Satan Loves You

by Grady Hendrix

  “Fifty?”

  “Push-ups!”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay, what?”

  “Okay, your honor?”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere. What’s your name?”

  “Satan, your honor.”

  “That’s the name of the defendant.”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “You’ve both got the same name? That’s going to get confusing. I’m going to call you Mike during the trial, all right?”

  “Your honor, I am the defendant.”

  “You’re representing yourself?”

  “Yes, your honor. I guess I am.”

  “The man who represents himself has a fool for a client,” Judge Gold said.

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “That means I think you’re a dick,” Judge Gold said.

  “Oh,” Satan said.

  “I’ll represent Satan,” a voice said from the back of the courtroom. “Your honor.”

  All heads turned. There, standing in the double doors of the courtroom was Nero, resplendent in Roman finery. At four feet seven inches he didn’t cut the most impressive figure, but his brilliant white toga glowed. It was draped dramatically over one arm and a bold purple stripe ran along its edge. If he had not been standing in a dismal little room with laminated wooden walls it would have looked quite dramatic. A fresh laurel wreath nestled in his clipped gray hair and if the lights had been flickering torches instead of fluorescent energy saver bulbs it would have been very imposing. He wore shining leather calceuses on his feet, secured with four thongs that glistened like fresh black licorice. They would have appeared even more elegant if he had not been standing on a stained linoleum floor.

  “Who’re you?” Judge Gold demanded.

  “I am Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, and I am representing Satan, Prince of Darkness, in the trial of Babbit vs. the Devil.”

  “Is that your lawyer?” a disbelieving Judge Gold asked Satan.

  “Yes, your honor,” Satan said. “Yes, it is.”

  “You need to show up on time, counselor,” Judge Gold said as Nero walked up the aisle and sat down next to Satan. He had two large, rolling litigation cases with him and he opened them to reveal an impressive number of files, legal pads and pencils, which he began distributing around the defendant’s table. Satan instantly felt much better.

  “Yes, your honor. My apologies, your honor. It won’t happen again, your honor.”

  “Thank you,” Satan whispered to Nero. Nero nodded regally.

  “All right, then. Let’s get this show on the road,” Judge Gold said. “What’s first? Oh, boy. Jury selection. Well that promises to be a bore. We got a jury pool?”

  “Yes, your honor,” the bailiff said.

  “Then get ‘em in here,” Judge Gold said. “We’ll shuffle through and find the least retarded and then let’s see some action. They aren’t paying us to sit around and drink Gatorade, fellas! They’re paying us to see JUSTICE!”

  Jury selection was gruesome. Nero had watched enough Law & Order: Criminal Intent while secretly preparing for the trial to know that they were now in the midst of voir dire, the time when he could eliminate potential members of the jury who seemed grossly unfit to serve. The problem was that they all seemed grossly unfit to serve as far as Nero was concerned, and he would have rejected every single one of them based on their extremely ugly clothes alone. To him, they all looked like someone had stapled stonewashed denim scraps and performance fleece to them at random as they ran out of the door that morning.

  Frita Babbit’s team had hired Lefty Ricketts, the greatest jury whisperer in the continental United States, to coach them through voir dire. Lefty had already studied the jury pool for three weeks. He had read their files, analyzed their credit reports, sent his field agents to follow them to Wal-Marts and strike up conversations with them in bars, and now he was conveying last minute decisions to Horton using subtle hand gestures.

  One elderly jury member was wearing a Med Alert bracelet. A slight stroking of his moustache and she was rejected. If she was going to die soon she might try to feather her afterlife by going soft on Satan. A young, female jurist was eliminated when Lefty tweaked his right earlobe: she’d recently had an abortion. She’d be less inclined to judge someone in a tough spot. The prosecution needed a jury who were moral prigs, people who were up on their high horses, jurists who wanted everything to be a capital offense.

  Nero faced a different problem. He couldn’t find a single unprejudiced jury member.

  “He the fella responsible for killing my Jeremy in that fifteen-car pile-up out on Route one-oh-five back in ‘91?” an angry nurse’s aide asked.

  “Yes,” Nero said.

  “Well, I hate his guts,” she said, and then spat on Satan.

  Nero rejected her.

  “Before I answer your question, Mr. Defense Lawyer,” a flinty old man said. “I want to know one thing. My gramma used to drink to excess and she never got baptized. Is she burning in Hell right now, being tortured eternally by that son of a bitch?”

  There was a whispered consultation between Satan and Nero. And then Nero turned to face him again.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Then I hope he fries in the electric chair.”

  “This isn’t a capital case,” Nero said.

  “Don’t matter none. I’ll pull the switch myself.”

  And so it went. Is he tormenting my wife who killed herself? Yes. Then I hope he dies. Is my daddy burning in that sumbitch’s eternal flames? Yes? Then I’ll beat his butt right here and now. And that’s how it went right up until the end of the day.

  “This is ridiculous,” Judge Gold said.“Not a single jurist has been impaneled and to be honest I’ve got a European tour coming up that cannot be delayed.”

  “Your honor,” Nero said. “As you can see, it is difficult to find an impartial jury to try Satan who is, after all, widely considered to be the source of all evil.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” Judge Gold snapped. “Get some aliens from another planet? A bunch of atheists? Atheists aren’t even American. The only way we’re going to get a jury on this case is if we send out to San Francisco for a bunch of Montessori kids with liberal parents who listen to This American Life instead of going to church on Sundays and who have no idea that organized religion even exists.”

  And, ultimately, that’s what they did.

  It was hot in the event room. It had always been hot. Michael couldn’t remember a time when it hadn’t been hot. He couldn't remember a time before the heat cooked his brains. A time before the carpet burned his feet and the air smelled like singed wool. His wings were sacks full of lead strapped to his back. His feathers drooped. His body streamed with sweat. His legs were made of stone. His shoulders and scalp were burned raw and red by the relentless heat pressing down on him from above.

  Angels hate the heat. They prefer the cool reaches of Heaven, and even our Earth is a few degrees warmer than they find comfortable. When the angels who sided with Satan were cast out of Heaven they fell from its chill comfort into Hell’s lake of fire and it seared them, cooked them, broiled them alive. The shock drove them mad. They screamed for decades as their skin roasted and their wings fried and burned. The fallen angels burned in Hell for hundreds of years. After the first year they were no longer begging for water to cool their blistered tongues. After the first decade their flesh had baked off, peeled away and regenerated so many times that they were nothing more than masses of scar tissue. And still they burned.

  After the first century, most of them had been driven insane from the pain. Another century passed and Satan began his project to organize Hell. He started to search for the angels amongst the lava flows and in the caverns where the air boiled. He found them where they cowered in the burning darkness, he coaxed them out from molten caves and pitch-black crevasses and he saw what had been done to them. They had fallen as angels but Hell’s fires were a crucible that had warpe
d them until they were twisted, deformed and unrecognizable. Their minds had burned away along with their bodies and what remained were demons – deformed, monstrous reflections of the beautiful creatures they had once been.

  Michael knew of this and he was scared that it was happening to him now. He was scared that he was burning to death, that the heat was making him insane. It pressed him down. It cooked him. The nylon wall-to-wall carpet smoldered and was sticky, on the verge of bursting into flame. Michael’s body felt like it would catch on fire at any moment. But still he kept walking. Lifting one leaden foot after the other. He was getting closer to the exit door all the time. Now he was almost two-thirds of the way there. He wondered if he’d be able to make it all the way before he lost his mind.

  Sheriff Furlough had assigned Satan and Nero an empty conference room as a staging area. The conference table was so big that it left them almost no room to walk around, and so Nero was trying to pace back and forth as best he could but he kept bumping into chairs.

  “What happens now?” Satan asked.

  It was the day the trial was set to open and Nero was terrified. But he knew that as lost as he was, at least he had once been human. He understood the way laws and trials worked. Satan was totally in the dark.

  “In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups: the police, who investigate crime; and the district attorneys, who prosecute the offenders,” he said.

  “But I thought this was a civil trial?” Satan asked.

  “It is,” Nero said, quickly. “I was just trying to banter.”

  “Banter?”

  “To put you at ease.”

  “It didn’t work,” Satan said.

  Nero was petrified. He knew that he was the only one who could defend Satan, but the law he felt most comfortable with was Classical Roman law, which hadn’t really been practiced in one thousand eight hundred years. He had watched three seasons of Law & Order, he had seen A Few Good Men and The Pelican Brief, and he had read all the John Grisham he could get his hands on, but now he would have to stand up in a real courtroom, in front of a real judge, next to a real lawyer who knew all the tricks, and pretend that he knew what he was doing. It was like a nightmare. Nero would have wet his pants if he’d been wearing any. Wetting one’s toga always led to disaster.

  “I’ve got a plan – “ he started, but was interrupted as a sheriff’s deputy stuck his head in the door.

  “They’re waiting for you,” he said.

  “What’s your plan?” Satan asked.

  But Nero was too busy wetting his toga.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the Bailiff shouted. “All hail the living incarnation of swift justice, the man who knows where all the bodies are buried, the master of the gavel and the robe, Juuuuuudge Cody Goooooooooooooolllllldddddd!”

  The room went wild – there had been a spontaneous outbreak of applause the day before when Judge Gold had plucked an annoying fly out of the air with one hand and since no one had been charged with contempt the spectators took it as a sign that Judge Cody Gold was fine with spontaneous demonstrations of approval.

  “Hear ye, hear ye,” the judge said, settling himself down on the bench. “We got a crime, we got a victim, we got a criminal, we got lawyers and now we got a jury. I think it’s time we put ‘er in gear. Opening statements! Let’s go! Prosecution? Tell us why we should hate evil.”

  Eddie Horton stood up and walked to the bench. He made a microscopic adjustment to his lapels.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Counselors. Your honor. I could give you a long and eloquent opening statement, but really I just want to say one thing.”

  He pointed at Satan.

  “That is Satan. And Satan is evil. And we’re here to kick evil’s butt. Thank you.”

  He sat down to wild applause.

  “Well, I’m convinced,” Judge Gold said.

  Nero’s opening statement consisted of five, single-spaced pages. He was a terrible reader. And then he dropped his statement and got the pages mixed up.

  It is better to pass over Nero’s opening statement in silence.

  After Nero’s lackluster performance, the legal team for the plaintiff called their first witness to the stand. Nancy Standing, inner child release and emotional catharsis counselor, specializing in Satanic ritual abuse. She looked like one of those earth mothers who pretend to be laid back but become incredibly uptight when it's time to split the check.

  “Mrs. Standing,” Eddie Horton said. “You have treated Frita Babbit, the plaintiff, for how many years?”

  “Six days,” Nancy Standing said.

  “And in your opinion, is that enough time in which to form a complete diagnosis?”

  “More than enough,” Nancy Standing said. “I’ve been in situations where I’ve only had three minutes.”

  “Have you ever been wrong?”

  “Never. My training is excellent.”

  “How would you describe the symptoms that the plaintiff exhibits?”

  “Troubling.”

  “How troubling? In your professional opinion?”

  “Deeply troubling.”

  “Can you describe for the jury these deeply troubling symptoms?”

  Nancy Standing turned towards the jury.

  “Ms. Babbit – Frita – demonstrates a lack of self-confidence, poor self-esteem and a negative self-image. She also suffers from depression, anxiety and irritability. Bad skin, poor posture, limp hair and phantom pain.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Chronic insomnia, inexplicable headaches, irritable bowel syndrome, halitosis, sensitive teeth, abnormally large gum pockets, sore tongue, dermatitis, cellulite, hammer toe, spider leg veins and infantile aggression syndrome with dissociative tendencies.”

  “Would you mind restating this in terms a layperson can understand?”

  “She’s a mess.”

  “And in your opinion, why is she a mess?”

  “In my expert opinion, she is a mess because she was sexually abused by Satan.”

  “By Satan?” Eddie Horton said, feigning surprise. “What makes you so certain that it was Satan? Couldn’ t someone else have abused her and caused these same symptoms?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I say so.”

  “And you are?”

  “An expert.”

  “No further questions, your honor.”

  Now she was Nero’s witness. Nero wasn’t quite sure what to do with her. He knew that he had to cross-examine her, he knew that he had to put up some kind of a fight, but his head was a whirling mess of contradictory assumptions and instincts. And then he had a sudden flash of inspiration.

  “Mrs. Standing – ”

  “Ms.,” she corrected him.

  “Ms. Standing,” Nero said. “Do you drink alcohol?”

  “I have drunk alcohol in the past, yes.”

  “Did you drink any this morning?”

  “No.”

  “Are you drunk right now?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I see. No further questions, your honor.”

  But Ms. Standing was not finished.

  “Your honor,” she said. “If it pleases the court may I say something?”

  “That’s not allowed,” Judge Gold said. “But let’s get outside the box. This is a zone for free thinkers. Go for it!”

  “Frita Babbit is not an easy person to like,” Nancy Standing said. “Look at her. She’s irritating and unpleasant. She is insecure and neurotic. A lot of you will talk about her in the upcoming days. You will say, ‘She should go to the gym more. She needs to wear nicer blouses. She should really do something about her hair.’ And I want you all to know that she would...if not for Satan!”

  An appreciative murmur spread through the courtroom.

  “What was that all about?” Satan whispered to Nero as he sat down.

  “I’ve got a plan, s
ir,” Nero said. “Just wait.”

  If Nero had a plan, it wasn’t a very good one. The prosecution ran an impressive parade of psychologists, psychiatrists, counselors, therapists, doctors and nurse practitioners through the witness chair over the next two days and every single one of them hammered on the same fact: if not for Satan, Frita Babbit would have discovered a cure for cancer by now.

  “Are you sure you have a plan?” Satan asked Nero, after the third outburst of spontaneous applause from the courtroom.

  “Of course,” Nero said.

  “Can you share it with me?”

  “My plan is to win this case,” Nero said.

  “Are there any more details than that?”

  “Not yet, sir. But I’m working on it.”

  Satan buried his head in his hands.

  The man sitting in the witness box that afternoon was Dr. Everett Scott, a specialist in Satanic cults and black magic.

  “Dr. Scott,” Eddie Horton said. “Do Satanic cults exist?”

  “Most definitely,” the wheelchair-bound Scott said. “They are, to coin a phrase, all around us. One might even be in this courtroom right this very minute.”

  A murmur ran through the courtroom.

  “As I said,” Dr. Scott continued. “ Satanic cults are all around us. There is growing criminal activity in the world and most of it stems from an underground network of Satanists who make up the global elite. What is the global elite? It is a United Nations of evil made up of witches, warlocks, rock musicians, liberal politicians, Islamo-fascists, French people, geneticists, internet users, child pornographers and Hollywood producers.”

  “And can you tell the court how this conspiracy functions.”

  “Do you have five thousand hours?”

  Appreciative laughter rippled through the courtroom. People liked it when a professorial type in a wheelchair, who reminded them of their crazy old college physics professor, made a funny.

  “But seriously,” Dr. Scott said. “I can sum it up for you very simply. The global elite have many perverse needs and they use mind control and circumcision to form an international army of children who are given alternate personalities as assassins, drug runners, servants and prostitutes. Catamites, so to speak. These ‘alternates’ are activated by code words that they disseminate via techno music to the Satanists around the world. They also impregnate many small Catholic girls and then barbecue and eat their babies. They love babies. It’s a little known fact, but Lee Harvey Oswald claims to have been victimized by a Satanic cult when he was child. It’s been hushed up, but I would love to get my hands on his body and see if he had been circumcised or not. That would be very revealing.”