Satan Loves You

The conference room was designed by someone who fancied himself a master strategist. Pinpoint spotlights picked up the meeting participants arranged around the enormous oval table, leaving the rest of the room deep in dramatic darkness. Satan didn’t even have to look: it was all the usual suspects, all seated in what they felt were the most intimidating power positions. To the right of the Meeting Leader Chair sat Gabriel, and to the left sat Raphael. The other seats around the table were taken by the remaining archangels: Metatron, Jegudiel and Barachiel. Phanuel, Prince of the Ophan, was a spinning wheel of fire and so he didn’t really fit in chairs. He had to hover by the wall. The Meeting Leader Chair was empty. Satan almost took it, just to be annoying, but he didn’t want to push his luck. He took the Opponent’s Chair.

Being near all of them again made Satan’s skin itch. For an eternity they had been closer than lovers, bound to one another like the fingers of a hand and then suddenly there had been rift and dissolution, The Fall and the carving up of Creation into kingdoms. Division of labor is not a concept that sits easily with eternal beings and Satan could tell that they, like him, had been warped by their temporal responsibilities. No one would make eye contact with him. No one talked to him. They all just sat and glared elsewhere. After a while the door behind Satan opened and the archangels all sat up a little straighter. Satan resisted the urge to turn around – he had a pretty good idea of who it was.

“Lucifer,” the Archangel Michael said, taking the Meeting Leader Chair directly across from Satan. “How does it feel to walk the corridors of Heaven once more?”

Satan was careful to keep his face expressionless. To hear his former name, especially from the mouth of this jumped-up halo-polisher, to be reminded of his Fall, to have the pain of being exiled from the Creator’s presence sliced into him anew, it was like being flayed alive. But he managed to keep his face blank.

“Looks about like I remember it,” he said.

“Of course,” Michael purred. “It’s perfect. And perfection need never change.”

In the corner, Phanuel spun faster, releasing a series of musical chimes that sounded like crystal glasses being played in an empty opera house. The archangels spoke True Enochian, a language that moved simultaneously backwards and forwards in time so that the end of each sentence was also its beginning, thereby rendering every expression of angelic thought perfect and complete in and of itself. Because Phanuel was prince of the physical laws that bound Creation and gave it shape he alone was subject to the passage of time and could not converse in True Enochian. Instead, he spoke in a language of musical mathematics that the other archangels, except Satan, had long ago learned to understand.

“I agree with Phanuel,” Barachiel said.“Roll this stupid tape so that we can be finished here. While you two swap chit chat my responsibilities and obligations go neglected.”

“Gabriel,” Michael murmured. “Show Lucifer why we have asked him to join us.”

“You’re here because you’re embarrassing yourself,” Gabriel said. “And, by extension, you’re embarrassing us. Have you seen this?”

A projector screen came down at one end of the room. Paused footage from a twenty-four hour news channel came on, but it was washed out by the light of Phanuel’s flames.

“I can’t see a thing with all that glare,” Barachiel snapped.

“Do something about your flames, brother,” said Gabriel.

Phanuel folded himself into a shape that couldn’t be described and slipped through the wall, leaving the meeting by way of a graceful fourth-dimensional back flip.

“Interesting,” Metatron said. “He manipulates time and space in such a way that his form extends infinitely in all directions and he merely recalls this projection of his consciousness back to his Ur-self at will. Do you not find this elegance fascinating, my brothers?”

“Yeah, it’s amazing,” Gabriel said and pressed ‘Play.’

The CNN crawl frozen across the bottom of the frame leapt to life and the camera shook. It was outside an impressive set of courthouse steps. A trim, fifty-ish man with a gray moustache and a feral grin strode down them. Tucked under his arm was a tear-streaked Frita Babbit.

Reporters rushed the duo and clamored questions. The man held up his hand.

“I am here today because it ain’t cheap or easy to go up against the Devil in a court of law,” he said. “This little lady has done the right thing by taking on old Scratch and I can’t let her do it all by her lonesome. Wouldn’t be manly. So Ted Hunter has decided to foot the bill.”

“Why are you involved?” a reporter shouted.

“Ted Hunter is in this for the little man,” Ted Hunter said. “Ted Hunter has built his corporate family on two principles: responsibility and responsibility. We got dead people unable to die because Satan is too busy sexting our children on Facebook. Ted Hunter is against evil, and for children. Ted Hunter is for responsibility and against internet predators.”

“My journey is at an end,” Frita Babbit said, bravely lifting her tear-stained face to the cameras. “I will be silent no more.”

“Mr. Hunter, what will your next move be?”

“This trial will be the very definition of swift justice,” he said and then the picture changed and the familiar Nancy Grace layout hit the screen. On the left, the big, blonde bubblehead of Nancy Grace. On the right, a postage-stamp-sized insert of a female guest commentator trying to find a comfortable expression to show the camera when she wasn’t talking. She finally settled for The Furrowed Eyebrows of Concern. Vaguely related video footage danced around the screen, wrestling for viewer attention with streaming lines of random text.

Nancy Grace looked directly into the camera.

“The very definition of swift justice. Media Expert, Tina Vetch. Tina, what does it all mean?”

“Ted Hunter,” the guest commentator’s head said. “One of the wealthiest men in America, and his involvement with the Devil Made Me Do It lawsuit is going to kick things up a notch. This is no longer a nuisance suit – ”

“It was never a nuisance suit,” Nancy Grace snapped. “You think evil is a nuisance?”

“Well, no, but – ” Tina tried.

“This is the Devil. The Holocaust. Abortion. Dead puppies. Ring a bell, Tina? That doesn’t sound like a nuisance to me.”

“I’m sorry,” Tina said. There was an awkward silence while Nancy Grace glowered at her. Then Tina continued. “This suit is now backed by Ted Hunter and his money is going to make sure that this is the lawsuit that takes down evil. Just today, a legal dream team, hired by Ted Hunter, got the judge to issue a subpoena for the Devil. So it looks like he’s going to have his day in court.”

Unrelated footage from Rosemary’s Baby and The Exorcist played behind Nancy Grace.

“I know there are other witnesses who are going to come forward. Could this become a class action case?”

“It could, Nancy. It could.”

“Satan has done nothing to show that he is remorseful, by deed or act. Nothing to show that he is committed to not raping children. Frita Babbit, victim, she will, I’m sure, be with us at a later date. Now, Sheriff Joe Arpaio, toughest sheriff in America, from Arizona, being with us live. Sheriff Joe, once we catch Satan, what are we going to do with him?”

Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s wrinkly blockhead appeared above Tina’s. The loose skin on his neck oozed over his collar.

“Nancy, we need to send a message to demons and supernatural entities all over the world: we’re mad as Hell and we’re not going to take it anymore. If they give the Devil to me, if they put Satan in my custody, I have the first all-female chain gang in the country and my inmates live in tents because I don’t believe in coddling criminals and giving them more rights than decent, law-abiding American citizens. If Satan came here I’d show him Hell.”

“I’d like to see him in your world famous pink underwear,” Nancy Grace chuckled.

“It’s been my experience that my pink underwear program takes the fight right out of perps. Try doing evil in pink underpants,” Sheriff Joe said. “Can’t be done.”

The video feed was now showing footage of children killed in drunk driving accidents. Photos of smiling, now-dead toddlers were flashing on and off the screen, each shot stamped with their age, name and date of death superimposed.

“This is one of the most bizarre lawsuits in modern history,” Nancy Grace said. “And one of the most important. Peter Skeffield, attorney, he’s here to share with us his thoughts. Peter, will Satan get a defense lawyer?”

Peter’s head appeared below Tina and Joe’s. The screen was getting crowded.

“Nancy, this suit is filed in a United States court, so yes, he is entitled to a defense attorney,” Peter said.

“Of course he is,” Nancy says. “So is Osama bin Laden. Does that make it right? A lot of Americans feel we don’t even need a trial. Just turn him over to Sheriff Joe and let’s get rid of Satan once and for all.”

“Well, Nancy, we do live in America and we have the legal system for a reason, even if we don’t always agree with it. Satan is going to get his day in court.”

“Disgusting,” Nancy said. “Trial of the century. Satan: subpoenaed. Long story short: he’s going down.”

The video cut out.

Everyone turned to Satan, who wiped the sweat from his upper lip.

“Well?” Michael said, finally.

“What can they do?” Satan said. “I’m Satan. I live in Hell. How’re they going to serve me papers?”

“I told you he was going to act like this,” Gabriel said.

“Are you talking back? Are you talking back to us.” Barachiel shouted. “You don’t get to talk back! You’ve been cast out! We tell you what to do!”

“This is no longer an issue of what you want to do or don’t want to do,” Michael said. “This is an issue of what you will do. Things are changing, O Lucifer. And today you have one choice to make. Change, or die.”



In the reception area, Sister Mary was lost. Not physically, because she was quite clearly sitting on a functional seating arrangement in a reception area in Heaven. But everything that she thought was true had come unmoored and now her soul wandered, lost in the metaphorical wilderness.

She tried praying, but there were so many conflicting thoughts racing through her head that she got confused and while her prayers started strong (“Dear God, My Lord and Savior, hear my prayer...”) they got lost somewhere along the way and became meandering and meaningless long before they reached “Amen.” Quiet reflection wasn’t working, either. Every nugget of information, every packet of knowledge, every bright and shining fact she thought was true could also be a lie, a Satanic deception, diabolical misinformation. Even worse, what if they were all true? Or what if Satan wanted her to think they were misinformation so that she would doubt and doubt was like poison for the soul?

She emptied her mind and tried peaceful meditation. She was just starting to realize it wasn’t going to work either when someone sat down next to her.

“Sister,” the someone said. “I sense that your heart is troubled.”

Sister Mary opened her eyes. The man who sat next to her had flames dancing around his head and a black leather book resting on his knees. He wore a threadbare brown robe and leaning against the wall next to him was a heavy wooden club, knotted and gnarled. His face was lined, his head was bald and a long white beard reached to the middle of his stomach. There was such grave concern, such kindness, in his expression that Mary felt her throat contract painfully.

“Saint Jude,” she said. “Why?”

“I go where I am needed, child,” he said. “As the patron saint of lost causes and desperate situations, I could find no cause more lost than yours. No situation more desperate.”

“I’m so confused,” Sister Mary said. “I don’t know what to believe.”

“Tell me what confuses you,” Saint Jude said. “I can’t promise that I will be able to help you, but I can promise that I won’t make it worse.”

And so Sister Mary opened her heart to Saint Jude, the patron saint of hospitals and terminally ill children, of the Chicago Police Department and of Rio’s Regatas dos Flamengos football club. And as she unburdened her heart, a lightness entered her soul.

“As light is associated with shadow, as day is associated with night, so too are you associated with us, Lucifer,” Michael said. “Your actions are a dark mirror reflecting faint glimmerings of our holy doings, and we are beings who respect law and order. When you ignore your duty to the dead you are acting in a lawless manner, and that reflects poorly on our Creator. It will not be allowed.”

“You want me to go to court with these people?” Satan said in disbelief. “That’s not how things are done.”

“Silence!” Barachiel thundered. “How dare you tell us how things are done! We tell you how things are done!”

The archangels were all watching now. They loved a good fight. Metatron stroked his pretentious goatee, while Jegudiel took it all in without betraying his own thoughts. Raphael just looked nervous.

“I’m Satan,” Satan said. “I can’t take time off to go to court. What would happen to Hell?”

“It could hardly get worse,” Gabriel said.

“The Creator is fair,” Michael said. “Hard but fair. Most of the business of death is your responsibility and if humans are unhappy with it then they have a right to hold you accountable. Our Creator has agreed, however, that if you are not served the subpoena there is no need for you to appear in court. But if served, you must appear.”

“Oh,” Satan said, relaxing. “That’s not so bad. Americans are terrible at geography, there’s no way they can figure out how to get to Hell and serve me a subpoena.”

“There are going to be some changes, though,” Gabriel said.

“What do you mean?” Satan asked. Then he turned to Michael. “What does he mean?”

“It has come to our attention that Hell is in turmoil. It loses money through mismanagement and inefficiency. We here in Heaven are worried about the safety of the billions of souls in your care,” Michael said.

“So give me some money,” Satan said.

“We have lost confidence in your ability to operate Hell,” Michael said. “We will assume control of your sphere.”

“What?”

“We’re taking over Hell,” Barachiel said. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“You can’t do that,” Satan said.

“If we win the Ultimate Death Match this year, then we can,” Michael said.

“But only if you win.”

“Who’s wrestling for you this year?” Barachiel sneered. “I heard you’ve got some problems with your wrestler.”

“I’ll figure something out,” Satan said.

“It’s two weeks away,” Barachiel said. “Come on, you have to know who’s going to fight for you.”

“Deep Insecurity,” Satan said. The assembled angels tittered. “Don’t underestimate Deep Insecurity. He can destroy anyone. Just ask Richard Nixon.”

“Take it as a given then that we will prevail in the Ultimate Death Match,” Michael said.

“No, don’t take it as a given. No one prevails until the match actually takes place and someone has won or lost.”

“Lucifer, why must you always choose the more difficult road,” Michael sighed. “I appeal to your reason: there is no possibility of Hell winning the Ultimate Death Match this year. It is nothing more than a formality at this point. After you forfeit, we will be assuming control of Hell and making it a division of Heaven. So, in order to provide for a seamless handover, we would like to implement transitional changes now.”

“No,” Satan said.

“You are not being asked,” Michael said. “You are being told. Gabriel?”

“Thanks, M. Renovating Hell is a big job. We’ve had a planning committee wrestling with the issues for a few years and their answer: complete overhaul. First off, the look. If you don’t look good you don’t feel good and if you don’t feel good how can you do good work? Our answer? A uniform.”

“Like Catholic school,” Metatron said. “A uniform brings calmness to one’s mind and a sense of belonging to a cause greater than oneself. It instills loyalty and a sense of responsibility in all who wear it. A uniform is a sign of stability.”

Gabriel brought up a PowerPoint presentation on the screen. The first slide showed a uniform that looked like a bad cartoonist’s idea of the devil. It was a little red bodystocking with a red cape, a hood with tiny horns and a wee little pitchfork.

“They look good, they reinforce team spirit and they send a strong message,” Gabriel said. “They say, ‘I’m a little devil!’ I think we’ll get greater efficiency out of our team members if they feel like they’re on the same side. I’m excited about these.”

“We’ll be laughing stocks,” Satan said.

“Great change always brings great trepidation,” Michael said. “But it is time for Hell to evolve. Hell will become a place of healing.”

“Hell isn’t a place of healing. Hell is a place of eternal damnation!”

“You feel at sea with this, and we understand. That’s why Gabriel is descending into the underworld to start instituting the new policy. He’ll be working very closely with you.”

“What?”

“Don’t think of him as your boss, think of him as your partner who makes all the decisions,” Michael said.

“Absolutely not,” Satan said.

“Lucifer, be reasonable – ”

“No!!!” Satan slammed his palms down on the table and stood up. The archangels instinctively recoiled.

“I am Satan, Prince of the Underworld,” Satan said. “And until such a time as the Creator himself sees fit to remove me from my position, or until you bunch of sanctimonious halo-polishing brownnosers beat us at the Ultimate Death Match, I do not have to tolerate any incursions into my sphere. My affairs are my business, not yours.”

“We merely want to make the inevitable handover as smooth as possible,” Michael said.

“I’ve never done anything smoothly,” Satan said.

“Here we go again,” Barachiel said. “Blah, blah, blah.”

“There are a lot of other slides,” Gabriel said. “Don’t you think you should see them before you freak out?”



Sister Mary felt lighter now that she had unburdened herself to Saint Jude. He was a saint. He would tell her what to do

“I can understand you fear and confusion,” Saint Jude said.

“What do I do?” Sister Mary asked. “He’s lying to me, isn’t he? Heaven is a good place, right?”

“Sister,” Saint Jude said. “I cannot tell you what is true and what is false. That is for your heart to decide. But I can tell you one thing that is true: your soul is in great peril. Consider your choices carefully, for danger surrounds you on all sides.”

“Please, tell me what to do.”

“I cannot tell you what to do. That is not the duty of the saints. We provide guidance, a light by which you can navigate the stormy seas of life. We are lighthouses for the faithful, not road maps.”

“But you are a saint and I am only human. I’m not really going to Hell, am I?”

“It saddens me to say this, but yes, my child. You will burn in eternal hellfire.”

Sister Mary dissolved into tears. Her worst fears were confirmed. Her soul was damned.

“Is it for the atheism?” she asked. “It’s only a venial sin and I regret it so much. I can repent.”

“Sister,” Saint Jude said. “Heaven is not that callous. It is for the child you bear.”

“But that’s not my fault!”

“You must take responsibility for the actions of your body, whether you feel you deserve it or not. Only God knows what you do and don’t deserve.”

“But I don’t want to burn forever,” Mary sobbed.

“There is a way,” Saint Jude said.

“Prayer?”

“Listen closely, my child. You are correct that your sins are merely venial. But without a Purgatory to purify your soul they bind you like chains and trap you in Hell forever. However, an act of contrition might allow you to ascend to Heaven.”

“What is it?” Sister Mary asked. “I’ll do anything to come to Heaven.”

“Listen carefully. You must find the one who has done you the most wrong in this life, the one who has most sinned against you, and you must forgive them. Your forgiveness must be pure, it must be true, it must be without qualification or reservation. And when you have done that your chains will fall away and you will ascend into Heaven to dwell in the presence of the Lord forever.”

“The one who has most sinned against me?” Sister Mary repeated.

“Do you know who I mean?” Saint Jude asked.

“I think I do.”

“You must be sure,” he said. “Look into your heart. Do you know who has most sinned against you?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Then find them and forgive them, my child,” he said. “This forgiveness is your key to the kingdom of Heaven.”

“You know how He feels about Creation,” Satan said. “He hates to interfere. He’ll never let you take over Hell before the Ultimate Death Match, not against my will.”

“Perhaps not,” Michael said. “But surely you see the wisdom of what we suggest.”

“No,” Satan said. “It’s the opposite of wisdom. It’s stupid.”

“In the coming days, Lucifer,” Metatron said. “We will try to understand the pain inside your heart that causes you to speak in a manner that is hurtful to both yourself and to others.”

“Shut up,” Satan said.

“So be it,” Michael replied. “You will remain the sole sovereign of Hell for the next eleven days, until the Ultimate Death Match takes place. And when you are defeated there, or when you forfeit, it will be a time of great sadness because you will have made the transition more difficult and traumatic than it need be, both for yourself and for the souls in your care. The Creator will not look kindly on your stubbornness.”

“I’ll write him an apology note,” Satan said.

“At least think about the uniforms,” Gabriel said.

“Get stuffed,” said Satan.

“Gabriel, escort the Fallen One and his lump of mortal clay to the elevators,” Michael commanded.

“Gladly, your eminence,” Gabriel said, bowing low to Michael.

“Hey,” Barachiel said as Satan stood up. “Lucifer? These other wing flappers may want everything to go smoothly but you know what? I hope you give us trouble. I hope you try to fight back. Because I’m a certified instructor in pain and suffering and I think it’s time you and me had a little one-on-one private tutoring session.”

He gave a smug, self-satisfied smirk and Satan tried desperately to think of a clever comeback. But he couldn’t. So he left.