Farmer Philip - Riders of the Purple Wage

“ Dio motarello! Lecaculi! Cacasotti! Non romperci i coglioni! I’m the Chairman, and I say no, no, no!”

Fica looked at the other heads of the families. Mignotta, Fregna, Stronza, Loffa, Recchione, and Bocchino seemed scared, but each nodded the go-ahead at Fica.

“I’m indeed sorry that you don’t see it our way,” Fica said. “But I must ask for your resignation.”

Only Raphael could meet The Big One’s eyes, but business was business. Satan cursed and threatened. Nevertheless, he was stripped of all his shares of stock. He’d walked in the richest man in the world, and he stormed out penniless and an ex-member of the Organization.

Raphael caught up with him as he strode mumbling up Park Avenue.

“You’re the father of lies,” Raphael said, “so you can easily be a great success as an actor or politician. There’s money in both fields. Fame, too. I suggest acting. You’ve got more friends in Hollywood than anywhere else.”

“Are you nuts?” Satan snarled.

“No. Listen. I’m authorized to sign you up for the film on the end of the world. You’ll be a lead, get top billing. You’ll have to share it with The Son, but we can guarantee you a bigger dressing room than His. You’ll be playing yourself, so it ought to be easy work.”

Satan laughed so loudly that he cleared the sidewalks for two blocks. The Empire State Building swayed more than it should have in the wind.

“You and your boss must think I’m pretty dumb! Without me the film’s a flop. You’re up a creek without a paddle. Why should I help you? If I do I end up at the bottom of a flaming pit forever. Bug off!”

Raphael shouted after him, “We can always get Roman Polanski!”

Raphael reported to God, who was taking His ease on His jasper and cornelian throne above which glowed a rainbow.

“He’s right, Your Divinity. If he refuses to cooperate, the whole deal’s off. No real Satan, no real Apocalypse.”

God smiled. “We’ll see.”

Raphael wanted to ask Him what He had in mind. But an angel appeared with a request that God come to the special effects department. Its technicians were having trouble with the roll-up-the-sky-like-a-scroll machine.

“Schmucks!” God growled. “Do I have to do everything?”

Satan moved into a tenement on 121st Street and went on welfare. It wasn’t a bad life, not for one who was used to Hell. But two months later, his checks quit coming. There was no unemployment any more. Anyone who was capable of working but wouldn’t was out of luck. What had happened was that Central Casting had hired everybody in the world as production workers, stars, bit players, or extras.

Meanwhile, all the advertising agencies in the world had spread the word, good or bad depending upon the viewpoint, that the Bible was true. If you weren’t a Christian, and, what was worse, a sincere Christian, you were doomed to perdition.

Raphael shot up to Heaven again.

“My God, You wouldn’t believe what’s happening! The Christians are repenting of their sins and promising to be good forever and ever, amen! The Jews, Moslems, Hindus, Buddhists, scientologists, animists, you name them, are lining up at the baptismal fonts! What a mess! The atheists have converted, too, and all the communist and Marxian socialist governments have been overthrown!”

“That’s nice,” God said. “But I’ll really believe in the sincerity of the Christian nations when they kick out their present administrations. Down to the local dogcatcher.”

“They’re doing it!” Raphael shouted. “But maybe You don’t understand! This isn’t the way things go in the Book of Revelation! We’ll have to do some very extensive rewriting of the script! Unless You straighten things out!”

God seemed very calm. “The script? How’s Ellison coming along with it?”

Of course, God knew everything that was happening, but He pretended sometimes that He didn’t. It was His excuse for talking. Just issuing a command every once in a while made for long silences, sometimes lasting for centuries.

He had hired only science-fiction writers to work on the script since they were the only ones with imaginations big enough to handle the job. Besides, they weren’t bothered by scientific impossibilities. God loved Ellison, the head writer, because he was the only human he’d met so far who wasn’t afraid to argue with Him. Ellison was severely handicapped, however, because he wasn’t allowed to use obscenities while in His presence.

“Ellison’s going to have a hemorrhage when he finds out about the rewrites,” Raphael said. “He gets screaming mad if anyone messes around with his scripts.”

“I’ll have him up for dinner,” God said. “If he gets too obstreperous, I’ll toss around a few lightning bolts. If he thinks he was burned before… Well!”

Raphael wanted to question God about the tampering with the book, but just then the head of Budgets came in. The angel beat it. God got very upset when He had to deal with money matters.

The head assistant director said, “We got a big problem now, Mr. DeMille. We can’t have any Armageddon. Israel’s willing to rent the site to us, but where are we going to get the forces of Gog and Magog to fight against the good guys? Everybody’s converted. Nobody’s willing to fight on the side of anti-Christ and Satan. That means we’ve got to change the script again. I don’t want to be the one to tell Ellison…”

“Do I have to think of everything?” DeMille said. “It’s no problem: Just hire actors to play the villains.”

“I already thought of that. But they want a bonus. They say they might be persecuted just for playing the guys in the black hats. They call it the social-stigma bonus. But the guilds and the unions won’t go for it. Equal pay for all extras or no movie and that’s that.”

DeMille sighed. “It won’t make any difference anyway as long as we can’t get Satan to play himself.”

The assistant nodded. So far, they’d been shooting around the devil’s scenes. But they couldn’t put it off much longer.

DeMille stood up, “I have to watch the auditions for The Great Whore of Babylon.”

The field of 100,000 candidates for the role had been narrowed to a hundred, but from what he’d heard none of these could play the part. They were all good Christians now, no matter what they’d been before, and they just didn’t have their hearts in the role. DeMille had intended to cast his brand-new mistress, a starlet, a hot little number—if promises meant anything—one hundred percent right for the part. But just before they went to bed for the first time, he’d gotten a phone call.

“None of this hankypanky, C.B.,” God had said. “You’re now a devout worshipper of Me, one of the lost sheep that’s found its way back to the fold. So get with it. Otherwise, back to Forest Lawn for you, and I use Griffith.”

“But…but I’m Cecil B. DeMille! The rules are O.K. for the common people, but…”

“Throw that scarlet woman out! Shape up or ship out! If you marry her, fine! But remember, there’ll be no more divorces!”

DeMille was glum. Eternity was going to be like living forever next door to the Board of Censors.

The next day. his secretary, very excited, buzzed him.

“Mr. DeMille! Satan’s here! I don’t have him for an appointment, but he says he’s always had a long-standing one with you!”

Demoniac laughter bellowed through the intercom.

“C.B., my boy! I’ve changed my mind! I tried out anonymously for the part, but your shithead assistant said I wasn’t the type for the role! So I’ve come to you! I can start work as soon as we sign the contract!”

The contract, however, was not the one the great director had in mind. Satan, smoking a big cigar, chuckling, cavorting, read the terms.