Sympathy for the Devil

Long story short, things went from bad to worse to the nether regions in a matter of days. Hell, Inc. followed Heaventure into insolvency, and the damned joined the blessed in the bread lines and the shelters. Congress made a lot of speeches about corporate accountability but stopped short of scheduling hearings; I guess none of them wanted to cross the Big Guy. The Dow took daily plunges, often only open for thirty minutes or less before the circuit-breaker safeguards shut it down. Massive layoffs were a

After a week in hiding, the Big Guy turned up on-of course-Larry King. He said that Heaventure was conducting an internal investigation into what appeared to be some misreportage of funds. He said he deeply regretted that Heaventure was no longer able to provide services for the blessed, but financial realities necessitated a shutdown of operations. He had no comment on most of the softball questions Larry lobbed at him, and he cut the interview short when he was pressed on the question of the Covenant.

That was the Devil’s first night at Mike’s, and he shook his head at his ex-boss’s performance. “He’s really not good at doing his own talking,” he said, and twisted open another bottle of Bud.

Everybody likes the Devil. He’s unpretentious, he’s fu

The damned, on the other hand, are grateful for what they’ve got. There was no beer in hell, the Devil says, unless you were an alcoholic. He says the rule was nobody got anything unless they got too much of it. You’d think the damned who walked into Mike’s would leave as soon as they saw the Devil, but most of them talk to him like an old friend. They steer clear of Beezle, though.

People-living, damned or blessed-come to Mike’s because he lets them run a tab for weeks, sometimes months. The rumor is that Mike got a big severance package from some big company, so he can afford to extend credit to people who might not be able to pay for a while, or at all. Thing is, people do pay when they can. I don’t know that the bar is making any money, but it’s still open, which is more than you can say for a lot of places nowadays.

There’s this couple that comes in to Mike’s all the time-regulars. He’s a Jack Coke and she’s a naked dirty Absolut martini, but that’s not the only difference between them. He was blessed, see, and she was damned. Before that, who knows? Maybe they didn’t meet until the Crisis. It doesn’t seem polite to ask about it.

They were there the night that Christ showed up. It was a Tuesday, and there weren’t a lot of people in the place-the Seraphim Company was having a job fair the next morning. Anyway, Christ came in, a

“Is everyone going to be saved?” asked the blessed man, holding hands with the damned woman.

“It’s in negotiations,” said Christ.

“Is it the Rapture?” asked Ashes, who is a Born Again Christian.

“We’re workshopping the campaign,” Christ said. “We’ll have the nomenclature in a month or two.”

“What about ze Zcripturez?” This from Beezle, who had left his Brandy Alexander at the bar and was flying drunkenly towards Christ. “What about ze way zings were zuppozed to happen?”

“Those were just projections,” said Christ. “Admittedly we’ve fallen a bit short, but we really feel that things are going to keep getting better. We’ve made a lot of positive changes at Heaventure. It’s not just business as usual.”

He kept talking, but by that time we had figured out that it was just a PR stunt. Everyone turned back to their drinks, except for Beezle, who passed out in the hall next to the men’s room. After a while the Devil asked Christ what he was drinking. They chatted until he finished his Cutty and Water, and then Christ left, saying he had a lot of stops to make.

“Asshole,” Little Tony shouted from his corner.

“Hey, none of that,” said the Devil. “We all got to make a living.” He cleared Christ’s glass, set it in the washer, and wiped the counter down with a towel.

Thus I Refute Beelzy by John Collier

“There goes the tea bell,” said Mrs. Carter. “I hope Simon hears it.” They looked out from the window of the drawing room. The long garden, agreeably neglected, ended in a waste plot.

Here a little summerhouse was passing close by beauty on its way to complete decay. This was Simon’s retreat. It was almost completely screened by the tangled branches of the apple tree and the pear tree, planted too close together, as they always are in the suburbs. They caught a glimpse of him now and then, as he strutted up and down, mouthing and gesticulating, performing all the solemn mumbo jumbo of small boys who spend long afternoons at the forgotten ends of long gardens.

“There he is, bless him!” said Betty.

“Playing his game,” said Mrs. Carter. “He won’t play with the other children anymore. And if I go down there the temper! And comes in tired out!”

“He doesn’t have his sleep in the afternoons?” asked Betty.

“You know what Big Simon’s ideas are,” said Mrs. Carter. “‘Let him choose for himself,’ he says. That’s what he chooses, and he comes in as white as a sheet.”

“Look! He’s heard the bell,” said Betty. The expression was justified, though the bell had ceased ringing a full minute ago. Small Simon stopped in his parade exactly as if its ti

Mrs. Carter led the way down to the playroom, or garden-room, which was also the tearoom for hot days. It had been the huge scullery of this tall Georgian house. Now the walls were cream-washed, there was coarse blue net in the windows, canvas-covered armchairs on the stone floor, and a reproduction of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers over the mantelpiece.

Small Simon came drifting in, and accorded Betty a perfunctory greeting. His face was an almost perfect triangle, pointed at the chin, and he was paler than he should have been. “The little elf-child!” cried Betty.

Simon looked at her. “No,” said he.

At that moment the door opened, and Mr. Carter came in, rubbing his hands. He was a dentist, and washed them before and after everything he did. “You!” said his wife. “Home already!”

“Not unwelcome, I hope,” said Mr. Carter, nodding to Betty. “Two people canceled their appointments; I decided to come home. I said, I hope I am not unwelcome.”

“Silly!” said his wife. “Of course not.”

“Small Simon seems doubtful,” continued Mr. Carter. “Small Simon, are you sorry to see me at tea with you?”

“No, Daddy.”

“No, what?”

“No, Big Simon.”

“That’s right. Big Simon and Small Simon. That sounds more like friends, doesn’t it? At one time, little boys had to call their father ‘sir.’ If they forgot a good spanking. On the bottom, Small Simon! On the bottom!” said Mr. Carter, washing his hands once more with his invisible soap and water.