PRESIDENT DAMEN PRICE:
Hot diggity! Being the president rocks! I was walking back to my Oval Office looking at my selfie with the angel for the 17th time. Pretty damn cool. Did anyone else have their picture taken with an angel? Nope. Just me, because I'm the only president there is. Who's the man! Who's the man!
I then got a text. It looked like it was a scene from one of my Hellfire Jones video games. I didn't recognize who sent it, but I immediately added them to my contacts and sent them a flashing screen reply with my picture on it to acknowledge their good taste.
I then turned back to important presidential matters. One problem with the angel picture was that the angel was a lot taller than I was. In the Hellfire Jones posters, I was always bigger than the angels. I needed to figure out who in my cabinet was in charge of photoshopping pictures.
I randomly chose Lisa Allerton, Secretary of the Interior. I doubted she was very busy.
"Good afternoon, Mr. President." She answered on the first ring. So far, so good.
"Hey, Lisa. I need you to drop everything and handle this little job I have for you," I said. "It's top secret. You think you can handle it?"
"Yes, sir," she answered. I sent her the picture along with detailed instructions. Then she started to disappoint me.
"Mr. President, you realize I'm the Secretary of the Interior? I don't photoshop..."
"Ah, ah, ah!" I cut her off. "Don't say don't. Do you think George Washington was that negative when he threw that wild party where they threw tea off the boat and started drinking harder stuff? If the founding fathers had your attitude, we'd never have kegger parties, now would we?"
"No comment, sir."
"So you'll get right on it, then?" I asked. "Great. What the hell does a Secretary of Interior do anyway?"
"Well, Mr. President, I..."
"Not interested," I said. "Hey, once you photoshop the picture, do you think we could put it on the dollar bill?"
"I really don't know, Mr. President. You might need to talk to the Secretary of the Treasury about that."
"Oh right. I knew that," I assured her. "When I think of Treasury I think of treasure which makes me think of money. That's called a mnemonic trick. Helps me remember what everyone does around here. You should try it. Anyway, when you're done with the photoshop, tell the Secretary of Money I need to talk to him right away."
"Mr. President, I..."
"Babe, I don't think this conversation could get any more boring, so I'm hanging up now. POTUS out."
With that taken care of, I entered my man cave, otherwise known as the Oval Office. This was my 'me hour' where I was to be completely uninterrupted by all the peons. I had a lot planned. First, I would tell myself how awesome I was. Then I'd fire the Secretary of the Interior. In fact, I'd get rid of her job entirely. That'd save the taxpayers a lot of money which I'd use to give myself a raise.
What sucks about my job is that every time I try to do something awesome, there's always someone telling me why I can't do it. I can't veto anything because ⅔ of Congress decides they don't like me. I can't execute people that don't like me because the mamby pamby Constitution says I can't. And I couldn't just relax and watch Walker Texas Ranger reruns because Satan was sitting at my desk.
You heard that right. Satan. All red and horned and wearing a cloak with the number 666 and a picture of a goat. What's with the goats? They're not very scary.
The worst part was he was sitting on my desk, with his dirty hooved feet kicked up on my fan mail. And he was smoking one of my cigars! One of my made-in-America Cuban cigars!
"I was wondering when you'd show up," Satan said, leaning back. "I saw you kissing up to that angel."
"He was kissing up to me," I said. "How the hell did you get in here?"
"I'm Satan."
"That's not an answer," I said. My phone was beeping. I think it was that kid with the funny name who runs China trying to get ahold of me again. What a nuisance. But not as bad as having the devil at my desk.
"I'm the devil. I can do anything," Satan chuckled. "You might as well ask Superman how he flies."
"I'm sure it has something to do with his cape," I said. "If you want to speak to the President of the United States, then you make an appointment that I can ignore just like everybody else."
Satan reached behind my chair and grabbed his pitchfork. He held it up, motioning for me to sit down.
"You're not nearly as important as you'd like to think you are, mortal." Satan took a drag of my cigar then blew smoke rings. If I wasn't so upset, I'd ask him how he did the smoke ring trick. "I own your soul threefold," he declared.
"Sorry, but this is America and in America we own our own souls." I planned on standing my ground but my legs were tired, so I took a seat. I hope that dirty devil didn't think that meant I was kowtowing down to him. I really did wish I could be sitting at my own desk, though.
"Oh please," Satan laughed. "First off, there's the obvious. You all scroll through all that legal mumbo jumbo on your computer screens and then click 'I agree.' You zip right past the part where it says I get all your souls, but let's forget that. That doesn't take any savvy on my part. It's low hanging fruit. Ask Adam and Eve. I know all about low hanging fruit."
"What do you mean you own my soul threefold?"
"Ok. Once to make you a famous actor. Once to make you president. And don't tell me you could have ever realistically gotten either of those without some demonic help. And then the stupidest thing of all..."
"Hey, watch how you talk to the president!" I shouted. I was going to stand up to show I meant business but my leg was cramping. "I don't remember ever selling my soul once."
"Mortals, mortals mortals," Satan sighed. "Of course, you don't remember. I make you forget. How much fun would you have with all those things I gave you if you kept dwelling on the fact that you'd be charbroiled in glorious hellfire for all eternity? That's why whenever I, Satan Lucifer, B.L.Z-Bub Abaddon the First, hereinafter known as 'Tormenter' makes a deal with one of you mortals, hereinafter known as 'Idiot', then I pluck your memories so you'd be able to enjoy yourself. That does not give Idiot due process of rescission of said contract nor does it obligate Tormentor to rescind legal right of soul possession due to Idiot's negligent lack of applying due diligence to matters legal, binding and infernal."
"Huh?"
"Your ass is mine, Mr. President."
"L-l-look. Maybe we can make a deal Mr. The First," I stammered. "Could I maybe sell my soul in exchange for not having to sell my soul?"
Satan just stared at me. I don't think it was one of those evil vengeful stares. I think it was one of those WTF stares.
"I can't believe what you just said. You have got to be the dumbest person on the face of the planet, and that's counting all the people that voted for you. How did you even get to be president?"
"Apparently I sold my soul."
"Oh right! Yeah!" Satan laughed. "I was having so much fun, I almost forgot about that."
It seemed Satan wasn't on top of his game after all. Maybe I could outsmart him. And the best way to do that was to get him drunk.
"There's some Scotch in the top drawer there,"I offered. "I got it from the leader of that country where the men wear those little schoolgirl skirts."
"Scotland?"
"Yeah, I think that's it. They got some really ugly guys wearing those skirts. Fine scotch, though."
Satan opened the drawer and pulled out a glass and the bottle of Ardbeg Uigeadail that I was really going to miss. I'd just have to remember not to sell my soul for another one.
"So Mr. President, let's discuss what you can do for me," Satan said. He swirled the Scotch in his glass then sniffed it like some fancy wine connoisseur.
"I just chug it," I suggested. "There's more where that came from."
"Indeed," Satan said as he downed the glass, then poured himself another.
"So, Satan. What's with all the souls?" I asked. "Some people collect butterflies. Some people collect coins. You collect..."
"Tortured souls make my life complete," Satan answered, pouring himself another. "Without them, Hell is nothing but a big empty basement with extravagant heating bills."
"I bet you've got so many souls you don't know what to do with, huh?" I asked.
"Not really," Satan said between gulps. "We don't keep a count of individual souls, but each one adds to the ambience. The combined screams are a symphony. If I decided not to take yours, we'd still have an orchestra, but it would be like one without the bassoon player. We'd notice."
"Baboon, yeah," I nodded so he'd think I was just listening to him and not using my big presidential brain to figure out how to whack the devil.
Satan seemed to be slurring his words a bit. Not the kind of guy I'd peg as a lightweight, but if I could get him to pass out, that would make me the best president ever. And I might be able to keep my soul. I wondered if I'd have to kill him, though. Probably. Otherwise he'd just wake up hungover and pissed.
"Now we (hic) could maybe alter our deal a li'l bit," Satan slurred. "I want you to bring me this man!"
"What man?"
"Oh. Yeah. Hold on a sec." Satan pawed his cloak like he was looking for his wallet or something. "Ah, here. I want you to get me this guy."
He slammed a picture of this dorky long-haired fat dude. I looked up, a little puzzled.
"His name is Mitchell Murphy," Satan said. "He lives in Pittsburgh. He is key in the upcoming battle between Heaven and Hell. Also, he's very annoying."
I took the picture to look at it, but I was mostly noticing that Satan was bobbing and weaving when he stood up. This battle he spoke of probably wouldn't be terribly epic with Satan hungover.
"So, what am I supposed to do with this guy?" I asked. "I mean, I'm sure I can get my people to capture him, but does he have super powers or something I should know about?"
"No powers." Satan slumped into my chair. "Just some normal dickhead."
"I see. So, why didn't you get him? Cast him into flames or whatever it is you do?"
Satan slammed the glass on the desk. "Do you dare question the Prince of Lies who holds your soul like a fly in a spider-web?"
"No. Not at all. Mr. Lies. I mean Satan. Sir. Hey, have another drink."
"Maybe just one...for the road."
Satan the super lush was pouring more on my desk than the glass.
"Hey, do you want to see something cool?" I asked. " I remodeled this room with pictures from all the awesome moments from presidential history. Look on the wall over there. I've got a picture of Nixon shaking hands with Elvis."
"Oh really," Satan said. "I've got both those guys roasting like crispy little marshmallows. Lemme see."
He struggled to get up. The wheels on the bottom of my chair were really throwing him, causing him to lose his balance. I almost felt sympathy for the devil.
He made it, and stumbled over to the wall where my prized Elvis/Nixon picture was hanging. This was my chance. Satan's back was turned and I could hit him with something heavy. I grabbed the golden Oscar statue that had been sitting on my desk since I took office.
"Did you know Nixon was trying to enlist Elvis to participate in his anti-drug war when this picture was taken?" Satan asked as he admired the framed photo.
No, I didn't know that. I'm the president. I can't be expected to know everything. Slowly, like a jungle cat, I crept closer to the devil with my golden statuette.
"I actually hate it when people do drugs," Satan said. "If they do, that takes away their free will. When they do crap that would land them in Hell, they've got grounds to contest it. It's a big legal mess."
I let him babble as I snuck up behind him. I was shaking. My hands were sweating so much I was afraid I'd drop the Oscar before I could smack the Dark Lord.
"I hate protracted legal battles with the angels," he said. "Do you have any idea how bureaucratic they are?"
I didn't and I didn't care. I was too focused on my mission. The carpets of the Oval Office have seen a lot of history. First they experienced Bill Clinton, his cigar and 'that woman.' Today they'd be red with dripping devil brains.
"That's what I loved about Nixon," Satan said. "He was a slam dunk, no questions asked, the defense rests kind of case. Heaven didn't even want him."
I was standing right behind him clutching my gold encrusted weapon. I held it up, ready to crack Satan's drunken skull and make the world safe for democracy.
Satan spun around just as l was ready to strike. This was not good. The devil was gritting his teeth and his face seemed even redder than normal. I was caught in the act and was about to be thrown into the hottest fire pits of hell. This was not a Hellfire Jones moment at all.
Satan's yellow eyes glared at me, seeming to shatter my very soul. Then he spoke the words that cut me to the quick.
"You never won an Oscar."
He had me there. At least technically.
"N-no," I stammered. "But I should have, so I had an Oscar statue made. It's not fair that they always give these things to people that can actually act."
Satan didn't seem too concerned about the inequity in the acting industry. Instead he growled and lunged in my direction. I knew it was over.
He pushed me aside then ran for the Presidential Garbage Can and threw up. Satan could not hold his liquor. I just hoped he wasn't hurling green slime all over the place,
"Um...Are you okay, Mr. Satan, sir?"
"Fine! Fine!" he hissed. "I am never going to drink again!"
"That's probably a good idea," I agreed. "Can I get you anything? A glass of water?"
"Silence, prattling mortal!" he shouted, wiping something gross from his goatee.
"Silencing, sir," I said. "Does this mean you're still going to take my immortal soul?"
"I don't want it, honestly," Satan growled. "Just bring me Mitchell Murphy and we'll call it a day."
He stumbled to his feet then zig-zagged past me, heading towards the door.
"I don't mean to prattle again, since you don't seem to like it, but you don't seem in any condition to walk. Why don't you just pop out of here the same way you came in?"
The devil turned to face me with hate and contempt in his eyes. "This is Washington. The White House. I've lots of people to visit today. I just started with the least important first. Get me Mitchell Murphy if you value your charbroiled soul."
With that, he slammed the door behind him, leaving me alone with deep thoughts. I figured I'd better call the Secret Service to locate this Mitchell guy, but they always act so secretive. Plus they're jerks. I checked my roster and saw I had a Secretary of Commerce. Don't know why I needed one since I already had a Treasury Secretary. That meant this commerce guy had way too much time on his hands. I hit speed dial.
"Hello. Secretary of Commerce? This is the president making sure you're not goofing off at your job. I need you to capture this guy, dead or alive. I don't think Satan cares which. I need it done immediately so...Hello? Hello!"
Who the hell hangs up on the President? Good help is so hard to find these days, I swear.
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