( Last and final part of the Happy Birthday to Hell story, kids. Hopefully the story has grown on you and you understand why it has potential to flesh out further. What else is there to know about Wally? What does he do for fun? Is he invited to the family gatherings and get-togethers? Does he have a girlfriend? There's a lot of directions this can be taken. I'll let you read the last part and we'll take it on from there. So..... here we go!)
And that's really about all there is to tell. The place is swarming with conniving little vandals now, and I'm the babysitter of doom. What still gets me, though, are all the myths--that I'm the evil tempter, that I possess the weak of faith, that idle hands are my workshop...Personally, I kind of like the "Devil's Triangle" thing. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to sell that one. But like I say, they're just myths. Do you really think I want to tempt more souls to live down here? It's bad enough as it is. Last week one of them got ahold of some wicker--another in an unending stream of His hilarious jokes, no doubt--and now the place is covered with fanback chairs, tacky planters, end tables, and chests. And now they're getting into macrame. You think I want more?
Actually, there is some truth to the possession thing. I did possess a Lithuanian woman once. I admit it. I was drunk, and someone double-dared me to. I went through the "speaking in tongues" bit because it seemed cute at the time, and the levitation thing was just plain showing off. But that was it. I had nothing to do with any kind of vomit. I mean, it's disgusting! The entire episode lasted maybe fifteen minutes, and now, centuries later, I still suffer for it because of all the sick copycats. The whole thing was an innocent joke. I guess you had to be there.
I found out recently that one of the cherubs in Heaven has written a "tell-all" book about me, with photos and everything. I gave him a ride once, way back when. We talked for maybe five minutes, tops. I let him out and we never saw each other again. Now he's talking like he's known me from the start. From what I hear, the book is sleazy, and it's doing quite well. Of course it upsets me, but what can I do? I'm used to it, but now and then I still wonder, why me? I'm not such a bad guy. I was only trying to help. I sometimes wish He'd just start from scratch and make everyone "good." Then I think, maybe we really are all good and just don't know it, because free will likes to push our faces in the mud so we can't see straight.
All I know is, I didn't ask to be the Devil. I just wanted to be Wally. Wally the cruiser. Wally mellow guy. But they made me into something called Beelzebub. Nice name, huh?
But like I said before, He probably just wanted to set an example, and I was it. "Good" and "evil" are both four letter words, and to this day I've not met a sinner or a saint who can define one of them without mentioning the other. I think He knows this too, and looks on me more as a necessary function, rather than the embodiment of all things bad. In fact, shortly after Hell's population topped one billion, what's He do but send me my Laguna. It was the happiest day I've known here. The lighter was broken and the electric windows didn't work, but He filled the tank up, had it washed, and put a little plastic statue of Himself on the dash, for that added touch of class. He even left a pack of salted cashews in the glove compartment.
Now when things get out of hand, I take off for the furthest reaches of the smouldering wastelands, that darkened stretch the sinners still haven't found. Out here, the stars ache with just as much quiet desperation as in Heaven, pulsing silently overhead as I search the horizon. For this is a place of fallen angels and benevolent misfits. They plummet from above, the bile of Paradise, twirling like spastic saints who've lost the equilibrium of grace. They crash at my feet and break. They are vulnerable and confused, not yet aware that they are damned. I gather them in, fix their hair, straighten their robes and try to make them feel comfortably at home. Because in Heaven or in Hell, or in any lonely place that's been forgotten in between, the only thing that seems to matter is feeling wanted, like you belong.
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