that I am, at this very moment, freezing to death ?!”
Shirley — the telephone representative for Washington Gas — may have understood, but she was not at all sympathetic to the Devil’s plight, which is to say that she was acting like an unfeeling, robot bitch as she followed a diagrammatic flow chart of scripted answers with about as much empathy for his misery and discomfort as a washing machine has for clothing as it cycles from soak to agitate to rinse to spin.
No, Shirley didn’t seem to care anymore than his thermostat did. And yelling at her wasn’t helping any more than it had with that. Satan had screamed at and berated the little box on the wall off and on for two days before his neighbor had knocked on the door, wondering what all the fuss was about. The neighbor had explained the mysteries of climate control, and had eventually helped Satan to figure out that the gas wasn’t working. So now here he was, on the phone with this merciless, automaton whore.
“I’m sorry, sir, but if you want to place a service order, you need to call us three days in advance,” she said. This was the fifth time she had advised the Devil of Washington Gas’ three-day notice requirement. Of course, Shirley had no idea that she was speaking with Satan. She heard his accent and figured he was just another one of those diplomats from England or Gondor or wherever.
“You keep reciting that as if it were some kind of mystical incantation that will make me go away. Do you really think that I didn’t hear you the first five times you said it? Or that I was somehow unable to understand? Oh wait, I’m sorry. Are you, perchance, a complete fucking idiot? Is that the problem?”
“You’re just being rude,” she said. Shirley didn’t like these snooty foreign guys.
“Yes, but you see, you madam, are a moron. And I am having to cope simultaneously with freezing my backside off and your profound stupidity. My rudeness is therefore excused. I am afraid, however, that your stupidity is not. It is, in fact, inexcusable. So I must insist that you cease your idiotic prattling and TURN ON MY FUCKING HEAT ALREADY!” Satan sat down and crossed his legs. He felt calm and in control.
“Hold, please.” Some light jazz came on as Shirley put the Prince of Darkness on hold.
He stood up and began pacing. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The Dark Lord of the Underworld did not look good in sweaters. Not frumpy brown ones anyway.
The phone continued to play hold music at him while he waited. He held the handset out at arm’s length again, glaring at it with an evil eye, and was just about to fling it at the wall when he remembered the last time he’d been put on hold. He glanced over to where his old telephone was still embedded in the sheetrock and sighed. The ingenuity and deviousness of humans was astounding – hold music was like a cheese grater for the soul. Forget all the fire and brimstone, they really needed to start piping this stuff in down in Hell.
He sighed again. Was it worth this? Was eternal damnation really any worse than sitting on hold, listening to Muzak?
I should just go back , he thought.
It was an odd thing, this nagging sense that he should be back in Hell. He’d been there in rebellion after all. The original and most profound rebellion. And it was strange and uncomfortable to think of rebelling as something he had to do. But then, he’d felt compelled to rebel against God. Driven. Like it was something he couldn’t not do. And it took him a while to understand, but by giving in and succumbing to that compulsion, he was actually serving a purpose set out for him – and for which he’d been designed and created – by God. So, the reality of the situation was that he wasn’t a rebel at all. He was a pawn in God’s big plan. God needed a patsy, a chump – someone to set up as a straw man in His
Shirley — the telephone representative for Washington Gas — may have understood, but she was not at all sympathetic to the Devil’s plight, which is to say that she was acting like an unfeeling, robot bitch as she followed a diagrammatic flow chart of scripted answers with about as much empathy for his misery and discomfort as a washing machine has for clothing as it cycles from soak to agitate to rinse to spin.
No, Shirley didn’t seem to care anymore than his thermostat did. And yelling at her wasn’t helping any more than it had with that. Satan had screamed at and berated the little box on the wall off and on for two days before his neighbor had knocked on the door, wondering what all the fuss was about. The neighbor had explained the mysteries of climate control, and had eventually helped Satan to figure out that the gas wasn’t working. So now here he was, on the phone with this merciless, automaton whore.
“I’m sorry, sir, but if you want to place a service order, you need to call us three days in advance,” she said. This was the fifth time she had advised the Devil of Washington Gas’ three-day notice requirement. Of course, Shirley had no idea that she was speaking with Satan. She heard his accent and figured he was just another one of those diplomats from England or Gondor or wherever.
“You keep reciting that as if it were some kind of mystical incantation that will make me go away. Do you really think that I didn’t hear you the first five times you said it? Or that I was somehow unable to understand? Oh wait, I’m sorry. Are you, perchance, a complete fucking idiot? Is that the problem?”
“You’re just being rude,” she said. Shirley didn’t like these snooty foreign guys.
“Yes, but you see, you madam, are a moron. And I am having to cope simultaneously with freezing my backside off and your profound stupidity. My rudeness is therefore excused. I am afraid, however, that your stupidity is not. It is, in fact, inexcusable. So I must insist that you cease your idiotic prattling and TURN ON MY FUCKING HEAT ALREADY!” Satan sat down and crossed his legs. He felt calm and in control.
“Hold, please.” Some light jazz came on as Shirley put the Prince of Darkness on hold.
He stood up and began pacing. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The Dark Lord of the Underworld did not look good in sweaters. Not frumpy brown ones anyway.
The phone continued to play hold music at him while he waited. He held the handset out at arm’s length again, glaring at it with an evil eye, and was just about to fling it at the wall when he remembered the last time he’d been put on hold. He glanced over to where his old telephone was still embedded in the sheetrock and sighed. The ingenuity and deviousness of humans was astounding – hold music was like a cheese grater for the soul. Forget all the fire and brimstone, they really needed to start piping this stuff in down in Hell.
He sighed again. Was it worth this? Was eternal damnation really any worse than sitting on hold, listening to Muzak?
I should just go back , he thought.
It was an odd thing, this nagging sense that he should be back in Hell. He’d been there in rebellion after all. The original and most profound rebellion. And it was strange and uncomfortable to think of rebelling as something he had to do. But then, he’d felt compelled to rebel against God. Driven. Like it was something he couldn’t not do. And it took him a while to understand, but by giving in and succumbing to that compulsion, he was actually serving a purpose set out for him – and for which he’d been designed and created – by God. So, the reality of the situation was that he wasn’t a rebel at all. He was a pawn in God’s big plan. God needed a patsy, a chump – someone to set up as a straw man in His
Similar Books
