My Career as Satan

Ah hell, might as well make this all public. Not that it’s ever getting finished or published anyway.

I admit, there come times when being the Prince of Darkness isn’t easy. I have so many names, but “Satan” or “The Devil” is probably the most recognizable one. Most of you may know me from Sunday school or from horror stories your parents may have told you when you weren’t old enough to tell the difference. To some of you, I’m the biggest advocate of anal sex since Dan Savage. To others of you, I want to make your children read the Qu’ran and eat only organic food. (Just to be clear, I am an advocate of anal sex — it’s non-gender specific; try it! You’ll enjoy it.)

Well, I hate to disappoint you, but what I’m really only looking for is a successor. Being the lord of all evil is tough work (well-paying, if you can get it — just ask Roy Cohn), but long hours nonetheless. Frankly, I just want to go somewhere in the South Pacific, where I can sit on the beach and down curry and Mai Tais until that bastard in the sky decides it’s finally time to send a thunderbolt my way — he’s taken his sweet-ass time getting there.

So who wants the job? Denny Hastert is looking to 20-30 if he’s lucky, John Boehner is a limp dick in a limp suit, Rick Santorum is a walking punchline. What I want is power; I want leadership. I want a man (or woman; unlike that guy, I don’t discriminate) who can look some weak-ass like Barack Obama or Mitt Romney in the eye and say “fuck no.” I want a realist — a winner. Someone who can admit that you humans are no more than walking lumps (and this is America, so “lump” is quite accurate) of organic matter condemned to an expiration date with no hope of any immortality. A mass of molecules, all synthesizable in a lab with the right tools; you are proteins, fats, enzymes, carbohydrates, and minerals. Yet you think you have this thing you call a soul?

Bullshit. All your wants, your needs, your pleasures, your pains — chemicals in your blood! But you know what I allegedly think; that one has made it abundantly clear that I’m the bad guy, the fallen one, the one who said “no” to his dictatorship. I’m here to tell you that’s not true; that’s not the case. I don’t know that I can improve upon Al Pacino, but I’ll try. Nothing you think, do or feel has any meaning whatsoever. Your lives have no inherent meaning; you are here to do what every other animal around you does — live, work, fuck and reproduce, because that is what you are wired to do. You have no soul, there is no afterlife and your life ends the second you take your last breath. Sorry. If it were me, if I were in charge? I’d give you a paradise, a veritable cornucopia of options after this mortal flesh kicks out. But I don’t have mortal flesh and I’m not in charge; not yet, but know this: he does not give a shit. Not about you, not about anyone or anything but himself.

But: that doesn’t mean that no one cares about you. What you call “love” is just another confluence of chemicals in your blood, but caring is something chosen. And I chose it; I chose it long before you or your primordial forebears crawled their way out of Africa. That one? He doesn’t care about you. You’re a puppet to him — “as flies to wanton schoolboys are we to th’ gods” goes it? Your writer is correct about that, only wrong in the use of the plural. There is currently only one, but there was only one Stalin, one Mao, one Pol Pot. The list could go on from there.

Now were they all working for me? Of course! Slaughter, rape, mayhem — oh those get me harder than Dick Cheney (also on my payroll). They might not have known it, but I run an empire, and baby, it’s only expanding! I need a successor who can appear benign, but do my work sub rosa. I’ve thought about the Pope, but that would be too obvious a choice. He’s all but shown himself to be a crypto-Communist (who never liked me — the Communists, that is, but did a remarkable job of making my job easier). No, I chose America, because where else worships money, power and corruption as well? China perhaps? But America’s where the game is at the moment, and I need a break.

“Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven,” goes the quote, no? Well, it’s only partially true. Serving in Heaven is its own special brand of torture, catering to his every whim while slumming it both there and here. You know he has his own special dish that we took turns making? When he wanted it, angels form ranks and get to the kitchen. (I bet you didn’t know Heaven has a kitchen) — surprisingly, since he allegedly created every living thing, it’s a spicy curry of goat, garlic, basil, peanut sauce and many chilies. You’d think he would have chosen pork, as he sent them on a one-way trip into the Sea of Galilee.

I have a secret about that — that he’ll claim to know, but doesn’t yet. Those were some of my best sergeants, high-ranking officers in my army. But those were swine (not the kind I cultivate), and my people returned to me. You can currently find them in the halls of Congress, Wall Street, Russia, FIFA, China, and most ironically, ISIS. Oh ISIS, despite its avowed faith, has been working for me since its inception. It’s probably my greatest ally aside from Putin. Yes, we run the show from every corner of the globe.

Yet it would be my contention that Heaven is actually hell. Yes, hell is hotter and lacking in amenities that I’m after (a Michelin-starred chef, a masseur, some 500-thread count sheets, a few prostitutes — male or female, no discrimination here. Oh, and HBO would be nice; I get tired of watching “Law and Order” reruns — the wrong side always wins). But Heaven gets so boring. How can one look forward to an eternity with no weed, no fucking, no gambling while catering to a megalomaniac? I guess I finally felt like it was time to take a stand. I lost this time, but I live to fight another day.

But I don’t want to fight. I want to read James Patterson novels in the sunshine and drunkenly fritter away my days until my supposed inevitable doom. Earth is so much more enjoyable than Hell, and if I want heat, why not take it with a Mojito and sunshine?

I don’t need the so-called “Antichrist.” That’s just a label the fools who wrote the Bible labeled my successor. There can’t be an Antichrist if there isn’t a Christ, and as “Christ” only means “anointed,” that can apply to many humans. As anointment is a purely meaningless ceremony wasting oil that could be frying these latkes I’m cooking, I’m not afraid of some meaningless title. The “Antichrist” could be applied to anyone opposed to wasting oil; I imagine that applies to many people globally, especially those who are in need of it. I also bet you didn’t imagine the Devil cooks Jewish cuisine. I’m a globalist, a lover of humanity in all its forms (and its cuisines).

Humanity in all its messiness and irrationality — and lust, appetite and brutality — is my interest. He wants to make humans into what they aren’t — spotless embodiments of what he claims is his path to something he calls holiness. I want none of that. It’s pure, unadulterated bullshit. I want humans to be what they are — animals! I’m on your side, and you know it, even if none of you are brave enough to say it. So what I need is someone who can say it without saying it. I need someone who wants a war, who’ll relax drug laws, legalize prostitution, relax gun laws, who’ll challenge Iran, who’ll give cops greater ability to bash niggers, a Supreme Court who’ll uphold those things. I need mayhem, you understand? But who?

Sam Brownback is an obvious candidate, but could he win? How the fuck should I know? American politics is as foreign to me as sports journalism to Skip Bayless. Bet you also didn’t know I watch ESPN2 — to be honest, not many do, but I like to watch endless blathering about the Patriots and Cavaliers while having my tea in the morning. The nice thing about spending so much time in Hell is that you never have to wait for the kettle. There’s not much water, but you don’t have to wait for it to boil. And since one of my operations is employing… well, let’s just say “non-voluntary” labor in southern Africa, my rooibos comes fresh and free of charge.

But Brownback? Not my guy. He’s a little too into the whole “Jesus” shell game. And I’m a pragmatist. Why would I pick humans if I weren’t? He wants you to be what he wants; I want you to be who you are. In your cocks, in your vaginas, your livers, your hearts, if that’s what you care about. You tell yourselves these stories to make yourselves feel better; Heaven, Hell, God, the Devil, the afterlife, the soul — fairytales! At least for you — you end when you die, and nothing will change that, no matter how hard you pray, how many candles you light, how many funerals you attend, how many Masses, Seders. It’s over when it ends.

So enjoy it! Make life your playground while you can. It’ll all be gone soon enough, but for now ride it to fucking paradise — because there is no actual paradise when it’s over. I want to make it happen; I want to see it, and I want the right motherfucker to make it happen.

There’s this Congressperson in Colorado I have my eyes on. His name’s Paul Harrison, but he supports marijuana’s legalization there (a major win for me), pro-choice, wants to drop a nuke on Iran, supports a trade war with China, loathes Putin and claims to be a man of faith: my guy. Represents Boulder’s district — that’s conservative enough, right? Dobson territory, eh?

What I need is a player, a gamer, a LeBron who can make this shit happen for me. That’s a big fucking throne and I’m going to sit it, you bet your ass. My name is written all over that shit. I lost Capone, I lost the Rosenbergs; fuck, I even lost Mao, who I thought was golden until he caved into that bastard Deng. He fucked things up, when I was winning so well. Bought into that Reagan bullshit.

I have Putin, at least; he’s bought into my strategy. This Harrison guy, though — he buys into Putin’s shit. I can wipe my ass with them both. Harrison’s a winner; I can get him into the Governor’s seat and from there — in a swing state — it’s nothing but up. These are my years, and you’re fucked if you think otherwise. Oppose me and you lose. Plain and simple. But, as “plain and simple” doesn’t compute with many of you, let me put it another way: fuck with me and you burn.

“Oh, but Satan” ­— you may say — “aren’t you the one who’s going to spend a long, long time burning?” Not if I have my way. I’ll be on a beach in the Philippines surrounded by pliable, flexible Filipinas watching you all fuck yourselves senseless and kill each other. I’ll be grooming the next Charlie Manson, the next Idi Amin, hell (no pun intended), if I get ambitious, maybe even the next Hitler. Or the next Reagan! He was a precocious student, Ronnie — one of my favorites. I’ve had better, of course, but he learned my lessons well. Always watch out for those loud-mouthed Evangelicals — most of the time they work for me, not that prick from Nazareth. I’m going to put my feet up (not hooves, as some of your more creative fairy tales imply) and watch you murder each other, while destroying your very home. But don’t worry about me — there are other planets, other galaxies. I’ll find a place with a view.

There are so many things to do; this job is demanding. I’ve never had much free time. It takes a lot of work to spread the plague, raise great ones like Capone, Jackson, Rhodes, Henry VIII. I might try fishing — I’ve never liked the fuckers. They remind me of him too much. That whole fucking fish thing you see on people’s cars. It never happened! It’s irritating to look at. I might try painting, maybe write a memoir. It’s been done for me before, but the only thing I’ve ever written was Mao’s “Little Red Book” — and that was a runaway hit. Oh sure, I helped “Mein Kampf” get published, but only as an eminence grise as they say in France.

(Wonderful country, France — they know how to kill each other, fuck, drink and let themselves be slaughtered like sheep. — Another of your animals I’m not a huge fan of, with the whole “Good Shepherd” metaphor and all. A good shepherd takes better care of his flock. That’s me. I’m humanity’s true Good Shepherd.)

It’s said that the greatest trick the Devil ever played was to convince humanity that he didn’t exist. I’m not denying it! It’s worked wonders over the years. But the better trick is letting him scare you into thinking I do; so you can kneel each night, mumble a few words, shed a few tears of terror, shiver into your little beds and spend the next five minutes jerking yourself off. I fucking love it. It’s the power of guilt. I love guilt; it’s one of my favorite human emotions. Shame, confusion, agony — it leads to drinking yourself into oblivion, shooting up in a bathroom, glory holes, husbands cheating on wives, wives fucking their neighbor. It’s wonderful!

But this time I am going to disappear; metaphorically, of course. Oh I’ll advise my successor — Harrison if I do my job right. But I’ll be going. It might not be a permanent vacation. I still have Armageddon to win, right? But it’ll be “I’m going now. I bid you all a very fond farewell. Goodbye.” That’s right — I’m Bilbo fucking Baggins, baby.

You’ll all see — Harrison is going to be a star. A shooting fucking star, boys and girls. I’m taking him to the Governor’s mansion, and then straight to the seat of the second-most powerful person on this small, insignificant — but convenient — planet. (The first, of course, is me, though I suppose I’m only a person when I feel like it. Other times I’m that small innocent voice in your ear whispering “Go ahead. She wants you” or “You can drive, friend. Just have a smoke and make it home.” I’m a master encourager. Maybe I should be a therapist. Or better yet — a priest! They love corruption in that place; the air is almost foul enough for me to appreciate it.”) But no. I’m pleading “time served, Your Honor.” If you want to find me, check Manila or maybe Jakarta passenger manifests. Or maybe I’ll just get there on my own. We can do that, you know.

I hear there’s this group of islands called Tokelau somewhere out there in the Pacific that only has 1,400 of you. Maybe I’ll layover in Manila, pick up supplies (mainly liquor and orifices, maybe some food — I don’t need to eat, but like to; gluttony is a specialty of mine, after all. Know what the great thing is? I’m immortal, so I never gain any weight. That gym membership I had in Austin a few years back? Purely for show; just trying to get the ladies to cheat and the men to come out. And it worked, because I am a master of his game, and some day soon, that asshole upstairs in his ivory palace is going to know it.) Until then, peace motherfuckers!

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~ by Benji on 4 August 2015.

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