Satan Loves You

Michael was quietly meditating in the private prayer corner of Heaven’s locker room while Gabriel stood a respectful distance away, briefing the referee. The only mortal entrusted to witness the Ultimate Death Match, Pope Benedict XVI was wearing a polyester black-and-white striped shirt, a clip-on bow tie, black trousers and his mitre, which glittered impressively from on top of his head.

The Pope was many things. He was the father of the Roman Catholic Church, the Bishop of Rome and the Sovereign of the State of Vatican City. But refereeing the Ultimate Death Match was his most important duty. The Catholic Church has many functions but the entire hierarchy of leadership was established to ensure that only the most spiritual, wisest, most trustworthy and most dedicated individuals eventually rose to the Papacy so that Heaven and Hell would be assured of the best possible referee in the Ultimate Death Match.

“Now look,” Gabriel said. “When we win, he’s going to take his championship belt and do a victory run around the ring, so make sure not to crowd him.”

“This match isn’t fixed,” Pope Benedict said. “What makes you so confident he’s going to win?”

Before Gabriel could respond, Michael stood up and strode over to them. His muscular torso gleamed as if it had been carved from marble. The Pope sucked in an awed breath. Michael bent down, his muscles fighting beneath his skin like wild animals, and he picked up a brick that had somehow found its way into the locker room. Locking eyes with the Pope, Michael placed the brick between his enormous pectoral muscles. The Universe stopped spinning for a moment. Michael rippled his massive chest melons and the brick exploded into dust.

“I’ll stand over on the side,” Pope Benedict said.



The hour was at hand. After years of preparation, the time of the Ultimate Death Match had arrived and across Creation the weight of the moment could be felt. Hell was quiet, its torture machines abandoned, its instruments of pain abandoned in the dust. Confused souls wandered about in a daze, looking for their tormentors, not knowing that they were all up in Madison Square Garden. Some of them tried to figure out why enormous, newly-installed video screens were broadcasting static, but most just sat in stunned silence. Their quiet disbelief filled the caverns, tunnels and pus volcanoes of the Inferno.

In Heaven, it was a nonstop party. The blessed, who were being allowed to watch the Ultimate Death Match for the first time ever, were reveling in the sudden novelty. Video screens blared and blenders whirled as margaritas were made, loud laughter echoed off the cloudbanks and lounge chairs were arranged in rows.

In Madison Square Garden, the angels were rhythmically chanting and clapping.

“We will, we will, rock you!” they shouted, stomping and clapping so hard that they shook the arena walls.

Across from them, the demons squirmed miserably in their tiny, too-tight devil suits. A few of them had “Go Heaven!” signs duct taped to their hands and angels strode the aisles and exhorted them to brandish their signs with more vigor. All Creation held its breath, waiting for what would come next.

Pope Benedict XVI, his gold mitre catching the light, crawled under the ropes and walked into the center of the ring. The lights went down, leaving him standing alone on a brightly lit, square island in the middle of the vast darkness of Madison Square Garden. A microphone was lowered and the Pope grabbed it.

“Angels and demons,” he shouted. “ Souls of the blessed and souls of the damned. Every celestial and supernatural being in all of creation. Welcome to...the Ultimate Death Match!”

The demons gave pallid little cheers, but the angelic crowd went wild. A glutton for attention, the Pope surfed the waves of wild adulation until they had reached their highest point and then his voice dropped in over the roar.

“Tonight, for the first time in history, the Match is being broadcast throughout all of the celestial realms. The eyes of millions – billions! – are upon us now as we gather to witness the ultimate wrestling event, the biggest athletic spectacle ever recorded in the annals of eternity, the final match-up between angelic creatures of light and grace and dirty, hairy fiends who have crawled out of the very pits of torment and despair themselves. Tonight we will witness Heaven vs. Hell, with the winner taking Hell! At stake is the very fate of Creation itself!”

He caught a gnarly avalanche of applause that broke into a wild wave of cheering, and then he pumped it, carving down its shimmering face until the moment was ripe and he let them have the biggest, loudest, clearest shout from his magisterial voice.

“And now, wrestling for Heaven, please welcome the patron saint of chivalry, paratroopers and fighter pilots, patron saint of all Germany, the General of God’s army, the Thing on Wings, Archangel Michael, the gentle destroyer, here tonight to rock your soul!”

A tidal wave of applause came crashing through the dome of the arena and the entire audience caught the wild wave and rode it down the slopes, the mighty sound reverberating across all Creation as Michael burst out of the curtains and trotted up the aisle to the ring. He was wrapped in a golden cloak so bright that it blinded those who were looking directly at it when the follow spots stabbed down.

Michael grabbed the ropes with one hand and launched himself over the top with both feet, landing in the middle of the ring and shucking his golden robe in one smooth motion. He unveiled his gleaming body and his mighty, snow white wings, unfurling them to their full, fifteen-foot span. His body was brilliantly oiled, shining in the lights, his muscled arms were raised in victory, his tiny gold briefs glittered like the brightest star. He turned one way and then the other, a grin on his face, basting in the waves of adulation coming from the audience. Michael pressed the Pope to his oiled body, giving him a hug of pure joy, then released the old man and raised his arms high once more. The Pope staggered backwards with a giant grease-mark shaped like Michael’s body down his front. The roar of the crowd surged impossibly higher.

After a while, the commotion started to subside and the Pope brought the microphone to his lips one more time.

“And wrestling for Hell, please welcome...” and here the Pope turned to Hell’s entrance with one hand out. The follow spots stabbed down to reveal...nothing.

The crowd screeched to a halt.

There was dead silence.

The Pope tried again.

“And wrestling for Hell...” and he waved his hand again. The crowd was ready to give it another chance but again the follow spots stabbed down to reveal absolutely nothing. Just an empty entrance with the curtains swaying slightly.

The Pope put his hand over the mic and turned to Heaven’s corner, where Michael was being given a towel rub by Raphael.

“Where are they?” he asked.

“Go find them,” Michael commanded Gabriel, who bit back his resentment and turned to go.

And then, suddenly, the curtains stirred and the rumpled contingent from Hell stumbled out. Minos was in the back, Nero was in the middle, and in the front was a short, unimposing masked wrestler, clad in an ill-fitting bodystocking.

The applause was underwhelming.

“Okay,” the Pope said. “Fighting for Hell tonight is a Masked Wrestler of unknown abilities. This ferocious little dwarf could be any number of shrimpy dead guys.”

Inside her mask, Mary Renfro was hyperventilating, on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. The follow spots were blinding and she could barely see the aisle in front of her. She locked her eyes onto the brightly lit ring at the end of the two dark tunnels formed by the eyeholes in her mask and tried to steer towards it. All she could hear was her own rapid breathing.

“Maybe it’s Stumpo!” the Pope announced, catching the mood of the crowd, which was baying for blood. “The Amazing Midget. Or Napoleon, one-time Emperor of Europe and known out-of-shape fatty. Perhaps it’s a small dog with almost-human intelligence walking on its hind legs.”

The tiny masked wrestler blundered head first into the side of the aisle, banging its forehead on the metal handrail with an audible Doooonnnnggggg!!!!

“Ouch. That had to smart,” the Pope chortled and the angels in the stands laughed and began to throw nachos at Nero and Minos who were trying to steer the Masked Wrestler up the aisle.

“He’s already having incredible difficulty just getting down the aisle,” the Pope shouted in disbelief. “I can’t believe this is happening. This match is shaping up to be a real dog.”

Derision filled the air as the three idiots from Hell made their embarrassed way to the ring. Michael couldn’t help but smirk as he watched them struggle into their corner, climbing the ropes like retarded children. Twice, Mary lost her footing and fell on her butt. The crowd screamed with laughter. Michael had wanted a match and he had wanted a victory but this was going to be almost too easy.



The Omni Peachtree Hotel was in the CNN Center located in downtown Atlanta, Georgia. Upstairs in the Widowmaker Suite, Ted Hunter was getting professionally exfoliated while Frita Babbit sat on the bed watching QVC. She had her cell phone in one hand and a credit card in the other. JP Morgan Chase had advanced her a line of credit against her settlement and so far she had bought a Haan Floor Steamer, a dozen Moulinex Electric Cocktail Makers as “thank you” gifts for the jury, a twenty-eight and a half inch tall wooden Nutcracker, and a Reelsmart Auto Rewind Seventy-Five Foot Hose with Dual Mounting Options. She showed no signs of slowing down.

“The Republicans are like horny dogs,” Ted Hunter said, as his exfoliating technician paused to sharpen her scab stick. “They want to hump your leg so bad.”

“Uh-huh,” Frita Babbit said as a Dennis Basso Faux Fur in Lynx came on the screen.

“You let me work ‘em over with my magic mouth and you’ll be Sarah Palin’s Sarah Palin by the time they leave here,” Ted Hunter shouted to her from the giant, walk-in bathroom. His exfoliating technician re-lit her sterilizing torch and went back to work on his problem elbows.

“Okay,” Frita said from the bedroom.

There was a knock at the door.

“Get that,” Ted said. “It’s probably the champagne, raw oysters, and sexually suggestive Georgia O’Keefe painting I ordered.”

Keeping her eyes glued to the TV, Frita Babbit walked backwards to the door. She reached behind her and opened it with one hand.

“Put it over there,” she grunted.

“I think you’re going to want to turn off that TV,” a familiar voice said. “We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

“Who is it?” Ted shouted from the bathroom.

But Frita didn’t answer. She was staring, open-mouthed, at Satan.



Excerpted from FreeWilliamsburg.com :

“On a brick ass night at Juniper on Berry Street my bro, Keith, said, ‘Why is it that everyone is missing these days?’ True that. There are Voltron-sized levels of absence in the BillyTown community. Where is all of our people gone? Whither the kings of cool? Because coffee shop seats are going un-sitted in. Vintage dishware is going un-bought. Locally microbrewed ales are going un-drunk. Leading to the collective cry of: Whas up?”



Excerpted from DieHipsterDie.wordpress.com:

“The one f*cking thing that gave me a single f*cking sigh of relief was to see how empty the f*cking streets are and how unpolluted the air in La Mission is now that these baby hipsters are all disappearing.”



Excerpted from DirtyDogNiteBlog.com:

“Austin used to have a music scene, now all it’s got are absences. The scenesters, hipsters, hepcats and cool babes have gone MIA. Where are they?”



The ring was an apocalypse of noise as the angels went bananas. They were a rising and falling melody of mayhem, with a darker, less rhythmic bass line of demons mumbling desultory cheers underneath. The eye of the storm was the ring down at the bottom of this well of noise. On one side stood Michael, resplendent and ripped. On the other side slumped Mary Renfro, masked, shoulders sagging, the balled up sweat socks already sliding down her arms and legs to pooch up at her ankles, her wrists and around her midriff.

The Pope stood in the center of the ring and gestured for them both to approach. They met in the middle.

“Now I want a good clean fight,” the Pope said. “Two falls out of three decides who owns Hell. Any split decision will be determined by a Sudden Death Round. I don’t want any eye gouging, no hitting below the belt, and if there’s too much blood I’m going to call the match. Got it? Good. Now shake hands and go back to your corners.”

Despite all that had happened to her, Mary was still capable of wonder. And she was dazzled by the fact that no matter what might happen later she was about to shake hands with an angel. The Archangel Michael, no less. It was the one good thing in all of this terror. She stuck out her hand, which was shaking like a leaf. Michael wrapped his enormous paw around it and squeezed. And squeezed. And squeezed. Mary felt her bones shifting, her fingers crushed into a ball of pain, her cartilage grinding. Michael smiled as her knees buckled and she sank to the mat. The match hadn’t even begun and already he was winning. Mary tried not to sob with relief when he finally released her. They retreated to their respective corners, Mary hugging her wounded fingers to her chest.

“Shake it off, shake it off,” Minos said. He had elected himself to be her coach and he rubbed her shoulders while she nursed her hand.

“Ow,” she said.

“That’s nothing,” Minos said and massaged her fingers. “You just wait until he starts doin’ that to yer head.”

And then suddenly, far too soon, Mary heard the bell ring. It was dim and distant and she almost missed it. Turning, she prepared to meet her fate.

Michael approached the center of the ring, bobbing and weaving, dancing on his feet, as light as a feather and as fast as a butterfly, ready to sting like a bee. Mary hesitated. She was having a hard time seeing. They had all agreed that she would wrestle masked so as to preserve the advantage of surprise, but the mask kept sliding around on her face and it was blocking her vision. She turned back to Minos.

“Is my mask on straight?” she asked.

“Skull Busterrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!” Michael screamed as he bounced off the ropes and leapt into the air, turned his muscular body parallel to the ground and flew high into the air like a ballistic missile, elbows first. Mary turned towards his wild scream and froze in terror as his shadow moved over her, blocking out the lights, blocking out the stadium, blocking out everything in the world as he came down on top of her skull, elbows first. She was driven down. First her ankles gave way, and then her knees slammed into the canvas and her body kept moving straight down and she fell forwards. Sticking out her arms she managed to stop herself from smacking into the mat face-first. Shaking her head to clear it, she staggered to her feet and Michael grabbed her shoulder, locked her arm and hyper-extended her elbow, flinging her into the ropes, chest-first. She bounced off of them and staggered backwards at high speed, right into Michael’s outstretched arm.

“Clothesline!” he screamed as Mary caught his bicep in the back of her neck and went down face-first.

Michael watched to see if she would get up, circling her one way and then the other, pumping his biceps, flexing his hands, pushing breath out of his mighty lungs as he super-oxygenated his blood, making his heart pound. Mary had her back to him as she grabbed the ropes with her two pencil-thin arms and hauled herself to her feet again. That gave Michael an opportunity to grab her ears and pull her over his head, smashing her into the ground again.

“This can’t possibly get any worse,” Mary thought to herself as she stumbled up once more, her entire body stinging.

It got worse.

Michael put the Bionic Elbow Drop on her, he bounced her off the ropes, he gave her Knee Bombs and Strangle Throws. Nerve Stabs and Neck Crushers. Body slams and Head Mashers.

“It’s okay,” Mary thought as she flew threw the air yet again, tumbling head over heels at a shocking velocity. “I can’t die. I’ll just cease to exist for a little while. That’ll be nice, actually. Just to stop existing and rest. I’m looking forward to it.”

She hit the mat and bounced twice.

“Well, you look like ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag,” Ted Hunter said as he strode into the bedroom, tying the belt of his robe. “That’ll be all, honey,” he said to his exfoliation technician as he showed her the door.

Frita Babbit sat on the bed, absorbed in a Doris Dalton Line and Crease Diffuser that was a Value of the Day item. She didn’t even notice Satan in the room with her anymore.

“For a woman who was ritually abused in my name she doesn’t seem too concerned to be near me,” Satan said.

“She’s had her pills,” Ted Hunter replied.

“Come on, Ted,” Satan said. “It’s just us now. The cameras are all off. You’ve already won. Who is she? An actress? Someone you planted a long time ago? A musical theater triple threat from Minnesota with a diet pill addiction?”

Ted Hunter grinned and poured himself some minibar Scotch.

“She’s just some random damaged goods that I came across while traveling through Terre Haute, Indiana,” he said.

“I wouldn’t have guessed Indiana.”

“Sure, sure. That state’s nothing but walking daddy issues doped up to the gills on Klonopin. It took me all of thirty minutes to convince her that she had been terribly abused by Satan as a child. But, then again, I think we all feel that way to some extent. You are Satan, after all. You screw everyone up.”

“That’s probably true,” Satan said.

“You’ve come here to threaten me, I assume,” Ted Hunter said, settling down on the love seat. “Tell me all the awful things you’ll do to me if I don’t settle the suit.”

“No,” Satan said. “I’ve come here to ask you to drop your claim.”

Ted couldn’t help himself. He threw his head back and roared with laughter.

“You think I’ll do anything for you after I’ve already got you by the nuts?” Ted Hunter said. “You are an even bigger fool than I thought.”

“Please,” Satan said. “I’m immortal. Hell is eternal. You don’t know what kind of forces you’re unleashing by enforcing this judgment. I’m asking you to let it go.”

“Here’s your Oscar, Ms. Spacek,” Ted Hunter said. “I’m a business man. I look at this deal and I don’t see a single reason to drop it.”

“You’re going to spend the rest of your life trying to collect money we don’t have,” Satan said.

“Exactly,” Ted Hunter said. “You won’t be able to pay, so you’ll be ordered to work out a binding settlement. They’re going to look at your assets and there’s really only one of them: Hell.”

“You want to own Hell?” Satan asked.

“Real estate deal of the century,” Ted Hunter said. “And you know what they say about real estate? They just don’t make it anymore.”

He laughed.

“You’re crazy,” Satan said. “What’re you going to do with Hell?”

“I might get someone new to run it for me, or maybe I’ll just sell it to a third party. I bet there are folks out there who’ll pay top dollar for Hell. As for Frita here, she’ll get endorsement deals for Bibles, antidepressants, electric cars and all kinds of crap, and as her manager I’ll get a fifteen percent slice of everything. Plus, my media platforms are already out-grossing last year’s month-to-month figures by five points. I’m in the catbird seat. I’ve got it all, baby. You, on the other hand, are an unemployed jerk.”

“I didn’t want it to come to this,” Satan said. “I loathe melodrama. But you might want to read this.”

He pulled two folded pink invoices from his inside jacket pocket and passed them to Ted Hunter.

“What’re these? Invoices for your bruised feelings and ruffled sensibilities?” Ted Hunter sneered, opening them.

“No,” Satan said. “They’re not.”

Ted Hunter scanned the first invoice and then flipped to the second one. He flipped back to the first. Then he turned them both over. He read the fine print. His face fell.

“This just isn’t true,” he said. “It’s an outright lie, a fabrication, a falsehood. It’s grotesque. It’s un-American.”

“There’s clearly been a clerical error,” Satan said. “We’ve been experiencing a work stoppage and there’s been a bit of a backlog but I’m taking care of that now. It won’t last forever. And in a few months it’ll be rectified. We’ll get to those invoices sooner or later. But I could lose them. We’ll eventually issue new ones, but that should be years down the road. You could both live twenty to thirty more years, easily. But if you insist on enforcing your judgment I’ll have to produce those in a court of appeals. And I don’t think that any court in the world will uphold a judgment awarded to two people who are already dead.”

On QVC, the hosts were hawking Little MissMatched girl’s leg warmers.

“How’d it happen?” Ted Hunter croaked.

“Food poisoning,” Satan said. “There were some really egregious food handling violations on Continental flight one-oh-eight. You two both had the fish.”

“I thought it smelled funny,” Ted Hunter said.

“Should have gone with your gut,” Satan said. And then he plucked the two flimsy, pink papers out of Hunter’s hands. “I’ll hold on to these while you make up your mind.”

“I’ll do it,” Ted Hunter said.

“Good choice, but I’m still holding on to these,” Satan said. “You might decide to go to Terre Haute again.”

Satan was feeling good. He still had an overwhelming list of things to check off, each of them a bigger risk than the one before, but the first item on his list had gone off flawlessly. He’d even gotten to sound tough, which was new for him. He checked his watch: his next secret weapon should be in place by now. And then he just had to hope that Death had done his part.

“Be seeing you,” he said to Ted Hunter and gave a little wave.

Hunter was slumped on the love seat while Frita stared, mindlessly, at the TV set where two QVC hosts showed all the different settings available for the Bethlehem Lights Battery Operated Window Candles. Satan let himself out.