They'll have questions, and I'll tell them about their great-grandfathers signing up to fight the Nazis in WWII. I'll show them that history moves in cycles...I'll allow them to see what I have come to learn: People are selfish and small. Most people are just trying their best, but there are some who want to bend the universe to their will. Indulge their dark desires.
They will pass on. But the same philosophies will come to roost, again and again.
They will pass on. But the same philosophies will come to roost, again and again.
I'll cry with my grandkids. I'll hold them as close as I can, and I will try to make sure they see reality...this is not about brown people, this is not about queer people. This isn't even about immigration. It is about the broken taking power, which they are very good at.
Scruples can be a handicap. I've got tons of them. They make this thing called living pretty tricky, but I wouldn't change it for the world.
I'll lend a hand to anyone, but I won't stick it up in the air like a fucking fascist for you or anyone else.
Scruples can be a handicap. I've got tons of them. They make this thing called living pretty tricky, but I wouldn't change it for the world.
I'll lend a hand to anyone, but I won't stick it up in the air like a fucking fascist for you or anyone else.
Fuck that.
(Mader comments here)
ReplyDeleteDan, I... Thank you.
DeleteLucifer glowered with banked rage at his impotence. True, he sat in the utter luxury of his fine home, the black leather recliner with a heated seat, the roaring fire, the best scotch in lead crystal tumblers, but he felt…useless. It was time. It always would be time, at some point, although he didn’t care to think about it until it was upon him. It was vanity and pride that made him procrastinate on choosing and grooming a successor, and now all he was Myron, his sister’s kid.
ReplyDeleteHe’d looked the part—or tried to—with his faux Goth cosplay, black eyeliner from Sephora, pull-on tattoo sleeves because he had a low threshold for pain, his big talk about wanting to be junior lord of the underworld, soul eater. When the boy said this at the last family gathering, Lucifer was using all his powers not to laugh, and his sister kicked him under the table as a reminder. But now…
He was tired. His legs ached. And worst of all, he couldn’t tolerate the heat. Even the seat warmer in his recliner was just too much sometimes. He’d tried to keep up on his quota, but he was in deep trouble attempting to keep the world in balance. To let the good outweigh the evil…well, that would spell disaster.
Just as he was thinking to summon his valet for another scotch before retiring to his bed, he heard the muffled whir of Myron’s Tesla pulling up the drive.
Lucifer waited. From the reflection in the window he saw the defeated posture, the slunk shoulders, the downward tilt of his spiky head. Then, as if putting on a character in a play, the boy stood straighter, threw his shoulders back, strode into the room.
“Uncle,” he said, manspreading on the couch.
“Nephew. How was your first day? Whom have you brought me?”
Myron tried. Oh, how he tried. The valiant, world-beating uptilt of his chin quavered. His shoulders could not hold themselves aloft. And he sank into his body, his voice failing him but mouth still trying to make words that became a kind of pathetic sob. “How do you do this?” he said. “It’s so hard! I couldn’t find a single human willing to sell their soul.”
Lucifer couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit smug. I didn’t groom a successor because there is no one who can carry on as well as I did, he thought. It isn’t really the boy’s fault, per se. That feeling soon passed, and in the boy’s face he again saw the useless sod Myron always been. Impatient. Arrogant. Graceless. Lucifer sighed.
“I tried to be charming,” Myron said, “like you told me. I tried to be patient, all day I tried!” His eyes narrowed. “It’s the car. Nobody respects that car. I rolled up on Kash Patel, and he laughed at me. Laughed! I need something more badass. A Lamborghini, at least a Porsche, at—”
Lucifer held up a hand. “A poor workman blames his tools. Wait. Patel? We already have his soul. Why are you wasting time with him?”
The boy looked contrite, gave a little comical shrug. “It’s fun busting on him… I was stressed out, this job’s so hard, can you blame me?”
“You can’t afford fun, at least not yet. We have a business to run. Read my lips: We need more souls.”
Myron still looked lost. Perhaps Lucifer was being too hard on the boy. True, a poor workman blames his tools, but an employee fails because of poor training. Lucifer needed to throw the kid a bone.
“Okay, here’s where you go.” He scribbled some notes on a small pad he kept on the side table.
Myron took it. “Young Republicans of New York? Wouldn’t that be, like, the group that can hold meetings in one of those old-fashioned phone booths?”
“You’d think. But they’ve been out of power for a long time. They’re plentiful, and hungry. Get some of that low-hanging fruit and you’ll be on your way, my boy.”
“You think so?”
Lucifer sat back, smiled. This might work out after all. “Now, go get a good night’s sleep, and in the morning we can talk about that new car.”