The Devil You Know and the Devil Under the Rug
“Worker number six-six-six, please report to the manager’s office. Worker number six-six-six, please report to the manager’s office.”
These words echoed hollowly from the speakers mounted high above the men and women who toiled inside the Winston Brothers board game factory, making sure that boards were marked correctly and game pieces were glued and packaged according to specifications. When this particular pronouncement came, none of them ceased in their efforts save for one. The assembly lines continued their processes as they were trained to do.
Two men halfway between the exit door and the steps leading up about thirty feet to the manager’s office, which oversaw day-to-day productivity by means of a wall-sized window, commented as the summoned worker passed them by.
Worker six-six-six, whose nametag read “Satan”, strode past Jim and Earl with only a quick but piercing glare in their direction, and Jim shuddered.
“Hey, Earl, see that guy?” Jim whispered to his linemate.
Earl looked up, and watched their red-skinned, horned and hoofed coworker walk past.
“What, the red guy?”
“I’m telling’ ya, Earl, there’s somethin’ weird about that guy. Doesn’t he creep you out?”
Since they had to keep working, Earl this time only shrugged instead of looking up, and said, “Yeah, I’ll admit he does a little. What’s his story?”
“I dunno. One of the guys in Line three says he ran into him at the vending machine and asked him once. Said he was the ‘Prince o’ Darkness’.”
“Former Soviet Union, right?”
“I think. Anyway, it was the weirdest conversation Bill ever had with anyone. Said it scared the bejesus out of ‘im.”
“Well whatever, I’m sure he’s just having a tough time adapting to our country.”
Satan stomped up the stairs to the manager’s office and threw the door, which was to the side, open with a fierce but regal motion of his arm, and it slammed into the wall behind it hard enough that it dented it. The manager, who was engrossed in some kind of paperwork, slowly glanced up from it and said “Ah, good, come in.”
Satan did so, standing over his desk for all the world like a living, breathing gargoyle. His eyes were fixed on the manager’s, and they were narrowed with contempt.
“Please, sit down.”
Satan obeyed, continuing to stare the manager in the eyes the entire time. A small flame began to dance in his own eyes.
“Alright, Mr…” shuffling through his stack of papers, the manager eventually found what was presumably Satan’s file. “Mr. Lucifer. Am I pronouncing that correctly?”
Satan inclined his head to indicate that he was.
“Ah, very good.” The balding, fat little man looked over the file as he spoke. His glasses were pushed to the edge of his nose so he could use them to read while speaking to his employee at the same time.
“Alright, Mr. Lucifer, I’ve called you here because it’s time for your annual review. I’d like to get this over with quickly, so I’m going to begin listing your responsibilities here at the factory, and if you have anything that I’ve overlooked, please mention it before I move on.”
He paused and skimmed some paragraphs. “I see that you sit at the end of line thirteen and place curses on the Squoiga boards right before they’re shipped off. You put in forty hours per week and you’re a patient, dedicated worker.” He looked up. “Is all of that correct?”
Satan’s low voice reverberated through the room. “It is.”
“Very good. Now, Mr. Lucifer, I’m afraid I have to give you some bad news.” He held up his hand to forestall any potential commentary as he continued. “Now you’ve performed to our expectations at least, but like everyone else, in an era of economic downturn, we have to make decisions that affect some people adversely--most, in fact. While your work has, for the past thirteen years, been efficient and productive, and the boards you help us create--they work. But, Mr. Lucifer, we’ve discovered they work best when people believe in the power of evil magic, and also when they’re willing to go out and purchase the boards in the first place. The trouble is, you see,” and he pushed up his glasses so he could more comfortably look Satan in the eyes, “parents aren’t interested in letting their children use our boards anymore. At least, not the Squoiga boards. There’s a new trend among people these days--I expect it to burn out in a decade or so, but for right now it’s there--and that trend is that people are rediscovering religion. For better or worse, I can’t say, but it keeps them docile and makes them into good little consumers, so long as we’re happily aligned with those who can best promote our products. The churches, you see, they help those companies and individuals best suited to assist us, by instructing their congregations on what is appropriate to purchase and what isn't. So it behooves us to be in good standing with those churches. It is the will of the current administration that these boards be removed from the market, and as far as we’re concerned, that administration is God. They pay my salary, and my boss’ salary, and his boss’ salary, right on up to the top. Therefore, it is my sad duty to inform you that I’m going to have to ask you to take a fall. I would prefer not to lay you off, but our profits are no longer such that we can keep you employed. Do you have anything to say?”
Satan considered this for a long moment; his head cocked, his eyes narrowed, the flames burned brighter in his eyes than they had when he’d first entered the room. His glare was fixed on the manager, but his hands gripped the armrests of the chair he sat in so tightly that smoke began to waft up from them. Finally, through gritted teeth he said in an even voice, “I will see this factory burned in eternal hellfire for what has happened here today. Every soul working here will be condemned, whether good or evil. I will corrupt them and claim them, and my vengeance will rule upon this Earth once more. Do not think me weak--my employment in this pathetic human facility may be over, but you do not know the powers you are tampering with. Though you depose me from my position, you have sold your soul by aligning with these people and…corporations you serve. If they be your god, then your soul is as good as mine.”
“Yes, well, thank you for your time. I’ll have my secretary contact you to tell you about your severance package.” The manager stood and held out his hand. “If there’s nothing else…?”
Satan grasped it with his hot, burning hand, digging in his claws. “I believe we are done. I have everything I need.”
He turned on his heel and walked smartly out of the office with nary a look back. He strode past the rows of workers, looking for all the world like he’d just been handed a fortune. And Jim and Earl watched him from the corners of their eyes with more than a little curiosity.
“So it looks like they let him go.” Jim whispered.
“Doesn’t matter--he’s a prince, right? His famil’ll look after him. Looks like he’ll just have to leave the States for a while.”
“Yeah, I guess. But he sure left his mark on our little corner of the world, didn’t he?”
“He did, buddy. He did.”
These words echoed hollowly from the speakers mounted high above the men and women who toiled inside the Winston Brothers board game factory, making sure that boards were marked correctly and game pieces were glued and packaged according to specifications. When this particular pronouncement came, none of them ceased in their efforts save for one. The assembly lines continued their processes as they were trained to do.
Two men halfway between the exit door and the steps leading up about thirty feet to the manager’s office, which oversaw day-to-day productivity by means of a wall-sized window, commented as the summoned worker passed them by.
Worker six-six-six, whose nametag read “Satan”, strode past Jim and Earl with only a quick but piercing glare in their direction, and Jim shuddered.
“Hey, Earl, see that guy?” Jim whispered to his linemate.
Earl looked up, and watched their red-skinned, horned and hoofed coworker walk past.
“What, the red guy?”
“I’m telling’ ya, Earl, there’s somethin’ weird about that guy. Doesn’t he creep you out?”
Since they had to keep working, Earl this time only shrugged instead of looking up, and said, “Yeah, I’ll admit he does a little. What’s his story?”
“I dunno. One of the guys in Line three says he ran into him at the vending machine and asked him once. Said he was the ‘Prince o’ Darkness’.”
“Former Soviet Union, right?”
“I think. Anyway, it was the weirdest conversation Bill ever had with anyone. Said it scared the bejesus out of ‘im.”
“Well whatever, I’m sure he’s just having a tough time adapting to our country.”
Satan stomped up the stairs to the manager’s office and threw the door, which was to the side, open with a fierce but regal motion of his arm, and it slammed into the wall behind it hard enough that it dented it. The manager, who was engrossed in some kind of paperwork, slowly glanced up from it and said “Ah, good, come in.”
Satan did so, standing over his desk for all the world like a living, breathing gargoyle. His eyes were fixed on the manager’s, and they were narrowed with contempt.
“Please, sit down.”
Satan obeyed, continuing to stare the manager in the eyes the entire time. A small flame began to dance in his own eyes.
“Alright, Mr…” shuffling through his stack of papers, the manager eventually found what was presumably Satan’s file. “Mr. Lucifer. Am I pronouncing that correctly?”
Satan inclined his head to indicate that he was.
“Ah, very good.” The balding, fat little man looked over the file as he spoke. His glasses were pushed to the edge of his nose so he could use them to read while speaking to his employee at the same time.
“Alright, Mr. Lucifer, I’ve called you here because it’s time for your annual review. I’d like to get this over with quickly, so I’m going to begin listing your responsibilities here at the factory, and if you have anything that I’ve overlooked, please mention it before I move on.”
He paused and skimmed some paragraphs. “I see that you sit at the end of line thirteen and place curses on the Squoiga boards right before they’re shipped off. You put in forty hours per week and you’re a patient, dedicated worker.” He looked up. “Is all of that correct?”
Satan’s low voice reverberated through the room. “It is.”
“Very good. Now, Mr. Lucifer, I’m afraid I have to give you some bad news.” He held up his hand to forestall any potential commentary as he continued. “Now you’ve performed to our expectations at least, but like everyone else, in an era of economic downturn, we have to make decisions that affect some people adversely--most, in fact. While your work has, for the past thirteen years, been efficient and productive, and the boards you help us create--they work. But, Mr. Lucifer, we’ve discovered they work best when people believe in the power of evil magic, and also when they’re willing to go out and purchase the boards in the first place. The trouble is, you see,” and he pushed up his glasses so he could more comfortably look Satan in the eyes, “parents aren’t interested in letting their children use our boards anymore. At least, not the Squoiga boards. There’s a new trend among people these days--I expect it to burn out in a decade or so, but for right now it’s there--and that trend is that people are rediscovering religion. For better or worse, I can’t say, but it keeps them docile and makes them into good little consumers, so long as we’re happily aligned with those who can best promote our products. The churches, you see, they help those companies and individuals best suited to assist us, by instructing their congregations on what is appropriate to purchase and what isn't. So it behooves us to be in good standing with those churches. It is the will of the current administration that these boards be removed from the market, and as far as we’re concerned, that administration is God. They pay my salary, and my boss’ salary, and his boss’ salary, right on up to the top. Therefore, it is my sad duty to inform you that I’m going to have to ask you to take a fall. I would prefer not to lay you off, but our profits are no longer such that we can keep you employed. Do you have anything to say?”
Satan considered this for a long moment; his head cocked, his eyes narrowed, the flames burned brighter in his eyes than they had when he’d first entered the room. His glare was fixed on the manager, but his hands gripped the armrests of the chair he sat in so tightly that smoke began to waft up from them. Finally, through gritted teeth he said in an even voice, “I will see this factory burned in eternal hellfire for what has happened here today. Every soul working here will be condemned, whether good or evil. I will corrupt them and claim them, and my vengeance will rule upon this Earth once more. Do not think me weak--my employment in this pathetic human facility may be over, but you do not know the powers you are tampering with. Though you depose me from my position, you have sold your soul by aligning with these people and…corporations you serve. If they be your god, then your soul is as good as mine.”
“Yes, well, thank you for your time. I’ll have my secretary contact you to tell you about your severance package.” The manager stood and held out his hand. “If there’s nothing else…?”
Satan grasped it with his hot, burning hand, digging in his claws. “I believe we are done. I have everything I need.”
He turned on his heel and walked smartly out of the office with nary a look back. He strode past the rows of workers, looking for all the world like he’d just been handed a fortune. And Jim and Earl watched him from the corners of their eyes with more than a little curiosity.
“So it looks like they let him go.” Jim whispered.
“Doesn’t matter--he’s a prince, right? His famil’ll look after him. Looks like he’ll just have to leave the States for a while.”
“Yeah, I guess. But he sure left his mark on our little corner of the world, didn’t he?”
“He did, buddy. He did.”
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