Coffee?

By Robert Wagner

Satan’s office was air-conditioned. The nice thing was how the temperature wasn’t set at freeze-a-polar-bear either. It was more like one of those nice spring days in Minneapolis when the humidity was down and the wind was up enough that the bugs weren’t a problem. Nick supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised at this but then again, the simple fact of being in the Devil's office at all was a bit of a shock.

The room itself put him in mind of that old cliché about how hell is never what anyone expects. The walls were a kind of beige color like you ’d see in a middle-income apartment or high school vice principal's office. There weren’t any decorations anywhere; no scenes of sinners being tortured or angels at war. There wasn’t even a window for Lucifer to look out and survey his domain. There was just a simple, functional desk with a computer in the center, stacked "in" and "out" boxes to the left and a coffee maker off to the right. A couple of chairs waited in front of the desk. If it weren’t for the triangular wooden name-plaque with the word “Lucifer” on it, Nick would have though he had screwed up in study hall again and gotten sent to the principal's office for the umpteenth time.

The Devil took a sip of coffee from the plain white mug in his hand.

“Have a seat, kid.” When Nick hesitated, he sighed. “Relax. Nothing weird is going to happen. The fun doesn’t start until you go out there.”

He jerked a thumb at one wall, where, presumably unimaginable horrors waited for sinners. “And that’s assuming you even stay with us. Good chance you’ll be moving on.”

Nick sat a little nervously, more than a bit convinced that the chair was going to latch big pointy teeth onto parts he really didn’t want chomped on. “Wha…what do you mean?”

Satan fished a coffee cup from a desk drawer. “Coffee?” he asked, offering the empty mug.

Nick shook his head. “No, thanks.”

“Hot chocolate, maybe? Trust me, kid, if you stick around here you’re gonna want a happy memory to hang onto.”

Nick thought about. He also thought about how close he had come to getting sent to military school by his exasperated parents. Mostly though, he thought about how smart it was to offend the guy who got to decide how much fun eternity was going to be if he stayed. “Sure, that’d be great. Thanks.”

The Devil poured from the coffee pot sitting at his right hand and passed him the mug. “Sorry, no marshmallows. Careful, it’s hot.”

Nick took a tentative sip. Flavor flooded his mouth. This was like drinking Switzerland with little subtle hints of nutty flavors sneaking around behind the rich chocolate of the drink. “This is really good!”

The Devil shrugged. “One of the few perks of this job. Now, where were we? Oh, yeah. Name and place of demise?”

“Uh, Nick McCale. I dunno where I died but the last place I remember was downtown Minneapolis. Down in the warehouse district.”

Keys clicked on the computer. “Ok. Last date remembered?”

“March 5th,2010.”

More clicking. “Ok, this’ll just take a minute.”

While the computer ran its search, Nick studied his host. This was another surprise. When you thought of the Devil, you thought of horns and hooves and towering darkness. Or maybe Al Pacino, in a really nice suit. You didn’t think of some middle-aged looking guy with short curly dark hair and a white button down shirt open at the collar. Nick would have bet money that he was even wearing khaki Dockers and some sort of comfy brown loafer.

“Ok, here we go. Nicholas Arthur McCale. Born July 18th, 1993, Duluth Minnesota, died March 6th, 2010, just after midnight, Minneapolis Minnesota. Cause of death…oh, ok. That explains it.”

“What?”

“Says here you were sacrificed to me. When that happens, you come straight here. Well, to the waiting room anyway.” The Devil jerked a thumb at his office door. On the other side was a waiting room that had reminded Nick of a dentist's office, except that most dental receptionists didn’t have low cut blouses showing hormone-hemorrhaging cleavage and sexy pointy-fanged smiles under yellow cat-slit eyes.

Fear washed through Nick. An endless parade of teenaged screw-ups marched through his head. He was so screwed.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” The Devil asked. Across the desk, Nick was crying.

“I’m just a kid, mister! I never meant to hurt anybody!”

“Relax, ok? Just because you’re here, doesn’t mean you’re staying. Let’s have a look at your record. There’s no rush.” Lucifer dialed down the screen with his mouse. “Ok, we’ve got some vandalism here, not very cool. That stunt with the mannequin in the middle of Hennepin Avenue wasn’t very smart. Clever…funny, but not smart. Good grades though. Some fighting. Six stitches over your left eye sticking up for that band geek. Not bad. You called your mother a what?”

Oh. Crap. “I apologized for that! And I meant it, really! I thought you guys were big on repentance!”

Satan nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, says here you really beat yourself up over it when you sobered up. So that one actually balances out in your favor. What else? Some teenaged drinking and drugging. Not good but if we shoved a hot poker up every idiot who overindulged; half the Bible would be down here. Says here you like music.”

“Yessir. I played guitar.”

“I see that. Wanted to be a rocker huh? Good for you. Gotta tell ya, Nick, it’s close. Your file reads like a who’s who of stupid human tricks.”

“But I never meant to hurt anybody! Most of what I did just hurt me! I’m gonna burn for being a dumbass?”

“Did I say you were gonna burn? I said it’s close, Nick. You’re lucky, kid. You’re stupid and self-centered, but that just means you’re a teenager. You should have seen Noah when he was your age. Nope, your big punishment is spending eternity knowing that your idiot choices kept you from being the next Hendrix. To say nothing of what it’s gonna do to your folks when your body turns up. On the positive side, the original Hendrix is waiting for you Upstairs. I hear him and Tito Santana have regular jam sessions.”

Relief. A huge weight off his shoulders. “You mean I get to go to Heaven?”

A pillar of bluish white light materialized behind him. There was a sound like wind chimes. Lucifer waved a hand in the light's direction.

“Yeah, yeah, you dodge the Pitchfork, kid. Now, get lost. I’m a busy man. One last thing, once you get where you’re going, it wouldn’t hurt to visit your parents. Put their minds at ease, you know?”

Nick gulped the last of his hot chocolate, scalding his tongue. “Ow!”

Lucifer grinned. “That’s for the mannequin stunt, junior.”

Fair enough. Considering what else could be getting scalded right now, a burnt tongue wasn’t so bad. Nick stood, put the mug on the desk and shook the Devil’s hand. It felt like his shop teacher, Mr. Lupke’s, hand. Weird. “Thanks, Mister. You know, you’re not so bad. You know that?”

Lucifer gave the kid a grin. “You wouldn’t say that if you were Captain Kangaroo, kiddo. Now beat it already!” Nick nodded and ran for the light. When he entered the pillar, it faded and once again the room was empty except for its lone inhabitant.

***

“Oh, you gotta be shitting me!”

Thwack! “Ow! Sonofabitch!”

Bap! “Motherf…” Lucifer caught himself in mid-word as his latest visitor brandished his name plaque for another blow. One hand rubbed his head, just below the hairline between his eyes. He was shaking the other reflexively; trying to ease the sting of the shot she had given him across the knuckles.

“Lady, do you have any idea who I am?”

“I know exactly who you are, you old deceiver.” Sister Helena Hetteridge said. “I wasn’t scared of you in life. I see no reason to start being scared now.”

The Devil got the distinct impression that if Godzilla had visited whatever little Arkansas hill-village Sister Helena had come from, the diminutive nun would have whacked him across the snout with whatever was handy and told him to watch his step. Odds were, by the end of the day, she would have had the big lizard clearing land for a new school or orphanage and letting the local kids use him for a giant jungle gym too.

“You wanna put that down?” Lucifer asked, sucking a knuckle. The crazy old bag had actually split the skin!

“What’s the magic word?”

Satan sighed. “Would you please put my name plaque back on my desk, Sister?”

Smile lines leapt out as Sister Helena gave him the same beatific expression she probably had given kids who said their rosaries properly once upon a time. “Of course.” She set the plaque back careful where she had found it. “You know, you’re bleeding, dear.” She rummaged around in her simple black purse until she found what she was looking for.

“Tissue?”

“Yeah,” Satan muttered pressing the Kleenex against his cut knuckle “I wonder how that happened.”

“And that bump on your head is going to swell something awful. You should put some ice on it."

The Devil's smile stopped just short of his eyes. “Funny.”

“There’s no reason to be testy, young man. You’re old enough to know it’s not nice to swear at defenseless old ladies.”

“You’re right, Sister. I should know better. Imagine what would have happened if I’d offended someone dangerous.”

“Just so.” Sister Helena nodded and stood waiting with the kind of patience you got from a lifetime of serving the Opposition.

After a few seconds The Prince of Darkness remembered his manners.

“Please,” he gestured to the visitors chairs “have a seat while we figure out how you wound up here.” He didn’t bother hoping the snowy haired, habit-wearing pitbull actually belonged there. His luck just wasn’t that good.

“Is that coffee fresh?”

“What? Oh, yeah, of course. Milk and sugar?” he asked while pouring.

“Why? Are we having cereal with the coffee?”

Oh yeah, the priests Topside must have just loved her. “Some cookies would be nice.” Sister Helena said, sipping the brew.

Lucifer sighed. Why him? What did he do that was so bad? All he’d ever done was rebel against the Lord of All Creation and spend the entirety of humanity's existence trying to tempt them to sin.

He pressed the intercom button on his desk. “Ms. Bauxite, would you please find some cookies for my guest?”

“Right away, sir. What kind?”

The Devil looked questioningly at Sister Helen. “Chocolate chip, please, dear.” She said, raising her voice.

“Coming right up, Sister.”

“Such a lovely girl.” Sister Helena said when the connection was cut.

“You should pay her more. Then maybe she could afford a full outfit for work.”

Please, please, please, let the next person to come through the office door be a priest with a string of underage abuse victims a mile long. No luck. Just Ms. Bauxite with a silver serving tray containing some cookies, a few napkins and a small plate off which to eat them.

“Thank you, dear.” The Sister said, smiling again as she was served.

Lucifer waited patiently while the Sister got herself together. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find out the Pope didn’t rush her. “What did you say your name was again, Sister?” he asked after she had started giving him The Look again.

“I didn’t. It’s Sister Helena Hetteridge.”

Keys clicked and the computer did its thing. Only one name popped up.

That was a relief. “Ok, let’s see here. Sister Helena Hetteridge, Born, October 5th, 1940, Mena, Arkansas. Took holy orders June 9th, 1958.

Uh-huh. Uganda, Rwanda. Mmm, hm. Famine victims, lepers, AIDS patients.

Right, right. Civil rights movement, big surprise there. Detroit, Chicago, South Bronx. Yep. Crack babies. Another real shock.

Minneapolis. Waitasecond.” A quick check under “cause of death” confirmed Lucifer's fears. “Says here you were sacrificed to Me by one Bernard Bukowski, a.k.a. Lord Darkmoore.”

“So it’s your fault I’m here!”

“Lady, are you nuts? The last thing I need down here is the likes of you! I swear, I’ll never understand how those Goth wannabe acid-heads think sometimes, sending Me a barracuda in nun’s clothing. Ah well. At least it’s an easy fix.”

The blue pillar glowed behind Sister Helena. Satan gestured towards it.

“Off you go.”

Sister Helena kept the light waiting while she finished her coffee and the cookie she was working on. Then she placed the plate and mug neatly on the tray and stood. “May I?” she asked, looking at the rest of the cookies.

“With my compliments.” Jeeze, lady, take the cookies, the tray, the kitchen that Ms Bauxite got them from. Just take a hike, already!

“Thank you. You know, maybe if You were this polite more often You wouldn’t have wound up here.”

“Yeah, right. Tell that to your Boss, Mr. Divine Plan.”

Sister Helena leveled a finger at Him. “You mind that blasphemy, mister.

You made your choices, the same as the rest of us. You, me, that awful man who sent me here. You could have gone a different way if You’d really wanted to.”

“Whatever. Would just please go? I have a mountain of work to do.”

“I’ll pray for you.” Great, count on intermittent migraines for the rest of eternity.

Sister Helena walked into the light and stood there smiling the same smile she had given Ms. Bauxite when the cookies were brought in. The light blinked out after the customary few seconds and Satan felt His hair go gray.

“What are you still doing here?”

“I’ve decided to stay.”

“Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. You are not staying down here. You lived a good life. You deserve to go Up, and so help Me, you are going to go Up, if I have to carry you there Myself!”

“I’d like to see you try, You Old Snake in the Grass.” Sister Helen picked up the items that some helpful sort on the other side had sent down to her. One copy of the Bible. One silver pint flask filled with who-knew-what. And of course, one yardstick, three feet long and one quarter inch thick with a wrist thong threaded through a hole in one end. Brilliant. Thanks, guys. Why not just give her a bottomless bag of hand grenades?

“Sister, do you know what’s out there?” He jerked a thumb towards the door.

“Yes. People who need my help. You’ve read my file. I’ve always gone where I was needed, and I can’t imagine any place that I’ve ever been needed more.”

“Lady, you have no idea what you’re talking about. There are some seriously bad individuals out there. Hitler. Jack The Ripper. The guy who invented HMO’s.”

“Really? Do you have a map to their rooms? I’d imagine that they could use some spiritual counseling.” She started for the office door, the yardstick tapping against the floor like a walking stick.

Satan came around his desk and got in her way. “Lady, I don’t care what you think, you are not going out there.”

Swish! Crack. “Ow!” The Devil hit the floor, grabbing his left shin. The business end of Sister Helena's yardstick hovered a whisper from the tip of his nose. There was a blue corona surrounding it and it hummed faintly.

“You just keep out of my way, young man, and we won’t have any problems.

Now should I ask your secretary for the map or do you have one?”

Lucifer wiggled backwards and got to one foot. He didn’t trust the leg the demented old penguin had nailed with her yard-saber. A quick hobble brought him to the desk and he paged Ms Bauxite.

“Yes, Sir?”

“Ms. Bauxite, the Sister will be staying with us for awhile. Ow. Please give her a mmmm...a map of the facility, complete with information on who’s housed where. Oh, and tell traffic control that when Bernard Bukowski, a.k.a. Lord Darkmoore from Minneapolis arrives, he’s to be sent directly to you. I want a word with him.”

“I’ll see if she can't find some ice for you, dear.” The sister said gently on her way out.

“Thanks, Sister.”

“You’re welcome, dear. And if you ever need to talk, just say my name. I ’ll hear it and be along as soon as I can.” The door closed behind her with a click. The sound should have been a comfort. Instead it made him nostalgic for the sound of wind whistling past his ears as he plummeted from grace at the end of the War.

Lucifer sat at his desk for a few minutes, swearing and rubbing his shin. Finally, when he was sure that Sister Helena was off somewhere complicating life for his staff, he paged Ms. Bauxite.

“Yes, Sir?”

“Is she gone?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Wonderful. Could you please have Bing Crosby sent in? Oh, and a six pack of Venusian devil urchins.”

“Yes, Sir. Anything else, Sir?”

“Yeah, a couple cans of Redi-whip.” That was another nice perk of the job. No matter how lousy a day you were having, you could always ensure that someone else was having a worse one.

***

Another day, another sacrifice from that idiot in Minnesota. “ Ms.Iverson, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Holly Iverson peed herself. All of a sudden, that time her dentist had said “oops” didn’t seem so bad. She started crying. “Buh...buh, but but it’s not my fault! I wasn’t a bad person! I just made some mistakes is all! There’re whores in the bible. Did they get sent here?”

“I don’t recall Mary Magdalene selling any of her kids for drug money.”

“I was trying to find him a good home!”

“Oh come on, Ms. Iverson. Do I really have to dust off that tired old cliché about the road here? And in any case, the good home your child found belonged to a cannibal. I think you can guess the rest. But on the positive side, he liked to play with his food if you know what I mean.”

Holly felt sick. You don't spend ten years earning your keep on your back and miss a reference like that. “How the hell is that good news?”

“Because that put him on the radar of that Milwaukee vigilante. You know, the one with a fondness for putting his leftovers in garbage cans.  Got the broker too. They’re a real pair of bottom feeders, those two.”

“You mean they were.”

“No, I mean they are.” One hand gestured outside. “We assigned them to keeping one of our excrement vats clean. And since they don’t have arms or legs anymore….”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Partly to punish your conscience while the redemption counselors are working on your body. And partly so that you can take some comfort in the knowledge that the people who contributed to your staying with us have it much worse than you do. Now, please,” he gestured towards the door. “It really is better if you don’t keep the counselors waiting.  They’re a bit testy these days. You don’t want to provoke them.”

The door swung open and a counselor loomed just outside. Before her chair could heat up, Holly composed herself and stood. “Excrement vats, huh?” She asked.

 The Devil nodded. “For ever and ever.”

She smiled. “Good.” Then steeling herself, she walked towards to the door. “Hey, handsome!” She said to the counselor. “You wanna party?”

The door closed behind her and Satan saluted it with his coffee cup. Who knew how the War would have turned out if his troops had possessed that kind of courage?

***

Satan stood and stretched , hands pressed against the small of his back.

Vertebrae popped and tension all up and down his back lifted somewhat.

Sixteen hours straight of paperwork and he wasn’t even close to caught up. He needed a break.

A flicker of thought changed the office's background music as Lucifer picked up his coffee cup and the pot for a refill. The light, refreshing sounds of Rob Zombie filled the room.

The Devil found himself dancing. Ah, that Rob. The boy had the touch.

Too bad he was headed Upstairs unless something drastic happened. Oh well, at least he could enjoy the music, even if he’d never get to meet the artist in person. He closed his eyes and moved around the office as the soothing guitar chords worked their magic on his nerves. A little step, a little twirl. A crazy bone driven smack bang into the corner of a filing cabinet.

The coffee pot fell from nerveless fingers. Glass exploded and coffee sprayed everywhere, scalding him from feet to shins and wrecking his khakis. The intercom buzzed before he could start swearing.

“What!?” Odds were Ms. Bauxite didn’t need the speaker to hear that. Two of the cabinets had fallen over from the shout and the door had crack running down it’s middle. Great, more maintenance hassles.

“Someone to see you, Sir.”

“They can wait! It’s not like they’re going anywhere.”

“Very well sir. I’ll just tell Mr. Bukowski to take a seat.”

Perk? “Ms. Bauxite, did you say Mr. Bukowski? Sister Helena's friend?”

“Yes, sir. He just arrived from Minneapolis. Some unpleasantness with the police up there apparently.”

Glee! “Just a moment.”

Satan skipped over to the shattered coffee pot with the wastepaper basket, humming to Rob. He was in such a good mood all of a sudden he didn’t even mind burning his fingertips as he picked up the broken glass.

A few tendrils of power changed himself and the décor to more what Bernie would be expecting. Less middle management paper pusher and more Black Death woodcut.

When everything was just so, the door swung open. “Enter, oh thou good and faithful servant!” Satan rumbled from his black iron throne embellished with the faces of mortals in torment. His voice sounded like bowling balls in a cement mixer. Lucifer bit back a laugh. These monkeys, they did love their melodrama.

Bernard Buskowski, a.k.a. Lord Darkmoore, formerly of Minneapolis, Minnesota stumbled into the room. His face had the sort of expression you would expect Homer Simpson to have upon being given the deed to a donut factory.

“My Lord!” Bernie fell to his knees and started slobbering all over one black cloven hoof.

A taloned red hand gestured Lord Darkmoore to his feet. “Rise, my child.  It’s so good to meet you after all this time.”

“It is?”

“Of course. Ever since your first sacrifice, I’ve been looking forward to this day. I especially enjoyed the nuns you sent.”

“So you did get them! I was worried about that.”

“No, my son. They came directly to me. All of hell knows their names and not a day goes by that I don’t hear some story about them.” Indeed, the ongoing adventures of Sister Helena, ninja nun, were a source of continual consternation for him. It was a slow day if less than a dozen bashed and battered pit fiends showed up, demanding he Do Something about the sister and her vorpal yardstick. Thank the Opposition none of the other nuns Bernie had sent down had opted to stick around.

“I’m honored, my Lord. I only wish I had been able to send you more offerings before the police caught up to me.”

“Your devotion warms Me, my son.” Speaking of being warmed up, guess what eternity has in store for you, stupid?

“I’m curious though.” Satan steepled his fingers. “All those sacrifices and not one of them told me you wanted anything. Was it simple devotion, or was there something you wanted in return for your service?”

Never get a groupie started. The Devil let Bernie rant, rave and ramble on for a while about “dark majesty” and “triumph over the weaklings of light” and rahdy rahdy rah-rah. When he started to repeat himself, Lucifer held up a hand.

“Come to the point, my son. I have a vast kingdom to oversee. In simple terms, tell me what you want.”

Bernie was quiet for a moment. “I only want to serve you my lord. I want to sit at your right hand and spend eternity aiding your cause!”

Oh good grief. Only an eternity of scamming the gullible and greedy kept Lucifer from laughing out loud. Seriously, kid, who wrote your dialog anyhow? Still, if that’s what the little paper-cut really wanted… Satan held out a hand. “Take my hand, my son. And take your place at my side for all eternity.”

“My lord!” If Bernie had still been alive, his smile could have been seen from orbit. That changed when he started to change and the screaming started.

Lucifer smiled and maintained his grip on Bernie's hand as his will worked its magic. When it was over, he was no longer holding a human hand. Instead, he was holding a simple white plastic handle attached to a brand new, ten cup coffee pot.

A flicker of thought dispersed the special affects. Satan set his new coffee pot in the maker and got fresh batch brewing. Rob Zombie went back to serenading him. He pressed the intercom button.

“Ms. Bauxite,” he said, “hold my calls and appointments for awhile. I’m taking a coffee break.”

About the Author

Bob Wagner is thirty-three years old. A gift of "The Chronicles of Narnia" from a relative in second grade brought with it a bite from the writing bug.  He is a founding member of "The Green Monkeys" writing group based in Minneapolis, Minnesota where he lives with his family including two cats, a ferret and one very high-strung little black dog he suspects might be part pogo-stick. In 2003 he won the Scott Imes award for best short fiction, presented by The Minnesota Society for Interest in Science Fiction and Fantasy (a.k.a. MISFITS).   While this is his first professional sale, Mr. Wagner has written numerous short stories, has one completed, unsold novel and is in the process of writing a second one. According to Mr. Peter Mayhew, the actor who played Chewbacca in the original Star Wars Trilogy, Bob is the only person to ever get his autograph tattooed into their flesh.

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