Author Topic: Title:#HailSatan (Does contain adult language and themes)1765 Words  (Read 160 times)

Offline MikeAnderson

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  • Holy rejection letter, Bat-Man!
Yay; my first work up for review on M.W.C! So exciting...

Anyways, I hope you enjoy my first outing on the pitching mound. I'm hoping this will lead to a full-blown project eventually. Compliments, critiques, and bribes are always welcomed. But no American Express cards. I despise dealing with those people. :P

Genre: Horror/Fantasy/Social Satire
Word count:1765
Reader discretion advised:the following contains adult themes, language, and material that may be sensitive to some readers.

“The greatest trick the Devil pulled wasn’t convincing the world he didn’t exist. Rather, it was proving to it nobody can touch him when it comes to the social media and publicity game.”                                       

-Anderson Cooper

"When people think of the guest slow roasting in my sadistic little sauna, they always drop the obvious names. You know: the Hitlers, the Atillas, and the bin Ladens. But, what always throws people for a loop are the names they never expected to be on the credits."

Sarah Perez had been throughout her career unnerved, repulsed, and enamored by the people that sat across her for an interview. Today was the first time she was experiencing all three emotions.
Her resume was first class since becoming a senior anchor for American Cable News. She was just 33 years old, yet, the roster of celebrities and politicians that granted her exclusives was All-Star caliber: A former and current sitting American President, Secretaries of State, African warlords, jihadists, and enough movies stars to fill dozens of square blocks worth of Walk of Fame plaques on Hollywood Boulevard. It was her exclusive with Johnny Depp while he was deep in the Amazon trying to hunt down a legendary man-eating catfish while consistently stoned out of his head that made her one of the news out-let's highest paying anchors in history.

But this guest in particular was echelons above even her pay grade and reputation.

3 days earlier, in the middle of Central Park, a sinkhole equal in dimensions to a football field opened. The ground caved in, vomiting plumes of flame and streams of boiling sewage. The atrocities that flew, crawled, and slithered forth made those wish for a death plummeting down that fiery chasm. Faceless four armed fiends, werewolves, and a dreadful monster that fused a pterodactyl's body with twin hyena heads were just bites in a horror movie sampler platter.

Then He Who Shall Not Be Named soarded out of that fiery crevice, wearing a tailored suit, and sporting blood soaked crow wings.

Lucifer. Little Horn himself, dressed like he was attending the Oscars. And the first thing he did once his loafers hit the grass and started turning it brown, was walk over to a Puerto Rican girl from the Bronx, and take a selfie with her.
Forget breaking the Internet; that picture hit it center mass with a hydrogen bomb. His ascension from Hell in the Park's currently sitting on 33.8 billion views on YouTube. The he took the poor, quivering girl's smartphone, and gave Ms.Perez's booking agent a ring.

Hence, why she was sitting in the private dining area of Spark's Steakhouse, the same eatery John Gotti and his crew sent Paul Castellano to the sweet by and by back in the 80's, watching the Prince of Lies devour a flat-iron cut of steak so rare, it was still grazing grass.

"Like who, sir?" She asked His Unholyness, trying not to be repulsed as blood and meat juices dripped down his immaculately chiseled chin.

"Does a guy named Fred Rodgers ring any bells?"

Her jaw dropped so far, you'd think it would've shattered on the edge of the table. "You're kidding....Mr. Rodgers is in Hell?!!"

"Yup.” He still had a mouth-full of meat in his mouth while he talked. “All those sweater vests, the calm soothing voice, the helping children understand how menial shit like dairy farms work. Spoiler alert: all a front. That guy pushed more snow on the streets of Pittsburgh than the city plow trucks." She was hoping he was deceiving her, but that matter of fact look on his gorgeous, yet, petrifying face currently obscured by a Riedel glass full of $650 pinot noir flooding down his throat filled her with doubt of that. "That trolley to the Land of Make Believe made more than a few stops to Columbia to pick up product. Hey, don't blame him too much. You know how hard producing a television show is, especially on a Public Broadcasting budget?"

"Not just him, either, sweetheart!' He lifted the glass above his head and bellowed for a refill. Sara had been in Syria reporting on the fight against ISIL with an artillery battery. His voice at the moment reminded her of that deafening, thunderous pop of those Howitzers when they let loose.

The waiter fearfully gave him another pour, then scurried off to cower in the dish pit and chant dozens of Hail Marys in rapid fire succession. "Gandhi, Winston Churchill, Abe Lincoln. I collect corrupt Popes like nerds collect comic books and Funko dolls. And what Walt Disney built 20 stories below the Magic Kingdom..."

"You might want to take your vacations at Universal Studios from now on, because that sub-basement has some rides no decent person wants to wait in line for."

She couldn't believe what she was hearing; it was repugnant and inconceivable. But it was certified gold ratings wise. Her producer was already screaming in her earpiece that this live feed was drawing more viewers than every other network on Earth combined! Twitter and Instagram's servers were failing due to the traffic, and Facebook nearly crashed twice in the last 5 minutes.

"How many souls, rough estimate, are in Hell, Mr. Morningstar?!"

" Pffft! I lost count back during World War 1. At this point in my career, it's all about quality above quantity. I have to. You shoe wearing monkeys practically do my job for me anymore. Your species crash my gates in meaty tsunamis, and most of you aren’t worth the price of the scissors I mutilate genitalia with. Trust me, though, I’m putting up more way numbers on the board inventory wise than my dip-shit out of touch father. He still thinks people should stop eating meat on Fridays. Bad enough you entropic apes put up with enough hardship and tribulation; now pops has to meat-block all of you because he’s always demanding sacrifice.Oh, hold up; I have to take this..."

His smart phone’s ringtone was the tormented screaming and pleas of Pol Pot put to the beat of Kendrick Lamar’s “Humble”. The talon on his left index finger hit the answer icon, and he held the phone to his pointed ear.

"Chello?" he said cheerfully. His mood elevated higher when he heard the voice on the other end. "Oh, hey Dave. How's it hanging?"

Lucifer listened, while whispering to Sarah: "It's Dave, my deputy managing director. He committed suicide after being indicted for wire fraud and criminal conspiracy during that whole Enron fiasco. Love that guy; he's been a boon for my modernization and restructuring plans. So, gimmie some good news."

"Ebola outbreak in West Africa's on schedule....good, good. More Catholic priests implicated in pedophilia. I know; why do these mortals act shocked that men with penis shaped caps that can't have sex and follow doctrine that has NOTHING to do with God’s will party like that? They should've seen the Vatican during the First Crusades; you needed to put two coats of hand sanitizer on after walking through that place. Disgusting hypocritical douche-bags...."

Then Dave told him something that made Lucifer's (who was now going by his Twitter handle "Big L") face even redder than normal: "Stalin did WHAT?! Oh, that......"

The Master of Evil nearly chucked his phone across the dining room in rage. "He does this every single fucking time I leave the office for more than a few days. Did he give you that excuse he didn't know, because that borscht sucking Bolshevik bullshit artist knows better. I put enough signs around the fridge in large print, permanent marker "Please put $1 in the jar whenever you pull a soda out of the break-room fridge, or else I WILL fuck your day up even worse than normal!"

"No, no,no Dave; it's obvious barbed whips and lakes of fire aren't getting the point through his thick commie skull. He gets the Party Dip treatment this time. Yeah, it's that serious. I have warned him way too many times not to take my kindness for weakness; now, he's getting dunked in gonorrhea puss like a strawberry in a chocolate fountain until it's oozing out his eardrums! Make it happen, and I'll make sure you get ice in your soda this time. Whether said cubes are laced with lead or not dependent on how fast you make Jo-Jo bob for apples in venereal disease waste."

"Okay, gotta bounce, buddy. My steak's getting cold, and my interview's getting derailed. I'll talk to you when I get back. Laters!"

Lucifer was going to ask the waiter to take his meal back and reheat his steak, but the staff were cowering in terror. He took matters and his plate in his hands. He clutched his steak and seared it  back to proper temperature in his palm. He wiped the juices off his hand with his napkin, and without even acknowledging Sara, who was absolutely frozen in fear and shock, cut another strip and stuffed it into his fanged maw.

"Joe...that guy is the WORST! It's been nearly 7 decades, and he just can't get the clue my corner of the universe isn't that frozen socialist sewage pond he used to run. You know he tried to overthrow me once? I mean, talk about trying to poison a rattlesnake with his own venom. I engineered his takeover of Russia, and he turns around and runs the same damn playbook on Coach Devil. No wonder everybody in Hell thinks he's a punk. He's about as scary as a kitten playing with cotton candy."

"Now, Princess Diana is a way different beast. You do not want to cause her blood pressure to spike, believe me. I'm the originator of sin and nightmares, and I took a few notes on how to dress people down being around her. Oh, I hope Prince Charles got in good with the competition, because if she sees him again, that shit will hit the fan at supersonic velocity."
Lucifer couldn't help but grin slightly upon seeing Sarah pale and squirming in her chair, fumbling with her cue cards.

"You look peckish, deary. You sure you don't want something to eat? If I had a soul, I'd sell it to get a table here every Friday night." He laughed a foul, thunderous cackle. "Oh, wait! The owner did pawn his off on me to get the deed on this joint, so, guess who's always on the reservation list."
Sarah was relieved when her producer told her it was break time. She cleared her throat.

"Hopefully, ladies and gentlemen, we'll be back after these commercials."