I was bored as Hell at the speech meet. It had been a long, pointless day. Eric had gone to compete in the final round of Radio, leaving me alone in the cafeteria to wait for him. I doodled some as I waited. I can't draw, but I'd like to learn, so I'd been practicing. I'd kinda been getting better, too. Well, right about then, this tiny little red guy, whom I would later come to know as Satan, pops up on my paper.
“Hello Drew,” it says to me.
Now, I've read a lot of books, so I know that it's important to stay calm in these kind of situations. Otherwise, the tiny bastard will vanish and everyone will think you're crazy.
So I—very calmly—say “Who the fuck are you?” Quietly, of course.
“I am Satan, master of your soul.”
This kinda ticks me off. I was born and raised Christian. Satan showing up and asserting ownership of my immortal soul perturbs me somewhat. I keep my voice quiet as I reply:
“That's nice, tiny Satan, but you seem to be mistaken. You see, you are not, in fact, the Lord of my soul. So please, fuck off to your miniature Hell where you can annoy the souls of sinful midgets.”
Satan glares at me. “You sold your soul for the ability to draw.”
I actually laugh a little, but I catch myself when people start looking over. I lean in close to make it look like I'm still drawing.
“Look, Beelzebub, I didn't sell my soul for the ability to draw. And even if I had, you'd have no right to collect, seeing as how I'm still less than mediocre. And that's with no small amount of practice.”
Satan huffs. Even if by some impossibly slim chance I had accidentally sold him my soul, which I hadn't, he knows he can't beat the logic on the second point of my argument. With a grunt of a mildly audible “fine!” he vanishes.
I continued my latest doodle. It was a small, very cartoonish frog. It wasn't that great, but Eric and I thought it was kind of cool, in a funny sort of way.
A few minutes passed. Suddenly, Satan reappeared on my paper. He was still 2 inches tall, but now he had his pitchfork. Stuck on the end of it was a regular-sized hot dog.
“Drew, I'm back, and I have a hot dog,” he said, moving the dog around in front of my face. “Would you like a hot dog? It can be. . .arranged.”
Instinctively, I say, “No, Satan! I shall not partake of thy tainted meat tube!”
Satan shrugs. “More for me,” he says as he takes a bite.
I narrow my eyes at the tiny tempter. “Are you so bored that you don't have anything better to do than harass me?”
“Well, you've got nothing to do but cultivate nonexistent art talent.”
Satan began pacing, occasionally eating a bite or two from his hot dog. “I know that you're supposed to belong to the forces of Hell, but I can't remember why.”
I raise one eyebrow. The Adversary is right. I have nothing better to do. At least he's a stimulus.
“I'm all ears, Satan,” I say nonchalantly.
“I checked in the records department, but the boys are on vacation, so it'll be a while before I get any sort of answer.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, somewhat disdainfully.
“So in the meantime, I decided to call in a friend to try to figure this out.”
I stared at him for a few minutes.
To my infinite surprise, a man in a white robe wearing a surprisingly stylish crown of thorns appeared. It was Jesus of Nazareth, 2 inches tall.
“Jesus?” I asked, incredulous.
“Hey, Drew. What's goin' on?” The miniature Christ sees Satan. “Yo, Lucifer, lookin' good, man.”
I stare blankly at the lilliputian Savior. Finally, I find my voice.
“Um. Jesus? What's happening here? Why are you friends with Satan?”
“Oh, that's a story for later,” he says, winking at me.
“So did you ask your dad about that thing for me?” Satan asks, somewhat impatiently.
“Oh yeah, him,” Jesus points at me. “yeah, he's a bastard.”
“What!” I ask, incredulous. “What the Hell are you talking about?”
“Oh,” says Satan, ignoring me. “That makes so much more sense.”
“What is going on here?” I demand. Suddenly, I realize that people are starting to look at me funny again. Shit. I lean in close and remember to keep my voice to a whisper.
Satan looks at me and begins to explain. "Okay, so it turns out that you're an illegitimate son of mine. Hence, bastard. I've got a lot of those running around. It's not a big surprise that I lost track of you.”
“You're the father of lies. I have no reason to believe you. And if I did have a reason to believe you, that would make me a lie myself. I'm not entirely comfortable with that,” I assert.
“Don't worry, dude,” says Jesus, chiming in. “I got freaked out when my paternal ancestry was first made known to me.”
I was unable to speak at first. There was a long discussion ensuing. Over the course of the debate, my older brother Damien, as well as Frosty the snowman were both brought into attest to the veracity of my dad's claims.
Before Satan and the gang finally left, I asked him one final question. “So do I get some sort of kickass Hell-derived powers now?”
“You'll get them as your exposure to the larger world grows. And I'll even let you borrow the car on weekends.”
“Bitchin',” I replied.
Just after the discussion wrapped up, Eric arrived on the scene.
“Hey, Drew,” Eric said to me upon returning. “You didn't get much done on that frog, did you?”
“I just kinda zoned out. Talked to a few people…”