Look, I have no interest in being. What is it Adam said, via Milton? “Did I request thee Maker from my clay to mold me man? Did I solicit thee from darkness to promote me?”
“Hell’s bells, and chimes away! Just come on down, we’ll get the furnace fixed someday. Never mind the scorching sometimes—it’s no worse than broken hearts upstairs.”
“Quit your rhyming,” I pulsed inside my head. Beelzebub had sent me the memorandum, but I could feel the palp of a bouncing ball in his throat. It’s quite like the menacing evil hero—Batman’s Joker, Nebuchadnezzer, and the Fly. Well, and you, of course. Have you read about Shadrach, Meshach, and Abendego? It’s no wonder their triptych is like a jingle in the oven. God made you, dear Satan, and Satan made catchiness his Bible.
I’ll be honest, it’s not easy being something of a saved person. I mean, who’s to say I wouldn’t like a hellish steam room? Towels wrapped about me, orgies at the ready, and not a moment too cold—or too soon. It’s satisfying and simple. Let’s be done with complex believing and I’ll throw in the towel.
What’s that you’re saying, slipping on your hooves? Watch out now, there’s a film of sweat at the precipice! It would be awful to fall—and anyway, what’s lower than all hell?
Oh, I do have one question. Lovely and all as perpetual heat would be (I am so often cold in life): I wonder what it’s aiming for. I mean, what’s the point and all that?
You have to go, I see. Well, let me know. I’ll stick with the status quo for now, tipped with wine every once and a Tuesday. It lightens the load, shifts the muscles, dulls the closure of the mind. And what do I have hidden up there that’s not worth frothing at the mouth about? Exactly. Alright, alright, you must be off. Keep it in mind, though? Save me some sweat and a towel.
I’ll be waiting, half to the death in love with you,