Satan Loves You

by Grady Hendrix

  The first thing to hit Satan was a dirty diaper. A puffy plastic folded square that smacked him right in the shoulder, stuck for a moment and then fell to the ground. Then someone threw an empty Poland Springs bottle. A banana peel arced through the air and landed on Nero’s face. He flung it away in disgust.

  Suddenly, the air was full of garbage, like rice at a wedding reception, showering down on Satan and Nero. Then came the jeers and the shouts and the catcalls and the insults. The noise was back and it was louder than before, more dangerous. And as Nero and Satan made for the highway, the sky darkened with the garbage of a thousand, thousand packed lunches, and diaper bags, and stroller pouches, and recycling bins all raining down on their heads.

  In Utah, Harry Harlib lay on the floor of the TV room. His mom had let him stay home from school today so that he could see how awful Satan was so that he would do his homework and be good so he wouldn’t go to aich ee double hockey sticks. His dad was in the easy chair and his mom was on the love seat and their usual running commentary – a mixture of prayers and outrage and sarcasm – had died out when Satan started talking.

  Harry’s dad was older than his mom. He’d been a cement mason specializing in concrete finishing since his first summer job at sixteen. He’d made so much money that he’d dropped out of high school and focused solely on getting rich. For years, he didn’t even have a bank account, just an empty fifty-pound Quikrete bag in his garage stuffed with cash. When he’d finally dragged it into the bank and dumped it out on the counter it turned out to contain fifty thousand, four hundred and sixteen dollars and eighty-two cents. That was enough to start a new life. Buy a house. Have a kid.

  Things had been good until ten years ago when construction started slowing down. Harry’s dad would do anything for work. He’d go anywhere. But the simple fact was that there were too many cement masons and not enough cement mason jobs. He started taking extra work on the side. Odd jobs, handyman work, whatever he could pick up from day to day. Whatever would pay the bills.

  Three months ago he woke up one morning and realized that he hadn’t touched a mixer in over a year. What he was now was the guy who cleaned the kennels at the local pound and thought he was still a cement mason. He was stealing twenty-five pound bags of dog chow and selling them cheap on Craigslist for extra cash. He’d tried so hard, but now they had nothing. For Harry’s dad, Satan was speaking to him.

  The room was quiet. Linda didn’t read from the Bible or pray, she just put her hand on her broken husband’s back and let him have a moment. He couldn’t stop crying. He wrapped his hands around his graying head and pulled it down onto his knees as silent sobs convulsed his shoulders. Harry sat and watched. Then he looked at the TV and back at his dad. He went into the kitchen and made a big pitcher of lemonade. He took it outside with a bunch of paper cups from the kitchen. He sat on the grass in front of his house with a sign that he wrote himself:

  LEMONADE – .50 cents

  MONEY FOR SATAN TO BUY BACK HELL

  When his parents saw what he was doing they didn’t say a word, but his dad set up a card table and a patio umbrella for him. It was going to be a hot day. They let Harry sell lemonade for Satan all afternoon. He raised sixteen dollars.

  In Heaven, the Host were gathered in a presentation room. Theater-style seating. Big screen up front for the video projector. A deconstructed podium in blonde wood. Michael had come back from his journey into the Empyrean and now that he was re-hydrated he was ready to reveal God’s message.

  “The Creator is affronted by Satan’s hubris,” Michael said. “The Prince of Hell has overreached. In trying to have and then destroy his own son, in making a mockery of God’s sacrifice with the Nazarene, he has overstepped his bounds.”

  “That’s all nice,” Barachiel said. “But what does it actually mean?”

  “The meaning is clear,” Michael said. “It is time to depose Satan and annex Hell.”

  Phanuel spun with excitement. Bits of liquid fire dropped off him and singed the carpet.

  “I’ve been saying this for months,” Raphael said. “It’s nice that people are finally listening to me. Haven’t I been saying this for months?”

  “We’re just going to take the whole thing?” Jegudiel asked.

  “We will engage in a pre-emptive invasion,” Michael said. “They pose a threat to our way of life. So we will take Hell by force.”

  “Um, is that allowed?” Raphael asked.

  “Who would dare tell us no?” Michael replied.

  Barachiel high-fived Raphael. Metatron stroked his goatee. Jegudiel just rested his chin on his templed fingers and gave a sly smile.

  “I have my doubts that this is wise,” Jegudiel said.

  “Listen,” Gabriel said, picking up the speech for Michael. “I’ve been going over the plan and it’s fool-proof. We’ll be greeted as liberators. Do you think anyone actually wants to be in Hell? Once they find out that Heaven is taking over they’re going to pour into the streets and hang flowers around our necks. And with all the new souls we’ll be getting, it’ll practically pay for itself.”

  “Yeah,” Raphael said. “Why are you being such a baby, Jegudiel?”

  “Brother Jegudiel merely speaks from his heart as he always does,” Metatron droned. “He feels sympathy in his heart for the status quo. He revels in the lack of change in the Heavenly sphere. Little does he realize that to annex Hell is the Will of God. It IS the Will of God, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Michael said.

  “What more do you need?” Gabriel asked.

  “But it will not be legal,” Jegudiel said.

  “Oh, piss on that!” Barachiel cried, standing up.“We’re going to war with the minions of Satan, who cares if it’s legal? It is right.”

  “But we cannot officially take control of Hell until after the Ultimate Death Match,” Jegudiel said. “That is the only time that the ownership of Hell is in balance. Even if our Host occupies every cavern, every charnel pit, every torture grove, Hell’s ownership will not devolve to us.”

  “Who brought the lawyer?” Barachiel sneered.

  “Technically you have a point but there has been precedence established many times before,” Metatron droned. “And what is the concept of ownership? It is a multifaceted theory of – “

  “You are correct,” Michael said, shutting Metatron up as quickly as possible. “We cannot legally annex Hell and liberate her tortured masses yearning to be free until after we defeat Satan in the Ultimate Death Match. But we will occupy Hell NOW. The Ultimate Death Match is in seven days. After our victory we will already be in place to effect a smooth transition.”

  Fist pumps, “Yeahs!” Jumping up and down. Jegudiel decided that silence was the better part of valor, and he kept any further counsel to himself.

  “Let us take arms, brothers,” Michael said. “For tonight we storm the gates of Hell!”

  A puppy knows certain things about life. It knows that when it is hungry, someone will give it delicious puppy treats. It knows that when it is cold, someone will let it burrow into a warm bed. It knows that if it is lonely or scared or bored, someone will be there to cuddle it, to play with it, to reassure it. A puppy comes to think highly of the goodness of the world and it comes to rely on the Universe’s better nature, because everyone loves puppies. But eventually, it will grow into a dog.

  There are two ways for a puppy to become a dog. One is a gradual easing into the harsher realities of the world. Food becomes slightly less delicious, people are around a little bit less, someone doesn’t always want to play with it. Slowly the puppy learns that sometimes life is tough, that sometimes it will be hungry for a while, that sometimes it will be cold and lonely for a bit. The result is a dog that is well adjusted. A dog that has had time to acclimate and mature.

  The other way for a puppy to become a dog is to throw it into the deep end. To go from zero to sixty in ten seconds or less. From cuddling to kicking in a single heartbeat. Delicious puppy food replaced
by wet garbage. Pats on the head replaced by a punch in the muzzle. This puppy will learn that the world is irrational. That the world is hateful. This puppy will grow into a dog who knows that the only thing it can rely on are its teeth. This puppy will die of a broken heart and in its place will be a mangy, bad-tempered dog.

  That is pretty much what happened to Mary Renfro. She saw Satan in Terminal C of the Charlotte-Douglas International Airport at eight o’clock on a Monday morning and within two weeks she had gone from being a nun who craved order and predictability to a woman betrayed by every belief she ever had. Being tricked into killing herself by Saint Jude as a pawn in Heaven’s campaign against Hell had been the last straw. Any trace of the old Sister Mary that had remained in her heart was burned away when her body shattered on the rocks of the Seventh Circle.

  Now she stood in the offices of Hell, a Marlboro Red burning in one hand and a bottle of Kahlua in the other. She wasn’t a very convincing smoker, and she wasn’t a very good drinker but she was determined to give them both her best shot. This was the new Mary Renfro. She still wore her habit. You were, after all, stuck for eternity in the clothes you wore when your soul was removed.

  Nero suddenly stumbled in, carrying a limp, passed-out Satan in his arms like the Creature from the Black Lagoon carrying Julie Adams.

  “Help me,” he said.

  “Help yourself,” Mary Renfro answered, knocking back another slug of Kahlua.

  Nero’s arms gave out and he dropped Satan like a bag of wet concrete. Satan didn’t even react.

  “That’s not a good sign,” Mary said, and lit another Marlboro Red.

  “Isn’t that bad for the baby?” Nero asked.

  “It’s Satan’s baby, so no. These things are like vitamins as far as it’s concerned. Besides, I’m never actually going to give birth. I’ m dead and pregnant for all eternity.”

  “Get his feet,” Nero said. “Let’s get him onto the couch.”

  They took hold of Satan and carry/dragged him across the room and dropped him onto a black vinyl couch patched with duct tape.

  “Seriously,” Mary said. “What happens now? Nothing’s going on down here. Everyone’s been glued to cable trying to see what’s going on.”

  “Nothing good is going to happen,” Nero said. “We’re going to have to sell Hell to pay this court settlement. There’s no other way.”

  “Sell it to who?” Mary asked.

  “Heaven,” Nero said. “But there are other bidders. Our only hope is to win the Ultimate Death Match. That will buy us some breathing room at the very least. There’re some rich Chinese real estate speculators who might make an offer on Hell, we can use the time to get a bidding war going and maybe drive up the price to something we can live with. How’s our wrestler?

  “Yeah,” Mary said. “About that...”

  “What did you do?” Nero asked.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Mary said.“I just turned my back for a second and he threw himself into the center of an active volcano down on the Tenth Circle. I mean, he’s all burned up.”

  Nero considered all the angles.

  Then he ventured:

  “You mean we have no wrestler for the Ultimate Death Match?”

  “Not unless you want to get in the ring,” Mary said.

  “It’s all over,” Satan moaned from the sofa. He began to bang his head rhythmically against the vinyl.

  “Say something,” Mary hissed at Nero. “He’s your friend.”

  “This isn’t the end, sir,” Nero said, doing his best Winston Churchill impersonation. “ We’re Hell. You are – in point of fact – the very Devil himself. You thrive on adversity.”

  “I don’t think it’s usually this much adversity,” Mary said.

  “Not a good time to experiment with sarcasm,” Nero said, then turned back to Satan. “Those fluffy, flying marshmallows have forgotten what you are capable of. You can’t back down now.”

  “Actually, we could try to cut a deal,” Mary said.

  “The going has gotten tough, now we must get going. Unless we seize the day and overcome incredible odds, everything we’ve ever worked for shall be destroyed. Carpe diem shall be our battle cry. Now, I’ve seized this problem in my mental mitts and what I think – ”

  “No,” Satan whispered. “We’re not going to do anything. We’re not going to come from behind and score an unlikely victory. There’s not going to be any surprise ending. A long time ago the Heavenly Host decided they wanted Hell. And now they’re going to have it.”

  “Sir,” Nero said. “There are rules –”

  “The rules are that they’re the bosses and we’re the rejects who take care of the dirty work. Those are the rules. It’s pointless to fight it.”

  Satan lapsed back into a depression-induced coma.

  “We can do this,” Nero sputtered. “ We can rise up and win. We can – ”

  Minos burst into the office, tearing the handle off the flimsy wooden door.

  “We’re being invaded!” he bellowed.

  “Your hooves are getting poo all over the carpet!” Nero shrieked.

  When the big picture becomes too big for the human mind to comprehend it keeps itself from blowing a fuse by focusing on the details. A mother, told that her son has died in a car crash, will say, “But he just washed that car.” Or a wife, told that her husband has been killed in a factory accident, will say, “But I packed him his lunch today.” Or, if Heaven is violating rules that have stood inviolable since time immemorial and invaded Hell and Satan seems to be laid low with depression and everything seems lost, Nero will focus on the one part of Satan’s office that is not torn, tattered or too badly stained and he will cry, “Your hooves are getting poo all over the carpet!”

  It was a clear sign that the big picture was very big and very bad indeed.

  The Heavenly Host smashed into Hell like a sledgehammer shattering a watermelon at a Gallagher concert. They came pouring down the escalators, got bottlenecked in Hell’s Vestibule, broke the Gates wide open, then flooded the Nine Circles. The first demons to encounter the Host backed off, confused, and the angels pressed their advantage. It was an utter rout. By the time any demons tried to fight back it was already too late. The Iron City of Dis was occupied, the Mall of the Unbaptized was burning, the infinite stone bridges of the Malebolge were smoking rubble.

  Minos had grabbed fleeing demons by the scruffs of their necks and tried to intimidate them into launching a counterattack. Through main force he formed them into a small unit, armed them with rocket launchers and had them take up positions near the entrance to the Second Circle, counting on the Whirlwind of Lust to even the odds, keeping the Heavenly Host unbalanced and cutting down their air advantage.

  Instead, the angels flew high above the ripping winds and sliced Minos’s band of demons to ribbons by dropping grenades and throwing their ground-to-air missiles back at them. Angelic infantry, in golden armor and wielding swords of holy fire, mopped up the survivors, and Minos only managed to escape at the last minute when Cerberus, the enormous three-headed bunny of Hell, loomed up out of the shadows and nibbled a flock of angels to death.

  There were other pockets of resistance, but they were thin and disorganized and were crushed almost as soon as they sprung up. In the middle of the Acheron, Charo’s hot pink speedboat rocked gently as Charo herself strode to the stern and whipped a drop cloth off a mounted fifty caliber Browning. While King Paimon drove the inboard through the angelic bombardment, Charo hung from the hand grips of the mounted machine gun and blew angels from the sky. Their feathered bodies pin-wheeled into the Acheron as she pumped them full of lead. King Paimon weaved the boat crazily through the water, zooming around plumes of detonating bombs, weaving through the muddy waters of the river as Charo worked her machine gun of demonic retribution. In minutes, a cloud of angels was in hot pursuit.

  “Ha ha!” Charo yelled. “I am not thinking we can bang-bang the flying bastards much longer, sweetie! It is timing for Pl
an B.”

  “Watch the edges!” King Paimon growled as he cut the wheel and made a tight U-turn so that they were facing the onrushing horde of angels who were skimming low over the surface of the Acheron. They bobbed quietly in the water for a moment, the wave lapping gently against the hull and the engine growled to itself.

  “Sugar horns,” Charo said. “You are never letting one soul fall in the river. Thank you for all that.”

  “Um...watch the edges, ” King Paimon mumbled. But what he really meant was, “I love you.”

  Charo understood. She blew him a tiny kiss and underneath his scaly, scab-encrusted, rock-hard hide, King Paimon blushed.

  Then he dropped the throttle and the boat rocketed forward like a missile, skipping over the light chop, headed straight for the angels.

  “We are all having to die again sometime!” Charo laughed, and she depressed the firing button and fired and fired and fired as Paimon screamed his fury and the two of them disappeared into the flock of angels.

  Seconds later, from deep inside the swirling, whirling, swooping, soaring horde, there came a flash of orange fire and a muffled explosion. Then the flock of angels organized themselves, circled once, and flew away, leaving charred chunks of pink fiberglass bobbing on the gasoline-slicked surface of the Acheron River. Of Charo and King Paimon there was no sign.

  Deep inside the Fifth Circle of Hell, Gabriel and a phalanx of angels were kicking down doors and sweeping the offices of Hell as efficiently as a SWAT team. Cowering demons were taken prisoner, shackled and marched up to the ruins of the Mall of the Unbaptized, where they would be processed in the temporary Retraining and Attitude Adjustment Facility.