Satan (or the Devil, the Prince of Demons, Beelzebub, Old Scratch, etc)
was on a Saturday business trip across the country, searching for prospective tortured souls, sociopaths, compulsive liars, and other unsavory characters. His sleek red sports car had an endless, matte black interior and the songs on his radio wavered in and out of horrible pitches. As he leaned his arm out of the window casually, the heat of mid-August rolled off his skin, which was more armor than flesh.
His next errand was in a high-rise across the city. Although Hell was an entirely miserable place and he was surrounded by the most wonderful oppressed souls, he couldn’t help but take some joy from watching the happiness of the little people who streamed in and out of the storefronts, hand in hand with their partners, pushing baby strollers, walking dogs. They were all eventually doomed. It was a beautiful thing.
As he drove his car into the parking deck, he turned to look at the parking attendant, who sat in a booth where he waved drivers in and collected money. He thought it looked like a coffin with windows. The parking attendant locked eyes with him, and Satan’s cocky grimace was met with the same pleasant smile the attendant gave to everyone who passed. After he had returned from his trip and was leaving, the same parking attendant sat in the booth eating his lunch. The attendant, a young man by the name of Roger, was freckled and bug-eyed and ate his roast beef sandwich in large mouthfuls. Satan knew his name was Roger because he knew everyone’s name.
“Good afternoon,” Roger said, finishing his sandwich.
“It’s just an afternoon,” Satan said impatiently.
“Excuse me, sir?” he replied politely.
“I need to go.”
“Oh! That’s right. That’ll be six dollars.”
“Six dollars!” Satan said emphatically.
“Mmhm,” Roger nodded.
“Can you repeat that?”
“Uh, six dollars.”
“I’m not paying that.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I agree, it IS too much, but you know, I really can’t do anything about it.”
“No, it’s not ‘too much,’ Satan mocked childishly, “I’m just not paying it.”
Roger worriedly flipped through papers on the clipboard in front of him, “Oh no, are you on the list?”
“What list?”
“The list of important people I’m supposed to let through without paying.”
“Well,” Satan said tersely, “I should be.”
“Roger,” he said smoothly, his voice like velvet lapping over silk, “Just let me through. Six dollars is virtually nothing.”
The young man was visibly concerned. It was clearly a dilemma. As usual, Satan saw the chance to ruin a life and get his way in one situation. It was the principle of the thing, anyway, he thought. Six dollars!
And not only did Satan know his name was Roger, he knew that this awkward young man wasn’t going to Hell. He wasn’t going to be damned. This young man was a solid rock of kindness, inherently good, and he was completely oblivious to that fact. But fear, Satan knew, was a powerful thing. For example, a red hot poker was enough motivation for a herd of unhappy souls to continue pulling the same ton of rock for an eternity.
This fear was in the form of a cacophony that could only be raised from Hell ringing loudly on the radio in Satan’s sports car. Satan’s eyes widened and glowed like two huge rubies as he watched the young man struggle to retain his composure. The ear-splitting frequencies, Hellish moans, screeches, and uncomfortably low reverberations from the speakers filled his little booth. Roger cupped his hands to his ears and kept his posture.
“Sorry, sir—I’m not feeling right, OH, GOD! ARE YOUR EARS RINGING?”
“No,” Satan said smiling.
“DO YOU HEAR THAT? IT MUST BE CONSTRUCTION! I DIDN’T SEE ANY WORKERS, THOUGH. HOLY MOLY, THAT’S LOUD!”
Satan watched smugly as the young man writhed against the glass of the booth, his hands tore at the paper on the clipboard. The bellows and awful chants of the radio droned on and then stopped. Roger rubbed his ears and fell against the chair in the cramped space.
“Are you okay?” he asked Satan loudly.
“I’m fine but I’m still not out of here!”
“Oh yeah,” Roger straightened out the crumpled paper on the clipboard, “Let’s see if your name is on the list.”
“You would know if my name was on the list.”
“Are you a celebrity? Sorry, I don’t recognize you.”
“You should think about properly recognizing me, Roger, you might start getting some luck,” said Satan, adjusting the rim of his hat over his horns, which could never be removed no matter how human he was able to appear. “Or getting lucky at all,” he said under his breath, reviewing slides of Roger’s life in his head.
“Oh, you own that casino, don’t you!” he said pleasantly.
Like I’d be caught alive owning a casino, let alone even walking around one, Satan thought to himself.
“No, I don’t own that money pit,” said Satan slowly.
“Well, unless your name is on this list, I can’t let you through without six dollars.”
“Wrong answer,” said Satan, and he turned the dial to his windshield wipers.
Roger gazed at the wipers as they moved back and forth, back and forth, hypnotically beating in time with an accompanying knocking, which he could not place. The walls of his little booth rattled, as if a heavy truck had driven down the road outside the parking deck. The knocking had become a rhythmic pound, and the booth shook fiercely. A snapshot of Roger and his pet cat flew off the bulletin board. He stared at the wipers until the ground nearly slipped from under him. Satan’s grin grew wider as Roger was thrown around the inside of the booth.
As the ground shook and the knocking in Roger’s head continued, he could feel sweat drip from his hairline to his collar. The metal door frame of the booth was suddenly hot to the touch and the black ink pen in his pocket was melting, dripping ink down his shirt front. A blinding flash brought the most frightening part.
There were large openings for light at the top of the concrete wall all around the parking deck. The clear blue sky turned a white orange. A wall of fire surrounded every window and flames licked the edges of the concrete. Several intense moments later, both the flames and the shaking ceased and the city resumed its normality.
“I-I—,” Roger was shaking and at a loss for words. He wiped the sweat from his brow and patted at the ink stains on his shirt with a fast food napkin.
“Yes?” said Satan hungrily, clenching his teeth as he envisioned an effective and classic punishment in which Roger was chained to a rock with vultures pecking at his intestines.
“I think my blood sugar is low. I just saw some pretty freaky stuff! Must have been a hallucination. I really need to eat something. ”
“You need to eat something?” said Satan, his impatience peaking. “You honestly think that was a hallucination? I AM THE BANE OF GOODNESS,” he said angrily, “I AM THE MOST SERIOUS OF ALL EVILS!”
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience sir, but I can’t let anyone through who won’t pay. I mean, if you left your wallet at home, I’m sure we can work something out,”
said Roger, his voice straining slightly. “And please don’t yell, sir, I’m just doing my job.”
Satan gripped his steering wheel with his long black talons and the automatic arm of the exit melted. “YOU IDIOT,” he yelled, and peeled away ferociously.
“Have a nice day!” Roger called out to him, as Satan’s car ripped down the street in a jet of flames and a shower of sparks.
Roger pulled out his clipboard and neatly printed a report:
Angry man in red sports car refused to pay parking fee. Became increasingly upset and yelled nonsense words. Automatic arm melted. He drove away without paying. Conclusion is that today’s heat was bothering him. Will need reimbursement for Disneyland ballpoint pen, uniform shirt, and a replacement chair.