Satan Loves You (2 page)

The last thing to go through Earl Pickett’s mind was a Firestone tire. It came flying off the track of the Summerville Speedway at ninety-five miles per hour, bounced off a telephone pole, changed direction by about forty-five degrees, and then rocketed clean through Earl’s head and planted itself in the bread basket of Dale Gutman, who was just popping open another Budweiser.

What surprised Earl the most was his sudden change in perspective. One minute he was coming back from the men’s room where he’d dry swallowed a couple of Percocets in preparation for getting his buzz on while watching this slobber knocker of a race that was about to bust loose as the Red Bear Hand Cleaner Creeper took on the Appalachian Outlaw in the Drury Sheet Metal Summer Stock Car Spectacular, and the next minute he was looking up from underneath the stands at his buddy Dale, who seemed to have a Firestone tire stuck halfway through him.

“Hey, Dale?” Earl shouted. “Are you okay?”

“Earl?” Dale said, shakily. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, I’m down here.”

A chorus of screams went up from the other end of the Speedway, followed by a muffled explosion.

“Oh, man,” Dale said. “The Appalachian Outlaw just drove into the stands and blew up. Where is you?”

Earl tried to stand up, but his motor control was shot.

“Dale,” he said. “You got a tire in your stomach.”

“Yeah, I know. I think I’m on fire, too.”

“Shit, man. That’s raw.”

Dale peered beneath the stands as best he could and then took out his cell phone and snapped a picture. He turned it around to show Earl.

“Your head’s been cut off,” he said.

Earl looked at the photo of his head on Dale’s phone. He was a good-looking fox, if he might say so himself, but he was also a severed head.

“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.

“Something, 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.