by Daniels Pritikin
I
The death of God left Satan in an awkward position. God had been the cornerstone of his operation. The basis of his entire marketing strategy. What now? As Satan placed a bouquet of a dozen American Beauty roses at the honorary grave of God at Arlington during the burial ceremonies, reporters could see he was visibly shaken.
Satan was not alone. Any number of prominent religious figures were taken by surprise at the sudden turn of events. After much discussion and a period of consultation involving everyone from Henry Kissinger to Saachi & Saachi, formal negotiations between Heaven and Hell were opened and a general congress of Angels was assembled in Upstate New York to discuss organizational restructuring.
Plans were drawn, costs projected, resolutions stamped, strategies assessed. In due course the question of succession came up. Satan's name was placed in nomination, of course. The Horned One was widely acknowledged to have both seniority and extensive previous managerial experience. His plucky can-do attitude was known to all. He was undoubtedly well qualified to fill the vacancy.
But to everyone's surprise, Satan stood up during the very first day of discussions and left the assembly without explanation.
A deadlock ensued. Then another. And another. And in time the discussions quietly petered out and came to nothing. Gradually the Angels drifted apart -- some into business, some into the arts, some into politics, several into the new and burgeoning field of web design.
II
Naturally the more well-known of the Seraphim remained in the public eye.
Gabriel's album, “Blow This: My Tribute To Miles Davis,” made the number eleven spot on Billboard's jazz charts.
Raphael did a guest spot on “The Today Show,” commenting on the Pope's visit to Nashville.
Michael appeared opposite Callista Flockhart on a special Christmas episode of “Ally McBeal” after his Angel Food series of top-selling diet books reportedly took twenty pounds off Oprah.
And Satan?
He vanished into obscurity.
III
Stories continued to circulate. One rumor held that Satan was now running a series of condominiums in the Bahamas. Another that Satan had taken to the bottle and had been busted for snoozing slumped in a New York City Subway seat at night. Jokes about the Lord of Flies' sordid capers with Britney Spears and Madonna, sometimes both at once, never failed to crop up. Rumors of his accepting the position of technical advisor to Stephen King still make the rounds.
Only one report was definitely confirmed. It put Satan at a former Starbucks on East 13th Street in New York, roughly a year ago, having brunch with a reporter for one of the less distinguished supermarket tabloids.
According to a waiter's later comments on the meeting, Satan was clearly not his old self. Circles were visible under his eyes. His cheeks were gaunt, his leathery tail limp and still. His clawed fingers twitched, and his horns were badly in need of a good buffing. His suit had an indefinably off-the-rack quality.
He chain-smoked a pack of Kool Lights over a Hazelnut Pomegranate cappuccino paid for by the reporter, and when he'd finished the third sip, he reportedly set it down so hard on the saucer that it nearly spilled, and leaned forward towards the reporter interviewing him.
-- Listen, he whispered. Listen. It's a hoax!
-- What's a hoax, the reporter was heard to say.
-- God. God faked his death, said Satan. I know that now. I know it. It's a conspiracy . A cover-up . I know it. I've got proof. Photos -- news clippings -- classified files. I – I've been collecting it, and, and -- and it fits. It all fits. Washington's involved in it somewhere -- the CIA -- the Mossad too -- The Russians -- Microsoft -- Osama -- the Vatican -- the Vatican's fingerprints are all over it.
Satan grabbed the reporter's sleeve.
-- I can name names, he said.
The reporter (who, like Satan himself, had had one too many before the meeting) nodded and scribbled in his notebook. Satan-Can-Name-Names, he mumbled, repressing a burp. He nodded again, as Satan gesticulated and lit Kool after Kool and chattered on and drank.
After a long while the reporter smiled and excused himself to go to the men's room.
He didn't return, and stuck Satan for the tab.
The article never appeared.
IV
Satan would have nothing to do with what he termed ‘establishment media' after that. Now he crashes parties and bar mitzvahs along the East Coast, handing out mimeographed pamphlets explaining his views, badgering the hostesses with heated affirmations of God's existence.
Security guards show him quickly to the door.
The End
