by Jon Stewart
Here he was nearly twenty years old, little to no body hair, still livin' in his parents' care and not a speck of relief in sight. In disgust he threw down his totebag and cursed to the heavens: "I swear ... it's enough to make a man sell his soul to the Devil! And I would too!!" As he uttered the blasphemy a horrendous crash arose from the Earth and Bill jumped back, expecting the Devil himself would appear. He didn't. The noise came from the tote bag, wherein lay his unsolved Rubik's Cube, now smashed in anger. He was relieved. But still, roller-skating home, he felt a bit queer about what he had uttered.
As it got toward evening, when it seemed no notice had been taken, Bill felt his fear ease, even permitting himself a quick game of Dungeons & Dragons with some local preteens. But as you know, a cry to the Dark One rarely goes unnoticed. Sure enough, next morning, a quiet, oddly handsome fella drove up in one of them old-style, gas-fueled Japanese model automobiles, asking for one William Gates the Third.
Bill's folks didn't care for the looks of the stranger, being that he had hooves, horns, smelled like burnt cake and disemboweled their dog when it growled at him. Bill knew this was Beelzebub himself, but told his folks the stranger was an old school chum who'd been kicked out of the Merchant Marines on account of his being gay. That eased their curiosity and Bill and the stranger went up to Bill's room to settle the business at hand.
Bill entered the bedroom with trepidation. He knew the Devil lorded it over an empire of unspeakable evil, and had also caused Flip Wilson's Geraldine to do some incredibly sassy things. But today the Devil was all business. The fiend pulled out a rectangular object, no bigger than a common notebook, flipped it open and tapped a pointed finger onto its lettered keyboard. The doohickey hummed to life and Ol' Bill about jumped through a window in fright. "Spare my life, Satan. I'll serve you however you please!" implored Bill, cowering from the eerie luminescence of the machine's face. "Fear not" was the Beast's calm reply, "For you have many years of prosperity ahead, before your bill comes due." But Bill still trembled in the presence of this powerful, yet portable instrument. "And as for this," the Devil continued, "it's merely a convenience. You have no idea of the paperwork generated by the selling of even one soul." With that he tapped again and a second machine began spewing a fully formed contract of servitude. The terms called for a prosperous period equal to Bill's life of misfortune to date plus five, twenty-five years in total. It was decided Bill's fortune was to come at the hands of the very object that had caused his great fright, in part because the Devil saw Bill's fascination with the product and also because the Devil was a fan of irony, O. Henry being the first author he ever signed. The deal was consummated with saliva rather than blood, a final generosity extended on account of Bill's squeamish nature, it being common knowledge he became nauseous even cutting his toenails.
After that, life was no longer a chore for Bill Gates. Armed with a computer operating system and the magic that only true evil can bring, his days became one triumph after another. Intoxicated by this prosperous turn, Bill soon forgot the horrific mortgage which would be the cost. Days became weeks, weeks became years and years ... generally stayed years. Bill Gates became rich, took a wife and bought, among other things, a large-screen TV. He was happy. Happier than a virtual hedgehog in a computerized game of skill, he would say in moments of mirth. He was much admired, even by the Beast, who had rarely seen a client so industriously fulfill his prophecy. But as the twenty-five years drew to a close, the shadow of his illfated bargain grew larger, and Bill Gates began to dread the day of the Stranger's return. His only comfort was the hope that his overwhelming success would buy some time, a hedge against his demise. Wouldn't he be a more effective tool for the Devil in his present state of power? Bill Gates vowed that when his time arrived, he would be ready with a powerful leveraged buyout package the Devil himself wouldn't be able to reject.
And his time did arrive. Sooner rather than later, for no time moves as quickly as that of the condemned. On a rainy afternoon twenty-five years to the day after that fateful meeting, a mysterious stranger once again appeared on Bill Gates's doorstep. He arrived in a style befitting the reclamation of what had become his most successful contract. A sleek black Mercedes, tuxedo and luxurious black cape, the only oddity being the rainbow-colored umbrella hat Satan favored during inclement weather. Bill Gates was ready.
No sooner had the Stranger sated himself at the wondrous banquet Bill had prepared for him, enjoyed the flown-in vocal gymnastics of Luciano Pavarotti and viewed some classic Star Trek episodes from Bill's vast laser-disc collection, than Bill launched into his defense. Prepared with the latest Microsoft graphics interface, the defense included pie charts, projections and statistics, all prepared to persuade evil incarnate of Bill's continued worth. But I imagine it will come as no surprise to the reader that among other faults, Patience is not Satan's strong suit. As Bill launched into the climax of his presentation—unlimited stock options—the Devil leaped from his chair with an angry wave of his cape. "Enough!" cried the Beastmaster. "A deal is a deal!"
But the Devil need not have uttered a word of convincing, for Bill Gates now saw, in all its horror, the folly of his attempt. For as the Devil rose, a small moth fluttered weakly from under his cape. It cried out in a pitiful nasal voice, "Help me, Neighbor Gates! For the love of God help me. This man has incarcerated me without due process. Without a Prima Facie Writ of ..." And with that the voice went silent, snatched by the Devil and placed back into confinement. "My God ... that ... that was Alan Dershowitz's voice I heard," said a shocked Bill Gates. "I'm sure of it."
"So it was" was the smug reply.
"But I just saw him on Geraldo.... You ... you have his soul?" trembled Bill, doubly frightened, for the legal maneuvering and general pestering of Dershowitz was his Plan B for breaking the contract.
The Devil nodded. Gates listened again and heard the unmistakable voice of Kathie Lee Gifford singing classic Gilbert and Sullivan from beneath the Beast's robe. "And Kathie Lee?" Bill wept aloud, "her too?!" The Beast laughed, "No, no. That's just part of the torture." Gates shuddered. The bleak future suddenly overcame him. He begged and was granted one more day to put his affairs in order. The Devil left, assured of his triumph, and Bill Gates stood alone in his mansion ... looking paler than usual.
Now, fine reader, you may justifiably assume our tale ends here. Another example of avarice and deceit leading man astray, and ultimately destroying him. But to jump to that conclusion would underestimate the considerable wiles of one Bill Gates. Surely the day looked bleak, but Bill Gates had taken notice of details. Details that, with a bit of ingenuity, might just free him from eternal damnation. A lesser man might have surrendered to the inevitable, but as history teaches us, Chairman Gates was no ordinary man. He stepped into his virtual office and got to work.
The Devil awoke the next morning to what he assumed would be a day of crowning achievement. But oddities haunted his every move. He had checked into a downtown Seattle Hyatt Regency the previous night. There had been lodging more conveniently situated to the Gates estate but Satan had stayed in Hyatts before and trusted the quality of their spacious rooms and competent if not spectacular service. He would often refer to their Sunday Chefs Choice Brunch as a "wicked indulgence." When the Beast of Beasts went to check out of his suite, however, he was quite disturbed at what he found. Being a Regency Club member, he normally breezed through the checkout process, but a nagging suspicion told him to be more thorough on this occasion. Sure enough, his computerized bill contained an unfounded movie charge. The bill claimed the Devil had indulged in the Guest's Choice Pay-Per-View film Jingle All the Way, ironically starring two of his clients. After clearing up the discrepancy, he asked that the balance of his bill be left on his credit card. Those familiar with the domain of Bill Gates know what happened next. The hotel informed Satan his credit card had been reported as stolen. They refused the card and issued the further warning that unless payment was immediately forthcoming, they would have n
o recourse but to call the authorities. Lucifer was livid. He had the cash, but that wasn't the point. Every time he used that credit card he also received Frequent Flyer miles from American, which he relied on for travel upgrades. And besides, the card was his and he hadn't reported it missing. Satan, not having the time to argue his point, paid cash and stormed off, swearing vengeance, as well as taking a silent vow to, in the future, take his business elsewhere.
Now you or I might have taken stock at this point, questioning the origin of such odd shenanigans, but not the Beast. So enraged by the event was he, and so focused on his next task, no thought of betrayal occurred to him. That is, until he saw the flashing police lights in his rearview mirror. And no amount of pleading, bargaining or self-righteous indignation could dissuade the officers from their charge of grand theft auto. Even down at the station, Satan hoped his fingerprints would clarify the issue. He felt sure that once they saw his true identity, their initial shock would give way to repentance and panicked cries for forgiveness and mercy. But wouldn't you know it. When the police ran the Beast's prints through the computer, the readout showed the perpetrator to be not the Lord of Darkness, but a crack-addicted prostitute from San Diego named Ruth Marx. The police said no charges were going to be pressed, thanks in whole to the generosity of the car's owner ... Mr. Bill Gates. They let Satan walk, with the admonition to "keep her nose clean," but that wouldn't be a worry. The fight had gone out of the old demon.
You may be wondering why the Master of All Things Evil didn't perpetrate his sinister craft during any of these harassments. Burn the hotel to cinders and turn the cop into a baby's anus. Excellent query, but you forget a crucial point. Lucifer, like his archrival, God, relies on belief for his power. To deny his identity or existence is to render him powerless. It's the one loophole to his omnipotence and Ol' Bill took full advantage. The Devil—or, as the police said, Ruth—knew he had been bested, and now he had no choice but to go to his conqueror, hat in hand.
Well, friends, the legend has it that around midnight, May 11, in the year two thousand A.D., exactly twenty-five years and a day after their first meeting, Satan arrived at the estate of one William Gates the Third, Chairman of Microsoft Industries. Worn out by his troubles, not to mention the long walk, the demon formerly known as Satan wordlessly handed over his horns, and a new, even more powerful, entity was unleashed onto the world. As for Ol' Bill, well, any schoolkid can recite from rote his record of World Domination from that point forward, but the Devil? That's a little less clear. One version had him wandering off through the wilderness, never stopping, never sleeping for fear of prosecution on drug charges. But the truth, the truth is even more chilling. Bill Gates was so merciless in victory, he sentenced the poor Devil to be a proctor in an MTV chat room on America Online. The Devil, under the screen name Ol' Scratch, spent his remaining years monitoring conversations that sought to determine who actually ruled: Ozzy or Kurt Cobain. He died miserable and insane.
And that's the story as told to me when I was a boy. If you've got more time, kind reader, perhaps you'd like to hear the tale of "The Hooters Girl and Theodore Turner"?
VINCENT AND THEO ON AOL
IT HAS BEEN said that online computer services will bring back literacy and the ancient art of letter writing. I ventured into some America Online chat rooms to test the hypothesis with one of history's finest practitioners of this lost form of communication, Vincent van Gogh. I signed on to AOL as VincentVG and began typing. Please excuse the spelling and syntax errors contained in this piece. These are the actual transcripts of my chat room experiences. Cybernames have been changed to protect the innocent.
MAY 11
AOL PEOPLE CHAT, 12:25 P.M.
VINCENTVG: Dearest Theo. Oh the human form! How splendid to draw a living breathing creature. How treacherous as well. Still, to capture the movement and emotion, the colors of our lives ...
JENNY34C: How big a man are you?
TriPpy2000: WA SUP
WITCHA RRRuFFF: Are you blonde lassie
JENNY34C: Height I mean.
VincentVG: As I live and breathe Theo, it becomes more apparent that no matter what the cost, I must capture all that I feel.
POLLYWANT: I am new to this and am enjoying. ELVIS666: I live in California.
LEVER 180: 5-11
Ashfor145: im a youngin
JENNY34C: I forgot, I'm 5-7
Adam12: SEND ME A PIC
Adam12: SEND ME A PIC
Adam12: SEND ME A PIC
VincentVG: Once again, only the blackness that is me can halt the work I am called upon to do. Today was a good day. I am still not able to eat, but stood twice and hope soon to wave to the young nurse who comes frequently to give Messerlich his enemas.
THeTodster: Is anyoune her e naughty?
Lever180: u look great ffrom here.
Adam12: OK. IF NO ONE SENDS ME A PIC SOON I SWEAR
VINCeNTVG: It no longer matters if I live or die, for now I am sure my life is as it should be. But still, paints are expensive and I believe I am being charged for this service by the hour so anything you can spare dear Theo. I know how tiresome I have become. Yesterday I declined an invitation to see myself naked.
LIOCO: Any fun guys in here?
MAY 14
MTV CHAT ROOM, 9:17 P.M.
VincentVG: Theo. Fear overwhelms me. This confounded machine has stolen my remaining resolve. I spent the morning conversing amongst "The Breakfast Club," midmorning in "Brunch Buddies," the afternoon in "The Best Li'l Chathouse" and evening in "The Saloon." Before I'm swept into the "Powertools Lounge" I plead for your help!
HeAVYMTL: Who likes sublime press 22
BRADGMAN: if you like will smith's getting jiggy wit it press I1
RADGRRRRL: MYA IS COOL AND PRAS CLOVe: 22
VincentVG: I believe Gauguin was right about me. I am a failure. Three days ago I mistakenly ordered thousands of Bonsai trees while trying to download Netscape.
SLAYeR' 5: ANY GIRL WANNA CHAT WITH A 15/M
HeAVYMTL: 22
IntROBeRT: 11
Jackmeoff: WASSUP SPEED DDDDD
BO44FF: 11
MMMMM7: AMEN 2 THAT
LBMICH22A: 22
VincentVG: I believe the Impressionists are finished. Monet has betrayed us. He has moved to Pointillism and then to connecting the points. He tells me it's a horse but I am too stupid to see it.
RebEL565: Slayer15 im me if you're a fine punker or skater
GIrLIeeee: "its all about me"
POOKie33: any1 inTA Fiona Apple
BIOgood: Sup people
VincentVG: Degas threatens to become a Graphic Artist. I spoke to him of the artist's responsibility. That which fills his head and heart must be expressed. He answers only with "A guy's gotta eat."
BUNNYHOP: How old are you HeavyMtl?
MAY 25
BUSINESS AND FINANCE CHAT ROOM, 10:12 A.M.
VincentVG: As you so warned, Gauguin is an intolerable presence as my roommate. Not only does he say my work is heavy and irrelevant, but he has taken to labeling all his provisions.
JDPower: Phizer Rizer!!!! Phizer Rizer!!!! Thanks for the new Porsche Viagra!!!!!!!!!!
GOLDMINe: Sally sells short by the seashore> Peter Picked a peck of Profit from the Pension Plan.
FANNIeMAe: You couldn't handle me tiger.
VincentVG: All is lost. Although I live lower than a beggar does, I am again without rations or funds. Instead of painting the sun as it radiated its brilliance on the field daisies, I spent the day deciding whether or not to eat my own foot. Whatever you can spare dear Theo ...
GOrDONG: The tumors are gone from the mice!! Ka-Ching!! Who's down with the pharmaceuticals!!
THEMAN: You need Viagra JD. All the limpdicks at Morgan need Viagra. Come to First Boston FannieMae. That's where the real men are!!
PHILJOHNSON: Does anyone know how I can cut my transaction fees? I'm paying up to 14 dollars per and I read somewhere that's high.
GOLdMINe: (T
o the tune of Stairway to Heaven) There's a lady I cold called, Who signed away all her life savings, and I'm Buuuyyyiiiinnng a condo in South Beeeaaaacchhhh!
VincentVG: Also, Theo, in response to your query last week, I made an effort to save on supplies by ordering over the Internet directly from the purveyor. The swines turned out to be simple pornographers and I was again pulled in by the ruse. I can assure you, dear Theo, the designation on your bill for "Hot Asian Backdoor Action" was not my intended transaction, although you were right to cancel my account.
JUNE 3
BEST LI'L CHATHOUSE, 3:44 P.M.
VincentVG: The sun Theo, the sun. Her name is FlyGrrrL69 and she's 26/f from Illinois. I know I once said that Love has the ebb and flood of the Sea, but at least the Sea won't sleep with your postman. Circumstances have changed. The cynicism of my depression has been replaced by a burgeoning twitch in my culottes.