Tim Pratt - Sympathy for the Devil

“Nice to meet you,” said the Devil.

I reached back and shook a hand that was a tree branch with the power to grip. “Name’s Jeff,” I said.

“I am Legion,” he hissed.

Then he stuck his head in the space between us and shot a little burp of flame into the air. Christ doubled over with silent laughter. “I got a bag of Carthage Red on me, you got any papers?” the Devil asked, putting his hand on Christ’s shoulder.

“Does the Pope shit in the woods?” asked the Son of God.

The Devil got the papers and started rolling one in the back seat. “Jeff, you ever try this shit?”

“I never heard of it.”

“It’s old, man, it’ll make you see God.”

“By the way,” Christ said, interrupting, “what ever happened with that guy in Detroit?”

“I took him,” said the Devil. “Mass murderer, just reeking evil. He hung himself in the jail cell. They conveniently forgot to remove his belt.”

“I thought I told you I wanted him,” said Christ.

“I thought I cared,” said the Devil. “Anyway, you get that old woman from Tampa. She’s going to make canonization. I guarantee it.”

“I guess that’s cool,” he said.

“Eat me if it isn’t,” said the Devil. They both started laughing and each patted me on the back. The Devil lit up the enormous joint he had created and the odd pink smoke began to permeate the car.

It tasted like cinnamon and fire and even with only the first toke, I was stunned. Paranoia set in instantly, and I slowed the car down to about thirty. I drove blindly while in my head I saw the autumn afternoon woods of my childhood, where it was so still and the leaves silently fell. I thought of home and it was far away.

When my mind returned to me at a red light, I realized that the radio was on. New Age music, a piano, some low moaning formed a backdrop to the conversation of my passengers.

“What do you think?” Christ had just asked.

“I think this music has to go,” said the Devil. His fingers grew like snakes from the back seat, and he kept pressing the scan button on the radio until he came to the oldies station. “Back seat memories,” he said.

Somehow it was decided that we would go to Florida and check out the lady who was going to become a saint. “Maybe she’ll pop a miracle,” said the Devil.

“No sweat,” said Christ.

“My wife’s expecting me home around nine,” I said.

The Devil laughed really loud. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said. “I’ll split myself in two, and half of me will go to your house and boff your wife till we get back.”

Christ leaned over and put his hand on my knee. “Don’t be an idiot,” he said to me with a smile. “I have to be in New Egypt by eight.”

“You can do things?” I asked.

“Look,” said Christ, nodding toward the windshield. “We’re there. Just make a right at this corner. It’s the third house on the left.”

I looked up and saw that we were in a suburban neighborhood with palm trees lining the side of the road. The houses were all one-story ranch styles and painted in pastel colors. When I pulled the car over in front of the house, I could hear crickets singing quickly in the night heat.

Before we got out, the Devil leaned toward the front seat and said to Christ, “I’ll make you a bet she doesn’t do a miracle while we’re here.”

“Bullshit,” said Christ.

“What do you want to bet?” asked the Devil.

“How about him,” said the savior and pointed that weird thumb at me.

“Quite the high roller,” said the Devil.

As we were walking up the driveway to the front door, the Devil lagged a little behind us. I leaned over and, in a whisper, asked Christ if he thought she would perform.

He shrugged and rolled his eyes. “Have faith, man,” he said. “Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.”

“I heard that,” said the Devil. “I don’t like whispering.”

We walked right through the front door and into the living room where a woman was sitting in front of the television. At first, I thought she was deaf, but it soon became clear that we were completely invisible to her.

The Devil walked up behind me and handed me a sixteen-ounce Rolling Rock. “There she is in all her splendor,” he said, as he handed a beer to Christ. “Doesn’t look like much of an opportunity here unless she’s gonna get better looking.”

We stood and stared at her. She was about sixty-five with short hair dyed brown and wearing a flowered bathrobe. On the coffee table in front of her sat an ashtray with a lit cigarette in one of the holders. In her left hand she held a glass of ark wine. As the daily reports of mayhem and greed came through the box, she shook her head from time to time and sipped her drink.

“What’s she done?” I asked.

“She brought a kid back from the dead a few months ago,” said the Devil. “A girl was hit by a car outside a local grocery store. Mrs. Lumley, here, was present and just touched the girl’s hand. The kid got right up off the stretcher and walked away.”

“Strange shit,” said Christ. “We don’t really know how it works.”

“You mean,” I said, “that you can’t make her do a miracle?”

“Not exactly,” said Christ.

“That’s a bitch, isn’t it?” said the Devil. “Now drink your beer and calm down.”

The Devil walked around behind Mrs. Lumley’s chair and used two fingers to make horns behind her head. Christ went to pieces over that one. I even had to laugh while we watched her pick her nose. She was at it for a good five minutes. Christ applauded her every strategy, and the Devil said, “The one that got away.”

“We better sit down. This may take a few minutes,” said Christ.

The Devil and I sat down on the couch and Christ took an old rocker across from us. The evil one rolled another huge joint and listened intently to the report on television of a murder/suicide in California. Mrs. Lumley began singing “The Whispering Wind” to herself in between sips of wine while Christ hummed in a duet with her.

“I’ve had more fun in church,” said the Devil, as he passed me the joint. Again, I tasted the cinnamon and fire, and I took big gulps of beer to soothe my throat.

Christ begged off and just rocked contentedly in his chair.

The news eventually ended and Jeopardy came on the television. “Wait till I get my hooks into this asshole,” the Devil said, nodding toward the host of the show.

“He’s yours,” said Christ. “It’s on me.” Then he pointed his finger at Mrs. Lumley and made her change the channel to a Star Trek rerun.

While we waited for something to happen, the Devil showed me a trick. He took a big draw of Carthage Red and then exhaled it in a perfect globe of smoke. The globe hovered in the air before my eyes and turned crystal clear. Then it was filled with an image of my wife and kids reading bedtime stories. When I reached for it, the globe popped like a soap bubble.

“Parlor tricks,” said Christ.

Eventually, Mrs. Lumley got up, turned off the set, and went into her bedroom. We followed her as far as the door, where we looked in at her. She was kneeling next to the bed, saying her prayers.

“I hope you like the heat,” the Devil said to me.

Then Christ said, “Look.”

Mrs. Lumley lay on the floor, her body twitching. A steady groan escaped through her clenched teeth. In seconds, her skin had become a metallic blue and her head had doubled in size. Fangs, claws, gills, audibly popped from her features. She turned her head to face us, and I could feel she was actually seeing us with her expanding eyes.

“Shit,” said the Devil, and turned and ran toward the door.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Christ, and he too turned and ran. I followed close behind.