Satan Loves You

It’s not hard to empty out Madison Square Garden for a private event without paying a cent. All you have to do change the sign outside to read:

Hootie & the Blowfish Reunion

One Night Only

Playing the Music of

Edvard Grieg

Exactly twenty tickets were sold, and those people were prevented from actually attending when certain celestial powers ensured that a live John Tesh concert was on Pay-Per-View that very same night. Inside the abandoned Madison Square Garden, the Arena was dark. Safety lights were on throughout the six tiers of seating but there was not a single sign of life. The massive room, capable of seating twenty thousand spectators was ominously quiet.

The food court staff had been sent home early that day. The custodial and maintenance staff had been quietly bribed and sent back to their apartments in Queens. Security guards had been replaced with a private company brought in for one night only. It was a private security group that employed the deaf and blind exclusively for events such as Senate orgies, Goldman Sachs people-hunting retreats and other private functions, like this one, which required total discretion. Entrances were sealed. Sweeps for hidden recording and listening devices were made. Webcast cameras were turned off. Closed circuit cameras were disconnected. Work started at six in the morning and by three in the afternoon the arena was completely sealed off from the outside world.

In the basement of the Garden an enormous series of doors were unlocked, elevators had pass keys inserted in hidden slots and were sent to floors one hundred levels above where they had previously stopped. Emergency halt buttons were pressed for all the escalators and their maintenance hatches were opened and secret gears were inserted into their machinery. When they were restarted they plunged deep into the bowels of the Earth, all the way down to Hell.

At five o’clock that afternoon the crowd started to file in. Chief amongst them were demons, thousands of them squeezed into tiny red devil suits. Depressed and with heavy hearts they had been released from the Reeducation Camps and allowed up for this special night. They were glum and silent, herded along by arrogant, grinning angels. The only noise they made came from the swishing of their polyester-encased thighs.

Down the elevators came thousands of angels, tens of thousands of them, the entire Heavenly Host. They were fluttering and chattering, thrilled and excited, flush and enthusiastic for their victory. Finally, the great dream, long deferred, had been achieved and Heaven would have dominion over all.

Neither Heaven nor Hell had ever broadcast these events to the souls in their perpetual care before. Hell because it could not afford the facilities. Heaven because it had lost every single match to Hell and it really didn’t want to brag about it. But this time was different, and Heaven wanted everyone to witness their triumph. Hell was full of confused souls who couldn’t figure out why they were suddenly not being tortured. The Heavenly Host had distributed pamphlets stressing the importance of the match, impressing upon the damned that they were about to see the ultimate expression of Heaven’s will and the ultimate triumph of good over evil. Vast TV screens had been installed to beam down live broadcast of the Ultimate Death Match for the first time ever, but no one had hooked them up properly and so they mostly broadcast static.

Heaven was full of souls clustered around TV screens and packed into indoor amphitheaters and multiplexes. Normally reserved for screenings of footage of playful kittens and puppies, along with the occasional snuff film for the high rollers, these private rooms had been hastily converted into screening centers where, for the first time in history, the souls of the blessed would be able to watch the Ultimate Death Match.

By nine o’clock that night, the arena was packed.

Vendors made their way up and down the stairs, selling Styrofoam “We’re Number One!” fingers, Glo-Stiks, Glow-in-the-Dark necklaces, cups of beer and nachos. Angels and demons didn’t need to eat, but it gave them a rush and the night of the Ultimate Death Match was one of the few times they were all ready to give in and put up with the next day’s tummy trouble in order to whip themselves up into a frenzy.

But tonight was different. Beer and nachos were selling like salvation to the angels, all packed into one side of the Arena. The angels were ecstatic, of course, anticipating their victory and getting an early start on their celebrations. On the other side of the arena, not a single cup of beer was sold. The demons were depressed and uncomfortable in their tight, tiny, red devil suits that no one had thought to measure. Angels patrolled the aisles like wardens. Mirth was not encouraged. Frivolity was not allowed. The demons were there to lose.



From the North Corner Sky Box, the princes of heaven looked down on the packed Arena. They could hear the rumble of the crowd, even here behind their double-glazed glass window. Metatron was pacing the room.

“It will be unique to finally experience victory,” he said. “I must admit that I am terribly excited to taste it. They say the taste of victory is unforgettable. I remember once when – ”

“Would someone shut him up and bring me another bucket of wine,” Barachiel growled. He was already getting his party on.

From his corner, Phanuel chimed in agreement. About Metatron shutting up, not about the wine.

“I was only trying to share my experiences,” Metatron huffed.

“Do you still think that this is wise?” Jegudiel asked Barachiel.

“You’ve been whining since the moment Michael first showed some balls,” Barachiel said. “It’s time for you to shut up, too.”

“There is a balance to Creation,” Jegudiel said. “Having a monopoly on the afterlife seems to me to be an invitation for trouble.”

“They haven’t invented a kind of trouble that I can’t beat,” Barachiel said.

“I fear we are asking for repercussions,” Jegudiel said. “Ones we are not prepared to handle.”

“Yeah,” Barachiel said. “Fear. That’s all you ever think about. Well tonight, for once, there’s no room for fear. We’re going to win.”

“Have I ever told you about the time that I finally categorized all the different types of fear?” Metatron said from his corner. “There were over three thousand five hundred and fifty-eight. It was quite fascinating, really...”



In Heaven’s locker room, Raphael was giving Michael a rubdown. The archangel was sprawled facedown on a padded table with his enormous wings outstretched so that the tips of their primary feathers brushed the ceiling. Raphael rubbed ambrosia into Michael’s powerful, corded muscles while Gabriel walked a figure eight in the far corner, hunched over his cell phone, wrapping up last minute details.

“Mmmf mf mf mft?” Michael said, from where he lay facedown on the table.

“What?” Gabriel asked.

Michael lifted his head.

“Are they here yet?” he repeated.

Gabriel held up a finger.

“Uh huh,” he said into his phone. “Okay.”

Then he hung up.

“They just came in,” he said. “They’re in their locker room now.”

“I am satisfied,” Michael said. “ How do they look?”

“The angels at the gate said they look pretty straggly.”

“Is the Fallen One with them?”

“No,” Gabriel said.

“Where is he?”

“We still can’t find him.”

“He can hinder our plans no more,” Michael said. “But I do not like loose ends. We should tie this up as quickly as possible.”

“I’m on it,” Gabriel said.

“See that you are,” Michael said, and put his face back down on the table. Then he lifted it once more. “Gabriel, never raise your finger to me again. When I ask a question I expect an immediate answer.”

“Yes, my lord,” Gabriel said, and he bit down on the anger that squirmed in the pit of his stomach. It was better to be a king in Hell...it was better to be a king in Hell...it was better to be a king in Hell...



Hell’s locker room hadn’t been cleaned since the night before and four laundry bins were stuffed to overflowing with damp, mildewing, sweat-saturated game uniforms. Three of the fluorescent tubes were out and one was flickering maniacally. The air was heavy and humid. Everything stunk.

Mary Renfro stood uncomfortably in the middle of the room wearing a bright red body stocking. It ran from her ankles to her wrists and covered her to the neck. With gold sequins stitched down the arms, up the legs, over her shoulders and down her back, swirling and whorling across every free inch of her, she looked like a handkerchief that had been used to stop one of Elvis’s nosebleeds.

“It’s missing something,” Nero said, and then he took a few damp sweat socks from the putrid pile in a laundry bin, rolled them into a ball and stuffed them up Mary’s sleeves.

“Don’t touch me,” she said. And then the smell hit her. “Ugh!”

“Now you have biceps,” Nero said. “ They look good.”

“Don’t talk about my body,” she said. “It’s – these really stink!”

She fanned her face, but that just wafted more of the horror smell up her nostrils. When Minos entered she was doing a complicated dance as she tried to pull the sweat socks out of the tight sleeves, while Nero tried to swat her hands away and both of them tried to avoid the stink.

“I need ta talk ta ya,” Minos said. He was dressed like Burgess Meredith in Rocky, with a white towel rolled up and stuffed into the neck of a gray sweatshirt. Nero had no idea where he’d found a sweatshirt in his size.

“Stop fooling with your outfit and listen to him,” Nero said to Mary. “It’s important.”

He pushed Mary down onto the wooden bench.

“Thank you for coming,” she said to Minos. “I need some kind of last-minute strategy intervention. Nero’s useless.”

“I keep telling you,” Nero said. “Wrestling was very popular where I’m from, it was just much more sensual.”

“Stop talking!” Mary snapped.

Tensions were running high.

Minos cleared his throat. Mary waited, expectantly.

“I just wanted ya ta know that I think yer bein’ real brave,” Minos said. “And the fact that I jes’ put a large bet on Michael to win in no way means that ya don’t have my full and complete support.”

“What?!” Mary cried, her heart sinking.

“I need ta protect my nest egg,” Minos said. “Times’re uncertain.”

“It’s actually completely understandable,” Nero said. “Michael can cut steel with his fingernails and I’ve heard that he can turn coal into diamonds just by squeezing it between his buttocks. One punch, and he can unmake you. Minos is being quite wise in betting against you.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Mary asked.

“Reverse psychology,” Nero said. “I tell you that you can’t possibly win, and you’re inspired to overcome incredible odds and prove me wrong.”

“Um, yeah,” Minos said.

“Well it’s not working,” Mary said. “You’re just freaking me out.”

She got up and began to roam around the locker room in obvious distress.

“He won’t really kill ya,” Minos said. “Yer already dead. He’ll jus’ punch ya so hard that you’ll cease to exist fer a few years.”

“Centuries,” Nero said.

“Stop it!” Mary yelled.

Nero got up and tried to cram more sweat socks down the neck of her bodystocking.

“Stop poking at me,” she said, swatting his hands away. “I don’t want to cease to exist for a few centuries. One of you has to have a plan, right?”

Nero wouldn’t meet her eyes. Minos looked around for a place to hide, but couldn’t find one.

“You’ve both been in Hell for a really long time. You’re both devious. Minos, you’re enormous and you torture lost souls a lot. You’ve got to have something.”

She tried to look into his eyes, but Minos kept looking at other things: the floor, the lockers, the flickering fluorescent tubes, the floor again. Finally, he stopped squirming and shook his head.

“I dunno,” he said.

“What about you?” Mary asked Nero. “History books are full of all the evil things you did. You’re famous for your plotting and for being completely crazy. You’ve got to have some kind of plan.”

“I do,” Nero stammered. “I mean...it’s not a very realistic question. I do have a plan. Of course I have a plan. It’s just a...secret plan.”

“At this point, I don’t think we have time for any secrets,” Mary said.

“Don’t lose,” he said, falling back on his legal strategy.

“What?” she said in disbelief.

“It’s the best I can do,” he snapped. “I’ve been under a lot of pressure. This has all been very distressing.”

“Why me?” Mary asked. “Why did this happen to me?”

No one said anything. Nero and Minos both had the good grace to look embarrassed.

“You’re going to lose,” Nero said. “It is going to hurt. A lot. You are going to cease to exist for so long that the next time we see you we probably won’t even remember your name. Your only hope now is to stall and delay and drag your feet and pray for a miracle.”

“A miracle?” Mary asked. “That’s the plan?”

“Actually, we’re from Hell,” Minos rumbled. “We don't get no miracles.”

Mary despaired. Once again, her very presence had brought nothing but death, pain, chaos and failure. Truly, she was in Hell.