A Hell of an Idea

The Devil was having a very bad day.   He’d been meeting with his accountants for hours.  There were a lot of accountants in Hell.  Almost as many as there were lawyers.  Rubbing his forehead just above his left horn (a rather bad headache was starting to pound there) the Devil asked, “Have you run the numbers again?”

            “Oh, yes, Sir,” his chief accountant said.  “Six hundred and sixty-six times, just like always.”  Hornby adjusted his glasses nervously.  He had been a tax accountant in life, and helped rich people avoid paying any taxes at all.  When the poor had used Hornby’s services, Hornby had ended up with the lion’s share of their refund checks.

            “Run them six hundred and sixty-seven, then!”  The Devil roared.

            “But, Sir!”  Hornby protested.  “That’s not how we do things in Hell.”

            The Devil sighed, sending a wave of brimstone fumes across the conference table.  Hornby’s assistant, Weise, who the Devil thought of as “the new kid” (he’d only been on Hell’s staff for 47 years) flinched. 

            Glaring at Hornby, the Devil said, “Read the numbers again.  Please?”

            Hornby shuffled his papers.  “Temptation is down 40%,” he said.  “Greed and avarice are disappearing.  Lust?  Well, AIDS cut that way down.  As for envy?  Forget it!  Dropping right through the floor.  You know that promising young lawyer you’ve had your eye on?”

            The Devil had his eye on several lawyers, but he knew which one Hornby meant, because it was his job to know these things.  He nodded.

            “Well,” Hornby said, “he was up for Partner in his firm, and it was given to someone else.  His chief rival, in fact.   And do you know what he did?”

            “Put sugar in the other man’s gas tank?” the Devil asked hopefully.  “Framed him for murder?”

            “No!”  Hornby threw down his papers in disgust.  “Walked up to him, shook his hand and congratulated him!  The best man won, he said, of all things!”

            Weise piped up, “And he meant it!”

            The Devil’s frown deepened.  That was a Gold Star on the chart in Heaven, for sure.  This was not good, not good at all.  Church attendance was up, too, or he’d eat his pitchfork.  Even Communists were going to church these days, or temple, or the mosque.  Not that he had ever had much of a chance with people who truly lived the Communist philosophy.  Too much egalitarianism and willingness to share all they had with those less fortunate.  There were more Communists in Heaven than in North Korea, for God’s sake!  Which was the root of the problem.  He wasn’t playing fair. 

            “What about the Ten Commandments?”  The Devil asked.

            “More people are obeying them, “ Hornby said.  “But He’s claiming that they only apply to Jews and Christians.  Hindus and Muslims...”

            “Hindus get reborn,” the Devil interrupted.  “So do Buddhists.  I want to know about Communists.   What about ‘Thou Shalt have no other God before Me?’ “

            ”Um,” Weise raised a hand.  “I called up there, Sir.  Talked to Archangel Michael himself.”

            “And what did Mike say?”  The Devil settled back in his chair, rubbing a scaled hand against his beard.

            “Heaven’s stance on Communists is that technically speaking, they don’t have any other God before Him.  Not believing in any God is not enough to keep you out of Heaven!”

            “Jesus H...” the Devil bit off the curse.  It wouldn’t do to lose his temper.  “By that logic, they get all the atheists, too.”

            “Yes, sir,” Weise said.  “And the agnostics.”

            The Devil fumed.  Literally.  The room was filling with smoke.  “What can we do to win people back?”

            “We’re accountants, not lawyers,” Hornby said.

            “Well, then send me a lawyer!” 

            Weise picked up the conference room phone and punched in an extension.  He spoke quietly for a moment, then said, “She’s coming.”

            No sooner had he hung up the phone than the door to the conference room opened and the woman the Devil thought of as The Lawyer breezed in.  Hell had millions of ambulance chasers, thousands of tax attorneys and criminal lawyers, but The Lawyer (whose name was Princeton) was something special.  She had put more murders, rapists and software CEOs back on the streets than any dozen of her colleagues.

            “Princeton!”  The Devil grinned.  “How do we get around these Ten Commandments?”

            She set her briefcase on the table and snapped it open.  She pulled out two large stone tablets and laid them on the table.  The Devil coudn’t supresss a smile of possessive pride.  He had managed to get ahold of the originals when the Isrealites had built that Ark of theirs.  Alas, owning the Letter was not the same as owning the Spririt.  Who knew that better than the Devil?

            Tapping the Commandments, Princeton said, “They’re carved in stone.”

            “Obviously,” the Devil snarled.

            “I mean, they’re airtight.  Ironclad.  They’ve managed to last thousands of years for a reason.”

            “But they’re immutable, too,” Weise said, waving a cloud of sulpher out of his face.

            “I just said that.”  Princeton sounded annoyed.

            “No, I mean, there’s no provision for changing the Commandments,” Weise said.

            “No,” Princeton agreed.  “No ammendments to the Commandments.”

            “But people have put them into modern language,” Hornby said.  “Any chance of us utilizing that?”

            “What do you think King James was doing?”  Princeton said.

            “Well, they’ve lost a lot in translation, haven’t they?”

            “Doesn’t matter,” Princeton said.  “They say it’s the Spirit that counts.”

            “What about the graven image thing?” the Devil asked.

            “According to the Archangel Michael..”  Weise began.

            “Mike,” the Devil inturrupted.

            “Mike,” Weise agreed, “The graven images aren’t the problem so much as worshiping them.”

            “And Hell is full of groupies and teeny boppers,” the Devil finished.

            “Right,” Princeton said.  “So I’m afraid the Commandments aren’t the weapon we need.”

            “What if we made people lust, made them feel greed, tempted them...?”  Weise asked.

            “How?”  The Devil asked.  “They don’t want sex, they don’t want money....”

            “Of course they do,” Princeton said.  “Everyone does.”

            “We just need to remind them,” Weise said.

            “How?” asked Hornby.

            “We’ll put together a research team,” the Devil said.  It would take time.   Research projects were always difficult in Hell.  There were plenty of market analysts, but there were very few librarians.  There were lots of books, of course, because Hell’s library was made up entirely of Banned Books, which was almost all the books that had ever been published.  But no one could organize the collection to the Devil’s satisfaction.  Research consisted of hit-and-miss foraging through the millions of feet of shelf space.  Fortunately, they had plenty of time before the Last Trump blew.  Oh, some people had had it pegged for 2000, but the Devil knew better.  He had a fair number of those Millialists living with him now, in fact.

            “We don’t need a research team,” Weise said.  “If I may be so bold, I already have an idea.”

            The Devil nodded.  “I’m listening, Sin.  I mean, Son.”

            “Sin is down, right?”

            “Sends you straight down,” said the Devil, immitating a hand motion a rapping crack dealer had shown him.

            “But we’re getting fewer souls down here.”

            “Right,” the Devil said.  “That’s the problem.  The other team is pulling ahead.  Even all the wars that are going on aren’t helping.  So many innocents are being killed.”

            “You should get some of those,” Princeton said.

            The Devil shook his head.  “Upstairs’ stance is that innocent bystanders get in, no questions asked.”

            “A metaphysical Get Out Of Jail Free Card?”  Princeton frowned.

            “Yup.”  The Devil nodded unhappily.  

            “Now, that does sound like cheating.”

            “They say no, because I get all the politicians regardless.  Except Ralph Nader and Jimmy Carter. Upstairs has  already got dibs on them.”

            Weise cleared his throat.

            “Continue,” the Devil said.

            “You know television?”

            The Devil nodded.  He was quite fond of MTV and the Discovery Channel.  MTV hadn’t started out that interesting, but once they’d gotten into Gangsta Rap and then away from music almost entirely, it had been downright sinful.  As for the Discovery Channel, he just liked watching the nature programs.   He also had a soft spot for the Disney Channel, but he would never admit it to anyone, on pain of tickling.  Not even for a double mocha latte.

            “I’m thinking - Reality TV,” Weise said.

            The Devil frowned.  “That’s your idea?  Discovery already does that -- they set up cameras and watch animals in their natural habitats.”

            “No, this would be people.”

            The Devil leaned forward and listened.  He heard lust, envy, greed, avarice, false witness, covetousness, sloth... it was perfect!

            By the end of the day, the Devil was ready to call up a network executive and pitch the show.  A lot of network execs already belonged to the Devil.  If they didn’t want to air him, he planned to offer them full absolution.  He could afford to be generous.  What was one boardroom’s worth of souls against a whole season of the Devil’s new reality show?

            “I don’t know,” one of the execs’ voices said over the conference call.  “I don’t think people will play if they know they’re betting their soul on winning.”

            “But whoever wins the game gets their heart’s desire,” the Devil pointed out.

            “And the other players lose their souls?”

            Another voice came on the line.  “I like it!  I say we invite this guy in for a talk.”

            “Could you come down to Atlanta?” asked the first voice.

            “I think that could be...” the Devil broke off.  On the other side of the table, Hornby was making slashing motions across his throat.  “Wait a moment,” the Devil said.  He pushed the mute button.

            “What is it, Hornby?”

            “Ix-nay on-ay Atlanta-ay,” Hornby said.

            “I have the phone muted,” the Devil said.  “You can speak English.”  Even in Hell, English was the language of commerce.

            “Don’t go to Atlanta, send someone,” Hornby said.  “Remember what happened last time?’

            “This is completely different,” the Devil snorted, obscurring Hornby behind a cloud of brimstone smoke.

            Coughing, Hornby said, “Well, at least tone things down a bit.  There are a lot of anti-smoking laws now.”

            “Doesn’t that suck?”  The Devil said.  At least he still had all those tobacco company folks.  Nothing was going to save them.  He punched the mute button again.  “Sure I can come to Atlanta,” he said.

            “How about next Thursday?” the exec asked.  “Say, three o’clock?”

            “I’m looking forward to it,” the Devil said, and meant it.

            When Thursday rolled around, the Devil dressed in his best suit.  He didn’t bother with any sort of disguise.  Most people wouldn’t see him as he truly was.  Generally. Only psychotic people and those close to death recognized the Devil when they saw him.  Even the dying would only know him if he had come from them.

            Atlanta was pleasantly cool after Hell.  Weise looked around with interest.  The Devil had decided to bring him along as a little reward for having the idea.  Having a “creative partner” would look good to the network, too.

            “Do you think they have any coffee shops that aren’t Starbuck’s?”  Weise asked.

            “There are no coffee shops that aren’t Starbuck’s,” the Devil said.  They had three of them in Hell.  Unless it was four, now.  The Devil led Weise up to the wide doors of an enormous glass building.  Time was, Upstairs would have smote everyone, but good, for building something like this.  It wasn’t like the old days.  You just didn’t get the same quality of smiting.

            The security guard at the door examined both of them, then consulted his clipboard.    Then he made them walk through a metal detector, like they were terrorists, or something.   They rode a shiny elevator to the fifteenth floor, and managed to walk into the appointed conference room at three o’clock on the dot.

            There were a dozen people from the network seated around the table, and two empty chairs.  The Devil took the one at the end, and Weise, after a moment, settled into the other.

            “So,” man at the other end of the table said (Willikins, but he went by LeStang and he had broken every Commmandment but Thou Shalt Not Kill.)  “You said the winner of the game each season gets whatever their heart’s desire is?”

            “Of course,” the Devil said.

            “Money, a recording contract, what-have-you?”

            The Devil nodded.  “Youth, sex appeal, the Presidency...” That last was a good soul-winner.  The Devil had had a lucrative trip to Texas and Florida  not too long ago.

            “And the others lose their souls?”  A woman asked.  “How long do you think you could keep that up?  People would know they didn’t lose their souls pretty quickly.  And who would play?”

            “Oh, I wouldn’t collect until they died,” the Devil said.  “They’d sign the standard contract.”

            “And we would go along because?” asked Willikins/LeStrang.

            The Devil glanced around the room.  To the woman, he said, “Could you step out for a moment, please?”  He looked at man sitting near LeStrang.  “You, too?’

            Le Strang nodded. “Go.  I’ll fill you in.”

            When the door closed behind them, the Devil drew himself up to his full height and revealed himself to them.  His horns brushed the acoustic tile, twelve feet up.  “Because I hold your immortal souls in the balance!” he roared.

            The ten people remaining around the table cowered.  One or two soiled themselves.  Weise clapped.  LeStrang looked bored. “I see.  And if we put this on for you?”

            The Devil pulleed himself down to a more managable size.  “I’ll return your souls to you, no questions asked.  Sort of a metaphysical Get Out Of Jail Free Card.  Provided you go and sin no more, of course.”  He doubted LeStrang could manage that.  A couple of the cowering men might, but the Devil had resigned himself to losing a few souls before he’d set out.

            “Where would this be filmed?”  LeStrang asked.

            “In Hell, of course,” the Devil said.

            “And the FX?”  LeStrang waved at a cloud of smoke.  Belatedly, a smoke detector started blatting.  “I mean, your people are good.”  A sprinkler went off, soaking LeStrang and the people sitting near him.  Apparently ignoring the water, LeStrang said, “Would you be bringing them in?”

            “I planned to,” the Devil said.  “But it won’t cost you a thing.”

            “I was wondering when we were going to get to that,” one of the wet people muttered.

            “Yes, how much are you asking for?” LeStrang asked.

            “Nothing,” the Devil said.  “Nothing but air time.”

            “And we have to provide the winner with their heart’s desire, within reason,” LeStrang said.

            “No, I’ll do that,” the Devil said.  “And I didn’t say within reason.  Their heart’s desire whatever it is.”

            “I love it,” LeStrang said.  “People will wonder how we do it.  It’s win-win.”

            For the Devil, it certainly was.  He read the contract over very carefully.  He could have brought Princeton, but the Devil had several law degrees of his own, including one from Princeton.  He signed it, then handed it over to LeStrang, who signed it with his assumed name.  Good.  If things went south, the Devil could use that.  But things weren’t going to go south, he was sure of that.

            The first day of shooting went very well.  The Devil stood by in all his glory, watching the sixteen “lucky”contestants file onto what they thought was a sound stage.  “Look,” one woman said, “Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter.  That’s clever.”  Not one of them seemed to be aware that they were walking through the actual Gates of Hell.

            They filmed three weeks of whining, backstabbing and people wandering around with far too little on.  Occasionally, the Devil would come out and invite everyone to play a game.  The winners got prizes of various sorts.  Every game was worth a certain number of points.  At the end of the season, everyone but the woman who had admired the gates was sent home. She was set up as queen of a small Polynesian island.

            The Neilsson crowd loved it.  The Devil pitched and got a second season.  All he had to do was sit back and collect the souls.

            One day, the Archangel Michael stormed through the Gates of Hell, flaming sword in hand.

            “What the Hell is going on here?”

            “Chill out, Mike,” the Devil said.  “Just doing my job.”

            “You’re tricking people into giving up their souls for the possibility of enormous wealth!”

            “Tricking?  Hardly!”  The Devil laughed.

            The flames on Michael’s sword died, and the point drooped toward the ground.  “What do you call what you’re doing?”

            “Honest business,” the Devil said.  “They all sign the same contract they’ve been signing for centuries.  And the winner does get their heart’s desire.”  He handed Michael a copy of the contract.

            “But you’ll take their souls anyway!”  Michael spluttered.

            “Just as I always have.  Anyone who wants something for nothing is fair game.”

            “You can’t do this...”

            “Of course I can.  Everything is legal and above board.  I get souls, the winner gets whatever he or she wants... Look, Mike, I even gave you guys some souls to even it up a bit.”

            “That’s not the point.  The point is, even your viewership is committing sins.  Everyone who tries out for ‘You Bet Your Soul’ is committing at least one Deadly Sin.  So are a lot of the people who watch”

            “Most of them more than one,” the Devil said cheerfully.

            “How are we supposed to compete with that?”

            “Get your own show,” the Devil said.