Interview with Beelzebub
Following from my recent interview with God (see here), I caught up with Satan to find out how things are going in the eternal, fiery pit of Hades. Enjoy!
Me: Satan, thanks for sitting down with Coddlepot.
Satan: Pleasure. That thing I did for you work out ok?
Me: Eh…thing? I know not of this ‘thing’, to which you refer.
Satan: The plane crash, with whats-his-face on board? The audit guy from Revenue?
Me: Perhaps we could talk about this some other…
Satan: Sure, we’ll talk later. I need you to come in and finalise some things with the contract anyway.
Me: Now, I recently interviewed God.
Satan: Ah, Larry.
Me: Excuse me?
Satan: You were saying, you interviewed Larry.
Me: No, I said I interviewed God.
Satan: Yes, Larry. His name’s Larry.
Me: You’re shitting me.
Satan: Eh, hello. God is his job title. His name is Larry Dunne.
Me: I’m stunned. Do you have a name too?
Satan: Percy Hornwinkle.
Me: Ok….Percy. How would you characterise your relationship with…Larry?
Satan: On a scale of one to ten?
Me: Sure.
Satan: A six.
Me: Really? I’d have thought less.
Satan: Ah, I’ve got no beef with The Almighty. We still bowl every second Thursday. There’s just a few things we’ll probably never see eye-to-eye on.
Me: Like good and evil?
Satan: There’s that. Also, he has this stupid hip-hop handshake that does my friggin mallet in. Up high, down low, too slow – it goes on for about five minutes. He only does it because nobody else knows all the moves, so he ends up looking like Snoop Dog while you feel like a schmuck.
Me: When I interviewed God, he cited Chris De Burgh as his greatest fuck-up. What’s been yours?
Satan: Bob Dylan.
Me: Dylan? But he’s class.
Satan: Exactly. I gave him all the tools to be shite. Tone deaf, surly with the press, short-arse, appetite for drugs, hippy tendencies, penchant for bleeding-heart protest songs. Imagine my horror when all his handicaps somehow gelled into more than the sum of their parts. That was a real low for me, professionally.
Me: I can imagine. Did you consider packing it in?
Satan: I honestly did. Ghandi expressed an interest in taking over on a trial basis.
Me: Woah, back up there. Mahatma Gandhi?
Satan: Yes, you know him?
Me: Mahatma Gandhi applied for the job of Satan?
Satan: Caretaker Satan, technically.
Me: Jesus. Wasn’t Gandhi all about peace and love during his life?
Satan: Broadly speaking, yes. But there was a less seen side of him.
Me: Back side?
Satan: No, I mean figuratively. There was a side of him blacker than the coals of hell. He despised marsupials, for example. I can understand someone being indifferent to marsupials, but seething, violent hatred? I once saw him do things to a Koala…I mean, I’m Satan, so I’ve done some shit in my time, believe me…but that Koala’s expression…it’s burned into my brain. Little fur-ball didn’t know what hit him.
Me: Are you….
Satan: No.
Me: …you are, you’re crying.
Satan: I’m not.
Me: You bloody are.
Satan: I wonder, would my pitchfork fit successfully up your hole?
Me: Touché sir. Well played.
Me: Moving on from Dylan, any notable examples of your handiwork in the press at the minute?
Satan: Obama.
Me: Ah come on, he’s the dog’s bollox!
Satan: On the surface, yes. But there’s a side to him. A side blacker than the coals…
Me: I’m having major déjà vu here.
Satan: …of hell. He’s done things to marsupials that would turn Gandhi’s stomach. God help the sleek, majestic kangaroo if America ever seizes control of Australia on Obama’s watch.
Me: I see. Eh…Satan?
Satan: Please, call me Percy.
Me: Ok. Percy?
Satan: Yes?
Me: Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you a tad bonkers? The whole marsupial thing sounds a trifle whacko.
Satan: Are you calling me a liar?
Me: Not at all. I’m calling you a fruitcake.
Satan: You’ve got some balls.
Me: Thanks. The secret is to scrub them with a steroid cream every night before…
Satan: That’s not what I meant.
Me: Oh.
Satan: Call me a fruitcake? Me? You’ve made a powerful enemy here today.
Me: Oooh, I’m soooo scared. Percy’s going to get me. Big, bad Percy….
Satan: I’m warning you….
Me: What are you gonna do, hah? A minute ago you were bawling like a little woman, sniffling like a little….AH JAYSUS, NOT THE PITCK FORK…AH FECK, IT’S RIGHT UP THERE….I WON’T BE ABLE TO SHIT RIGHT FOR A MONTH…SWEET SUFFERIN MOTHER O’ JAYSUS…
“I WON’T BE ABLE TO SHIT RIGHT FOR A MONTH”
Well, look on the bright side; it’s a pitchfork, so now you can shit right, left, and center.
And that Gandhi is a fucker.
Class. Percy and Larry… the giggles will get me through work today. Hope that contract thing works out ok, read the fine print.
Flann, what did Percy look like?
Fat Sparrow: Your theories on the directional vagaries of human sewerage disposal are interesting to me. Also, I wouldn’t necessarily believe The Prince of Darkness on ‘Gandhi’. I’d want to see dead marsupials before fully believing that yarn.
Columbo: The fine print was disastrous. Apparently he not only now owns my soul for all eternity, but he also gets my CD collection. That’s a Goddamned liberty in my book.
Sweary: That’s not an accompanying artists rendition. It’s a photo, taken with a Kodak disposable camera. I took a closer shot, but the eyes came out red(der). Hate when that happens.
I used to be play football with Percy’s nephew, he was some centre back in his day. Lovely family too, though I always wondered why non-farmers needed so many pitchforks, now I know
Satan’s a good guy really, if not a bit bat shit.
I remember he left a message on my voicemail about the dinner party he was hosting. Something about wanting a bottle of 1972 organic bordeaux. The thing was that they didn’t start mass producing “organic” wine until the early 90’s so I was kind of stuck.
I brouth a six back of blackcurrant Capri Sun’s instead and he never knew the difference. Ruler of the damned he may be, but a wine buff he is not.
Pitchforks in the hands of a non-farmer is always a dead give away of unspeakable evil Rua. Just like a bazooka in the hands of a schoolboy is symptomatic of a) psychosis, and b) unnacceptable access to his father’s unlocked bazooka cupboard.
I hear you Maxi, he’s far from a connoisseur. He offered me a snifter of what transpired to be cat’s piss, peddled to him by some opportunistic afterlife-to-afterlife salesman.
I’m a bit fucked off he never apologised for Enya.
I broached the Enya thing Radge, but he turned off the tape recorder and told me in no uncertain terms to “stay away from it”.
The exchange was strictly off-the-record of course. Bringing it on-the-record now obviously says a lot about my journalistic courage. I’ll stop at nothing for a scoop, even if it means selling my sources down the river.
Never expected Santa to be so deranged…wonder what I’m getting for christmas this year. Hope its not a pitchfork !
No Madraz, ‘Satan’, not ‘Santa’. Though I did also interview Santa recently. A violent, violent sociopath. I wanted to publish the interview, but he said his elves would (I quote) “cut me”.
hahahahahaha……I love these….