
Martin did his best to rewind back to Sunday school. But he had only gone once, and he didn’t think they talked about the commandments that day.
“It’s been a long time.”
“Thou shalt not have any other gods before me.”
“How does that apply?”
“False gods, Martin. Idols. The world is full of them. Take television—every one kneeling down on the living room rug before that iridescent idol, beamed to you by satellites, those orbiting angels of dark technology. And with the internet, what variety!” He took a long meditative drag off his cigarette, exhaling clouds of yellow smoke. “I used to have to settle for pathetic little sculptures of Baal or Golden Calves. Back in the dark ages, the false god was religion, of all things—eight crusades ain’t bad. Then in the nineteen-thirties it was all nationalism, racial identity, and co-opted mythology.”
Martin furrowed his brow, having lost the thread, but the Devil raised his arm out in a salute from the Third Reich and Martin understood. “But TV is so much more interesting, and the internet has even more possibilities,” the Devil concluded.
Martin sat back. This was all very interesting to him, but why was the Devil visiting him? He opened him mouth, but Satan had read his mind again.
“You’re wondering why I’m here. Yessss. Yessss. I knew we would have to get down to business eventually.” He picked up another cigarette and set it smoldering to life with a touch of his lips, tossing the butt of the prior one onto the carpet once more. “We’re here to talk about your soul, Martin.”
“Oh, how archaic.”
“I think cliché is the word you are looking for.”
“That too.”
The Devil ignored him and reached into his jacket for a small six-sided box. It was made of woven bamboo fibers, stained dark blue, almost black. He set it on the table.
“What is this?”
“It’s the box I’ve been keeping your soul in for the past fifty or so odd years,” the Devil said.
“Wait a minute, when did I sell you my soul?”
“You didn’t. Your father did when you were little. Just as his father did with his soul. See, shrewd investors know that you have to invest early.”
Martin picked up the box. The material was light but sturdy. The paint was still shiny. The bamboo fibers caught the light and gave it a layered, iridescent quality. The bottom was unpainted balsa wood. Green letters beside Chinese characters read: “Made in China.”
“Where did you get this?”
“Your father gave it to me. It’s a valuable family heirloom,” he said with respect. “Your great-great-grandfather was an English sailor. His wife, Louise, put one of her rings in that box—which her grandmother got from China—and stowed it away in her husband’s luggage for him to find when he was at sea. The box and its contents were very precious to him on those long lonely nights without a woman next to him in bed. While in a Spanish port, he bought a silver bracelet for her, which he also kept in there. Louise was pregnant, and your great-great-grandfather was supposed to return before the baby was due, but he was delayed by a storm. Unfortunately, as that soft portal in Louise opened up and the embryonic fluids and blood drained out of her, so did her life. Her baby could only be suckled by a corpse.”
“You have a flair for the poetic.”
The Devil grunted before he continued. “Gramps returned with the bracelet, ring, and box, only to find his wife dead. So he took his infant daughter to America. The only thing he took with him to remind him of his old life was that box and the two pieces of jewelry inside it.
“In America, they made the cross-country journey to the Northwest Territories. Along the way they had to sell the bracelet to pay for supplies. Eventually Gramps became a logger. He finally parted with his wife’s ring when he sold it to pay for his daughter’s schooling. But he never gave up the box. At one point he risked his life to run into a burning house to save it. It was all he had left of his wife. When he died at ninety-three, he was clutching it in his arms. His daughter treasured it simply because it was the only thing her father treasured. Her son inherited it and saved it because she told him to. His son, your grandfather, saved it simply because it was old.
“When I appeared to your father, he had it sitting on a bookcase holding paper clips—when I appear to people in desperate need and offer them what they seek for their soul, we usually use the nearest receptacle. You would not believe how many souls I have tied off in condoms. Anyway, this box was the nearest thing, and your father, in his irreverence, or insolence, or both, gave it to me.”
“So why are you giving it back?”
“Well, we’re changing our storage methods. We’re going digital now. Everything is binary and digitized, magnetized and harmonized.” He broke into a jingle from an old electronics company: “Click it, press it, tune it, flick it, tune it on and turn it on, this is what you watch it on.” The Devil’s singing voice was low and exhausted, as if all the sorrows and pain from his realm sounded in it all at once.
“So, what do I do with it?” Finch asked.
“Keep your soul in it or paper clips, for all I care. I only had a fifty-year lease on it, so it’s yours again. Unless . . . .”
The doorbell rang. Finch started up, but when he turned the corner of the hallway, he saw that the Devil had disappeared from the couch and reappeared in the front hallway before him. Teleportation had to be an exhilarating power, Martin reflected. Then again, telepathy and pyrokinesis would have to be fairly intoxicating as well. His mind wandered again, wondering which he might chose if faced with picking just one.
He snapped to as the Prince of Darkness opened the door for whatever delivery man or neighbor had been so unfortunate as to call on Martin just then. This, of course, led to another brief reverie in which he considered the possibility of having the Devil over as the
guest of honor for a dinner party. It would be hard to imagine a guest of higher status or better name recognition. Already Martin was certain the conversation would be lively. Religion, politics . . . nothing would be off limits.
The Devil walked over the marble floor of the foyer, his boots clacking like hooves on the stone. He opened the door to reveal a priest, alternately crossing the house and himself while mumbling prayers out of a little black book. He was a shortish man, with thick glasses and a small balding head. Agathe was behind him. She had covered her head with a blue scarf and was frantically praying a rosary. Neither of them would look directly at Satan. The Devil turned back to Mr. Finch.
“Oh, look Martin, it’s Father O’Leary. What a pleasant surprise.”
The Devil stepped across the threshold, putting his arm around the priest’s shoulders and guiding him into the house. He slammed the door in Agathe’s face, rolling his eyes as if to say to Martin, would you get a load of her?
Father O’Leary’s voice rose to a crescendo while he read out a series of verses in Latin.
The Devil moved past Martin saying, “Oh look, Father O’Leary is trying to exorcise me. I appreciate the thought, Father, but I’m already fit as a fiddle.” He laughed at his pun. Martin followed. The Devil called out behind him, “Martin, get Father O’Leary a drink. Bushmills, neat.”
Father O’Leary produced a small flask of holy water and began to flick it on the Devil’s lapels. The water sizzled but didn’t do much else. The Devil ignored it, bringing Father O’Leary into the living room and sitting him down like a gracious host.
“Now Mr. Finch, let me introduce you to Father O’Leary.”
The little Irish priest shot Martin a most disapproving stare. Martin was a bit embarrassed about the clutter: the pitchfork, the stick of kindling, not to mention the ashes from the Happy Meal and the scattering of cigarette butts and little plastic discs. The room was quite a fright really, even without the Prince of Darkness standing in the center of it. It was a situation that was not easily explained.
“Father O’Leary is a priest,” The Devil continued. “That’s someone who thinks he is very holy, if you forgot, Martin.”
“I know that much.”
“Well, you can’t take anything for granted. Come, sit down. Help make Father O’Leary—Father Sean, can I call you Sean? I know, of course I can—comfortable.”
Martin sat down on the couch on the other side of Father Sean O’Leary.
“Now Martin, let me explain. I’m actually a big fan of the clergy,” Satan said.
“Really? Now that surprises me. Tell me more,” Martin said, crossing his legs and looking across Father Sean.
“Well, didn’t Dante say the hypocrites have their very own ring in hell?”
“I suppose he did.”
“Who am I to argue?” the Devil said. “But in addition to squelching women’s rights, trying to control their bodies, discriminating against people because of their sexual orientation, and let’s not forget molesting children, covering it up, and harassing the victims, Father Sean here gave a sermon this past Sunday wherein he called homosexuality an ‘abomination, a sickening offense to God.’ Now that’s all old hat really, for him, but what he didn’t know is that young Patrick Evans, in his congregation, a well-meaning Catholic boy of just fifteen with the unfortunate luck of having been born gay, heard Father Sean that Sunday, and in a fit of guilt for his ‘sinful’ nature, hung himself in his parent’s basement.”
“That’s terrible,” Martin said.
“I know!” the Devil said, slapping the priest on the back. “Spreading hate, alienation, and suicidal self-loathing. It’s some of their best work since the Inquisition or the Crusades. Now Martin, pour him a drink.”
Mr. Finch went over to the liquor cabinet, a little reluctantly, if he was honest with himself. He had gay friends, after all. But he was host, so he poured a glass of Bushmills neat, the way the Devil had said the priest liked it.
Father Sean O’Leary’s hands were shaking. Martin took one and curled it around the glass. Father O’Leary mumbled to himself: “Though you stand before the gates of Hell and Death is at your side, be not afraid . . . .”
“I know Death!” the Devil said.
“Do you really?” Mr. Finch was interested again. “Does he work for you? I’ve always wondered about that.”
“No. We’re both independent enterprises, but we collaborate. We have professional courtesy for one another. He’s terribly unfashionable though. The phantom has got no style. Still wears that Charon robe and carries that grim scythe that he’s been hauling around since . . . God knows when.”
The snippet of a classic Led Zeppelin song blared from the television. The Devil smiled, cupping his hand to his ear to better hear the song.
“One of my favorite bands,” he said.
Martin sensed the setup. “I’ll bite. Why them?”
“Consummate rip-off artists, along with that king bubba, Elvis.”
“Rip-offs?”
“You are clearly not a music man, Martin.”
“No, not really.”
“Well, I have a reputation to uphold. It’s good to know what the kids are listening to. But I’m a big fan of misappropriation without proper attribution. Page, Plant, Presley; they were thieves you know, stealing from other artists—mostly artists of color. A good bit of racism and cultural exploitation gets the old heart racing,” the Devil said, patting his chest. “Right, Father? You Christians did it, stealing the dates of festivals from pagans, Druids, and Celts, you sneaky boys you.”
The Devil pinched the priest’s cheek. Mr. Finch hoped that Father O’Leary was not too uncomfortable. The priest had grown quiet but was sweating now through his shirt. He noticed that the priest had drunk his entire shot of whiskey while they were not looking.
The Devil smiled, patting the priest on the knee. “That’s a good little whiskey priest. Martin, get him another. Make it a double.”
Martin did. But when he returned to the couch and handed the drink to the priest, who drank it in one eager gulp, his eyes bulging, the Devil stood up, stretched to his full height, and straightened his jacket. He pulled his spent cigarette from his mouth and aimed to flick it towards the kitchen doorway, but the pitchfork and Happy Meal toy were already left there. So he spun around on his heel and fired the butt into an empty corner.
“The time is coming for me to depart.”
“So soon?” Martin asked.
“I will leave you with some parting wisdom.” The Devil bent down so that he was eye to eye with Father O’Leary, his crimson lips moving so close to the priest’s face that, at first, Martin thought he would kiss him. But instead he spoke in a soft, tender voice. “Yes Father, there was a time when man lived on bread alone, when he had not yet invented his companions: society, capitalism, consumption, marketing, and style. These were the horsemen who cried out ‘You are lacking, primate. Spend and you will be saved.’”
The Devil turned to address them both. “Can you imagine what it was like without the little products that sit in your bathroom? There are still people who don’t use these things. Their complexions are greasy, their hair oily and flaky, and their breath goes unchecked. The horror. Thank goodness deodorant keeps us from being too human!”
He turned once more to Father Sean O’Leary, a warm smile across his face. He gave the priest a light punch in the shoulder. “Keep up the good work, old chap. You all never cease to be entertaining. I mean, have you ever stopped to consider the orientation of a God of Love, transformed into a man, who hung out with a bunch of other men, traveling, eating, sleeping, even kissing them? I mean, we all know how effectively you all excised his marriage to Mary Magdalene from scripture—nice job, by the way—but really, when your deity is a God of Love, you have got to realize that he swung both ways, right?”
“Blasphemer, may you burn in the fires of Hell!” Father O’Leary stammered.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” T
he Devil shrugged before making his way to the front door. “I must be going now, Martin. At exactly eleven twenty-three Eastern Standard Time, Alphonso Rodrigues will be driving by this house in his taxi cab, after taking Mrs. Henderson of 6 Oliver Lane home from the airport. He just overcharged her five dollars. He makes about forty dollars a night in overcharging riders. But not tonight.”
“Because you are hitching a ride with him?” Martin asked, aroused by his proximity to prophecy.
“No, no. I’d let him overcharge me. Remember the JD, corrupter of mankind and all. No, I’m afraid that at eleven twenty-five, a deer will jump out in front of the cab, startling Mr. Rodrigues, causing him to swerve, then overcompensate, crash, and subsequently die. Death called me this morning and told me this one would be mine. There seems to be an unresolved issue of a hit-and-run involving a three-year-old girl in the projects, which occurred one night when the ‘Fonz’ had partaken a little too liberally in the juice of joy, the blow of bliss, and the love of whores. So now he will be spending some time with me . . . actually . . . all time.”
The Devil let out a weary laugh at his own joke. He opened the door, revealing Agathe, who was sprawled across the front stoop. “You’ll want to call the coroner for her. Heart attack, brought on by stress and trauma,” he said, stepping over the body.
“She’s dead?” Martin asked, coming outside.
“As a door nail. She’s not one of mine though.”
“Tragic.”
“I know. I could have done great things to her, but she was a virtuous woman.”
“Oh, no. I meant tragic that she passed. She had family,” Martin said. This also meant he would have to find a new maid. The Devil was already halfway down the sidewalk. Martin cleared his throat, suddenly remembering, “What about the box?”
“What about it?” the Devil asked, without checking his stride.
“Well, what do I do with it? My soul, I mean. What about this whole wealth and material gain stuff. You know, the Dr. Faustus thing? What’s in it for me? Accrued rewards over time, investment risks, you know, the usual.”
The Devil stopped, turned on his heel, and his lips formed a long and sinister smile. His eyes were dark and laughing pearls as he stalked back up the sidewalk. When he was close enough that the smell of sulfur once again permeated Martin’s lungs, Satan took Martin by the head, his thumb pressing, warm and abrasive, above his eyes.