Had Dinner With The Devil

Had Dinner With The Devil; And He Has Surprisingly Good Table Manners

Excerpt from Supermarket tabloid "Current Phenomenon and Strange Anomalies" July Issue, 20XX. All persons and places mentioned in this article had their names changed for privacy reasons, please do not attempt to seek out the parties involved with this rather strange recounting.

Had Dinner With The Devil; and He has surprisingly decent table manners

When the interviewers came in to question a Samuel Gibbons he had made it clear that he had, at first, no intention of going public with his story, especially with a "Second rate rag that ain't even good for toilet tissue". Not only for the fact that he'd be ridiculed to no end, but he'd also be persecuted by a multitude of religious communities, some of which he affiliates with, even more so after the events took place. When we offered to change his name for the publication of the interview, he still had his doubts.

You have to understand, Mr. Serra, it's not just the privacy. No one on this little blue ball has absolute proof that demons and angels exist. Now, imagine, ordinary guy like you or me winds up in the position where he has to sit at the same table with the Prince of demons. Shit's enough to kill a man, but the Lord made me tough, now I gotta pay back the strength.

Interviewer: Let's start at the beginning, how did you make the acquaintance of the Devil?

Samuel: I didn't know he was the Devil at first, let's get that straight. I ain't some adrenaline junkie who would willingly invite Mr. Demon into his house. It's just, he was there as I was walking home with the spaniel, standing back, admiring the building. I go over, ask him what he's doing there...

I was coming back from a walk with my dog, trying to sweat out the poisons of the past few months when I sees a figure in fancy rags a few yards ahead, ordinarily a man in a suit on Blanche Avenue is a rather normal. Real estate agents hung around this place like stink on shit, dollar signs in their eyes. No one was looking to sell though, too good a neighborhood. Great for growing families: school zones, community watches, the whole nine yards.

I was thinking this; just another dollar starved real estate agent, that was, until I was but a few feet away from him. His eyes weren't right, they were hungry, like some of the people wanting to buy the house offa me but a bit more.

They were starved, those eyes, but a different hunger, something wild almost evil. Must be a lawyer, I think. I couldn't help but chuckle at my stupid gibe, especially after spooking myself just 'cause of a guy's eyes. My chuckling grabbed the attention of Mr. Pinstripe.

He smiled at me, too friendly to be a stranger, not friendly enough to be in Realty.

"This your place?" He asks, "Was admirin' the paint, that you or the new Jamaican business?" I didn't like the cut of his jive, his eyes were as cold as the smile was warm. And I swear I could hear Rosie's knees rattling at my side.

"Me," I says trying to cut chitchat short, "Got too much time on my hands recently."

Dammit, I'm thinking to myself, it just came out. Now I gotta stand here for a minute, talking bullshit with Pinstripes all the while I'm thinking about if Dogs had therapists they could see.

Interviewer: Lemme stop you right there. What did the Devil look like? I'm curious. White, black, Indian?

Samuel: The Devil? I imagine he's a red faced mean looking motherfucker with goat legs and a wingspan 10 times my height. He tells me later in the evening he can look like whoever he wants, whenever he wants. He didn't say why he chose Mr. Pinstripes that day. Mr. Pinstripes however was 'bout my height and build. He had sandy hair, skin whiter than the whites in my eyes, eyes like a beast, but also human. These beady blue eyes, looking like a wolf's when it finds a lamb with a broken leg. Still dream about those eyes sometimes, reminding me...

Interviewer: Reminding you of what?

Samuel: The good book says Jesus died on the cross for our sins. What it didn't say was our sins looked like the goat man you read about in them closet make believe stories...whispering into Pilate's ear...the Good book, good as it may be, according to his Unholiness, was inaccurate. He says to me...

Interviewer: We'll get there when we get there. Firstly though, how'd he get you to let him in?

Samuel: My sins Mr. Serra. He reminded me of my sins...

"The wife wanted a similar job on ours," Pinstripes says, "Supposed to call up those Jamaicans, but I wanted to know how good they really were." Pinstripe begins to walk away, but he stops in his tracks.

"Hey Stranger, this is outta the blue but you said you got a lot of spare time, eh?" Pinstripe begins. If he offered to have me paint his house, I'd do it, just to get Rosie inside, but he didn't have that in mind.

"Of course, ever since..." I begin, staring at the paint job on my place. Don't think I still can bring myself to bring that one up. I swear, I look at him from the corner of my eye, and his smile goes wolfish on me.

"'Course, I can't ask you to paint a strangers house, how's about we come back to my place, get you acquainted with the wife and kids." He says to me. I look around, and there ain't a car, I suppose he could live nearby. I don't go around talking to the neighbors, he might've stayed here for all I knew. I'd have taken him up on his offer, if Rosie wasn't starting to whimper.

Interviewer: So you actually went to his house.

Samuel: Nah, told him Rosie was tired, hence the whimpering. I says to him there was no need, I'd give him my number and he'd ring me up when he was ready. He only shook his head, insisted we got to know each other first. Strange cause, you usually never get friendly with employers.

Interviewer: So you take jobs like this often?

Samuel: Nah, just how I used to be with the guy who does my plumbing. He sees enough of me when he unclogs my porcelain. Strange as something like that may be though, Devil made it seem normal. Like, he lived in a time when you did chitchat with the mail guy, and hollered at the milkman. Real suburban that man. Whiter than my complexion when he told me who he really was.

Interviewer: So, that's when you decided it'd be easier to have him put his feet up on your coffee table.

Samuel: When you put it that way, you paint a brute. He was pretty well mannered, please and thank you kinda man. And don't go painting me a Satanist either, I'm remarking on his manners, not the guy himself.

"Nah, Mister. I gotta get Rosie inside, heats killing her," I say, looking at Rosie, encouraging her with soothing words. Pinstripes peeks at my dog."