Better the Devil you Know

You there, nutball. Let me cut to the chase. I am a shoulder devil, a figment of your imagination, a product of your hallucination, and you are a drooling lunatic with vacant eyes, idly banging your head against a wall as you lie there. I know you can hear me. All you need to do right now is silence yourself while I talk to you. You think you’re going to hell for breaking one of those commandments your type hold in such high regard – coveting your neighbor’s goldfish on the sabbath, or some such thing. Let me assure you, nutter-butter, you’re safe. You might be wondering why I’m here, telling you this. Well, that’s a story I could tell. The story about how I came to be here, speaking to you.

It all began way back when I was just a lowly shoulder devil. I still am a lowly shoulder devil, but that’s quite beside the point. One day though, seemingly out of the blue, I was inexplicably called into my boss’s office. My boss was Susan, a close friend of mine, and she was, without a doubt, the hottest devil in the underworld. She pretended not to be interested in me, but I knew better. She had asked to see me in her private office. It was time to turn my charm up. I stopped outside her office door, spit-shined my pitchfork, licked my hand and smoothed my hair back. I then knocked on the door and without waiting for an answer, I opened the door and slid in.

“Hey baby,” I said, sitting on her desk, “you wanted to see me in your private office?” I smiled at her. She recoiled and gagged a bit.

“Yes. I wanted to see you,” she replied after swallowing a couple of times. “I’m going to be frank with you, John,”

“Ok, but I like you better as Susan,” I interjected, and winked at her.

“Yeaaahhhh… anyway, I have some good news. You need to shape up, or be fired.” She said.

“I have some good news for you too, babe,” I continued, “It’s in my pants.” She started to turn slightly green, like a sexy chameleon.

“We need some sexual harassment laws down here,” she muttered. “Those humans have the right idea.” I didn’t know what sexual harassment was, but it sounded like a worthy cause. “Anyway,” she finished, scowling at me, “You have three weeks to improve, or you’ll be fired, which is a fairly win-win situation for me. Now get out of my office, and get out there and make your clients do bad things.” As I left the office I pondered the conversation. Either Susan was playing hard-to-get, or my job was on the line. Or maybe both. That would be pretty hot. I eventually decided that yes, I actually was facing the prospect of unemployment, and yes, I did need to corrupt at least one of my three clients or lose my job. I mentally ran through a list of my clients. There was Herbert Cornwinkle, a likeable, but awkward guy. He hated his job though. Perhaps I could convince him to snap and initiate some sort of office killing spree. That would earn me some major points upstairs… downstairs. Whatever. My next client was Hans Grünrauchen. I hadn’t met him yet, but hopefully he would prove to be a motivated and sadistic individual. Fingers crossed. My third client was Sam Phelps, a hardcore preacher, evangelist and all-around religious dude. No real chance of making him go bad, I figured. As usual, I would be working with my buddy Criss on these clients. Criss was my shoulder angel partner. A decent guy. A working stiff, just like me. He was there to motivate clients to do good things. So technically we were working against each other, but hey, we’d known each other for years, and we all needed to bring home a pay-check. I glanced at my watch. It was time to visit Herbert and get my evil on.

Client Number: 00X3TF564

Client Name: Herbert Cornwinkle

Client Occupation: Statistical production and marketing data analysis consultant

I arrived to find Herbert in the breakroom of his office. Criss was already on the other shoulder. We exchanged our customary greetings. I scanned the room, and took stock of the situation. There was a box on the breakroom table with a single donut in it. And it was a truly magnificent donut indeed. Taking the last donut seemed like a good starting point. Such a breach in manners is bad, right? Of course, Criss had to do his job, and as such, told him not to take it. Did his usual angelic thing. Some speech about weightwatching and consideration and the inherent human right to equal donuts, or something like that. After that it was my turn. I pointed out that it had both chocolate frosting and sprinkles, while lesser donuts are usually only blessed with one or the other. That was all it took, he went for the donut. But no sooner had his rather clammy hand closed over it, then he heard the breakroom door open, and in walked the most ruthless, vile and vicious office boss ever to plague the cubicles… Mr. Howard. Or Bill, as he would always insist that people call him. Herbert’s eyes snapped up as Bill stalked through the doorway. Herbert started to perspire… he had been caught red-handed, filching the last donut. I’m no expert on office policy, but I like to think that such a travesty would have been discussed around the water cooler for years to come.

I could tell that Herbert was flustered. He had been caught red-handed doing a bad thing. Excellent. Desperation was a fantastic opportunity. People do stupid things when desperate. Maybe I could push him again, in his moment of despair.

“Ok Herbert, listen closely,” I told him, “on the count of three, you distract him with the old ‘look over there’ trick, then you hit him on the head with a chair, knocking him out. Then draw a pentagram around him, stab him in the heart, drain his blood and present it to Satan as an offering.” I hoped he would do it. I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure that convincing one of my clients to engage in both murder and satanism at the same time would save my job. Herbert politely declined my suggestion. Maybe I came on a little strong there. I can’t help but feel as though Herbert lost some of his confidence in my sense of judgement at that point. In the end, Herbert decided to conceal the donut beneath a clipboard and make small talk for a minute before leaving the room, still holding that amazing donut. It worked well enough I guess. I like to think that my idea had a bit more style though. Herbert walked along, returning to his cubicle, concealing that king-among-donuts beneath a clipboard. He was almost at his cubicle, when disaster (or opportunity, as I like to think of it) struck. Laura had decided to go get a coffee at that exact moment. Ordinarily, this would not be a problem. The clipboard provided ample coverage of that glorious donut from all angles except for one… from below. Three years previously Laura had lost her legs in a tragic tennis accident. That is to say, she was in a car crash on the way to a tennis match. She’s been in a wheelchair ever since. Her unique height-impaired vantage point gave her a clear view of that donut, nestled beneath the clipboard. She recognised that donut from earlier. It was the grandest donut in the entire box, and as such, manners dictate that no one may actually take it. So inevitably it would be the last one. Susan’s mind put all this together, and quickly deduced that Herbert had indeed, taken the last donut. I was about to advise Herbert to jam the clipboard into the spokes of Susan’s weelchair, hurl her down a flight of stairs and then make a break for the nearest elevator, when Criss marched across Herbert’s shoulders and slapped me across the back of the head before marching back across to his postion on the other shoulder. It’s almost like he knew what I was about to suggest and decided to head off that train of thought before it even left the station. Fair enough I guess. It probably wouldn’t have worked. Me and Criss make such a good team. But I was getting somewhat desperate here. I really didn’t want to face unemployment, and as such, I really needed at least one of my clients to go bad. Again, Herbert made polite and friendly conversation for about a minute before continuing on his way. At this stage, I begin to confess, I was starting to have doubts about whether this whole ‘taking the last donut’ thing was really as big a deal as I thought it was. No one seemed to be making much of a fuss over it. Herbert sat down in his cubicle, carefully placed the donut on top of a napkin, then dug in.

“You know, you really need to be more subtle about those sorts of things.” Criss suggested. “Try nudging them towards badness a bit more gently. You can’t rush it.” “I need to rush it though,” I sighed. I then proceeded to explain it all to Criss, starting with how smoking hot Susan is, and how badly she wanted me, and ending with me needing to pick up my game or get fired.

“Damn, tough break, man.” Criss replied, nodded sympathetically. “But really, Herbert doesn’t seem like the type to suddenly flip out and go on a killing spree. He’s not athletic enough. And he might even have some sort of moral objection to it. But hey, cheer up. Maybe this new Hans Grünrauchen guy will turn out to be a right evil bastard.”

“Hopefully.” I replied. “Oh yeah, I’m gonna be a bit late to this next session with Hans. I have some errands to run, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go and turn him into a god-like paragon of virtue before I can have a chance to corrupt him a bit.”

“Don’t worry, buddy.” Criss chuckled. “I don’t want to see you fired either. I won’t start until you get there.”

Client Number: 03Y8JH339

Client Name: Hans Grünrauchen

Client Occupation: Moocher Musician (Note from management: Moocher is not an occupation)

I arrived at my next appointment to find Hans and three other people sitting around a table in a small room. They were listening to Jethro Tull. Criss noticed my arrival and hastily concealed a cigarette.

“Hey Criss.”

“’Sup”

“So… I gotta make Hans here go bad?” I asked.

“Yep. Good luck with that, by the way. I know you didn’t want me to start without you, but I’ve already tried motivating him, and everyone else in this room to do something. They don’t seem particularly responsive.” I looked around the room again. They were arguing over whether or not a hotdog was a sandwich.

“This isn’t going to be easy. Being a bad person actually requires a fair bit of energy. I have no bloody chance. Damnit, I’m going to lose my job. I might be able to make Hans take the last schnitzel, but somehow that doesn’t quite seem like enough. And there is absolutely no way that a hotdog is a sandwich.”

“Granted.” Criss nodded sympathetically. “Maybe you should spend some extra time on Herbert. He’s the only one of our clients that actually seems to have a chance of going bad. I took the liberty of checking Hans’ file. He’s pretty much impossible to influence, on account of him spending so much time under… uh… the influence. And I reckon you can pretty much forget about old Sam Phelps going bad. Also, when you consider a hamburger to be a sandwich, a hotdog isn’t that far off.”

“A good idea.” I agreed. “If I can spend some extra time on Herbert, I should be able to get him to snap, I mean, look at the guy. He’s textbook office rampage material. He could bring a gun to work one day and no one would bat an eyelid. A killing spree would definitely save my job, and on top of that, get me some serious kudos from upstairs. Also, your argument is flawed. You just assume that a hamburger is a sandwich. That’s debatable.” The argument seemed to tail off. We sat in silence for a few minutes, while I brewed potential plans of action (as well as mentally continuing the hotdog/sandwich debate). I needed to get more time on Herbert, but the higher ups didn’t just let you shuffle your schedule around as you pleased. I would have to do this off the record. I would need a favour from Criss. I figured I’d buy him a drink later. Looking back on it, he was an awfully heavy drinker for an angel. Still is, in fact. You should see him knock back the Apöstlebrau at our poker nights. It’s good stuff, actually. Saint Peter makes it in his microbrewery over on Cloud Nine.

“Phelps time.” Criss suddenly announced, before teleporting away and startling me out of my boozy reverie. I sighed. I didn’t much like Sam. Aside from being way too holy for his own good, he was also so unnecessarily loud. I have sensitive ears, you know. I sighed once more, just for dramatic effect. I teleported away.

Client Number: 02C2KL120

Client Name: Samuel Phelps

Client Occupation: Jerkbag Evangelist (Note from management: If you don’t start taking this seriously, we’ll send you to a 4 hour seminar on professionalism. That’s not a threat. That’s a promise)

I arrived at my destination as normal – I faded in with a quiet gurgling sound. The way in which we teleport is a reflection of our personality, and so apparently I’m a gurgly sort of person. When Susan teleports, she arrives with a crisp, no-nonsense snapping sound and a polite flash of white light. And Criss is unfortunate enough to always arrive upside down, in a small cloud of dirty smoke and to the sound of coughing. I’m not entirely sure what that says about his personality, but it’s probably not a good thing. I was unfortunate enough however, to arrive right in front of one of the many speakers that dotted Sam’s personal televised studio, complete with audience, and signs telling this audience exactly when to stand, smile, scream, clap or sit down and shut up. With my usual propensity for perfect timing, I also arrived at the exact moment Phelps reached the vocal climax of his service – the part where he roared at his audience to haul out their wallets and send him their money. Apparently, if they donated right now, they would also receive a free CD featuring over thirty of their favourite bible stories, told with an acoustic guitar and an accordion.

I pulled Criss aside, away from Sam’s bellowing and the ensuing automatic applause. “Hey buddy, I gotta ask a favour.”

“Of course.”

“I need you to cover for me. I’m gonna go and use my Hans and Sam time to do some extra work on Herbert.”

“Okay then. Leaving me alone with Hans back there. Thanks. That sounds like a lot of fun.”

“Oh deal with it. Work isn’t meant to be fun.” Criss looked like he was about to fire back a snappy retort, when a low rumbling sound became apparent. It reverbrated through the room. None of the humans seemed to notice it, so I assumed it was something on our side. The rumbling grew louder, and the air between Criss and me tore itself apart, opening along a seam. Inside the seam I could see nothing except a rippling darkness so deep as to be almost liquid, and occasional flashes of fire. I leant in, but quickly drew back as a wave of intense heat blasted over me. The rumbling grew louder, and was soon joined by the sound of distant screaming. Without warning, the image of an elongated skull faded into view inside the seam, and a horde of ghostly centipedes swarmed out of its eyesockets, and seemed to disappear upon reaching the edge of my vision. I tried following one with my eyes, but it eluded me. The seam grew larger, the skull faded away and a bridge constructed entirely of bones loomed out of the darkness, stretching out of the opening rift. Spiders skirted across the underside of the bridge, carrying bones which they would deposit onto the end of the bridge, building it as they went. Suddenly, without warning, they swarmed back into the seam, the rumbling stopped and the screaming was silenced. So far, this display had taken a good five minutes. The sound of footsteps appeared. Distant and echoing at first, but quickly growing louder and more solid. Some devil I didn’t recognise walked out of the seam. He was wearing an impeccable suit and had filed his horns down to mere stumps, barely visible beneath his neat hair. He were carrying a slim silver pitchfork in one hand, and a slim silver briefcase in the other.

“Hello.” He said flatly. “We have not met before. I am from management.” I said nothing, despite the three questions that were burning into my mind. He turned to scowl at the bridge of bones he had just walked across. It was slowly shrinking back into the seam, being disassembled by the spiders. “Before we go any further,” he said, “no, I cannot teleport any faster than that, and yes, it is extremely irritating.” That answered my first two questions. “Anyway, I am here to tell you that you are not at risk of being fired anymore.” That answered my third question. “Apparently you have succesfully corrupted this jerkbag here.” He gestured at Sam. “And by jerkbag, I mean, of course, evangelist.” He smiled mirthlessly at me. “Apparently Mr. Phelps here has been a rather bad individual. Violent, fraudulent, angry, arrogant and all those sorts of wonderful things. I might even go so far as to say that you are rather fortunate that Criss, your angelic accomplice here did not adequately perform his job. That is not my department, however, and frankly, it is not worth the effort to report it.” Criss shifted uncomfortably, and looked at the ground. “And lastly,” he continued, looking directly at me, “I am here to say that in order to celebrate your new-found job security, I have signed you up for human charity work. Because I don’t like you. Goodbye.” And with those words he began to teleport away. Five extremely awkward minutes later he walked back into the seam that reopened, and disappeared from view. And that, my friend, is the story of how I came to be here, doing this stupid charity work in this stupid loony-bin and talking to you, my stupid hallucinating friend.

Anyway, the blatantly heavy-handed moral of that rather tedious story is that religion really has very little to do with good and bad. So you’re fine. You’re not going to hell. And that’s my charity work done. I’m out of here. Wait! what are those pills you’re taking? Choline acetylase inhibitors? I’ve heard of those.. that’s anti-hallucination medication. Don’t take those pills! Don’t do it, I’ll stop existing if you do that! Damnit, too late. You’ve killed me! Before I go however, I have one last question. Is a hotdog a sandwi….