Chapter 4: Date with doom

It was a long ride. Screwtape's office was on the top floor. Slugthorn had to change elevators at the 78th floor for the “express tube” -- Screwtape's elevator to the penthouse.

The elevator came to a smooth, rapid stop, with no bouncing or clanging. The doors slid silently back.

A gaudy world of flaming yellows and scarlets revealed itself to Slugthorn's recovering eyesight. Directly in front, across the hall from the elevator shaft was a high, broad arch, beyond which a cavernous antechamber seemed to stretch into eternity. The arch was ostentatiously decorated with heavy, swirling, gold Chinese dragons. Their tails started at the floor on each side. They clawed and scaled their way up the wall, meeting jaw to jaw, with bared fangs at the top center.

To the left and right, the rich red and yellow hallway extended into darkness. In the foreground of a mural, ancient Chinese warriors raised their swords in curving, menacing arcs. In the distance, huge armies approached each other. Prickly arrows filled the air. The screams of the dying sounded forever, forever sweetly, for Screwtape's entertainment.

Straight ahead, across the thick red plush carpeted hallway, the antechamber seemed to stretch into infinity. Slugthorn crossed the hallway and stepped under the golden dragons. He was in Screwtape's realm. Here, the carpet was even thicker and more gaudy. Swirls of red and yellow flowed in ever tightening, symmetrical spirals to meet in circle of gold at the center of the antechamber. Directly above the golden circle hung a huge, gaudy chandelier with lacy strings of crystal meeting heavier globs of glass in the center. To the left and right, not visible from the elevator, heavy red teak doors kept the secrets of the sealed side rooms. Far, far in the distance, beyond the gold circle and threatening chandelier, a broad, two-story-high wall marked the end of the antechamber. An enormous golden sunburst radiated out from the center of the wall toward the side rooms, dominating the entire realm of the antechamber.

At the foot of this massive wall, so tiny in comparison with the epic features of the antechamber that it was almost invisible, was a receptionist's desk, and now Slugthorn thought he could see someone behind the desk.

Slugthorn crossed the vast room, striding across the middle of the golden circle. Although he was the only other person in the huge, empty room, the receptionist did not look up. She seemed preoccupied with something she was reading. He tried to keep the trembling out of his voice when he said, “Mr. Slugthorn to see Mr. Screwtape.”

For several moments, Desiree Caliente did not look up. When she finally did, she cast a careless, unimpressed glance at the fallen demon. “Mr. Screwtape's busy. You can wait over there.” With a casual nod, she indicated a row of high-backed chairs that lined both sides of the antechamber.

The chairs were tall and straight, like the choir loft of a Gothic cathedral, with rich, dark, heavy wood and red leather. The backs of the chairs peaked in the middle with ornamental carvings, about four feet above the average man's head, while sitting.

Slugthorn walked over and sat down. He couldn't help looking at his watch. He was late already. What was keeping Screwtape? At least the delay gave him a chance to collect his thoughts, try to make sense out of what he had seen. He thought he had it almost worked out -- but how to present it to Screwtape, tell him enough to make him believe it, but leave out enough so that Screwtape still needed him? He waited. It was really late now. He shifted uncomfortably.

“Mr. Slugthorn,” Desiree Caliente said at last, “Mr. Screwtape will see you now.”

To the left of the receptionist's desk, a long dark corridor stretched away from the antechamber. Slugthorn followed. At the end of the corridor were huge, ornate double doors. He opened them and walked inside. The doors closed behind him. The room was decorated in the style of the antechamber, but only about a third as large. A scarlet carpet runner down the middle of the room led the way to Screwtape's lair. At the end of the scarlet runner was another large door.

Slugthorn took a deep breath, opened the door and walked in.

Chapter 3: It's the children

He was near despair. Slugthorn did not have a coherent plan that he could present to Screwtape. Time was running out. He was finished.

He had no luggage to pick up. As he made his through the airport, he started brain-browsing again, out of desperation. He was clutching at straws -- anything to stay alive a few moments longer.

He found nothing.

Here was a neatly-groomed man in a business suit, rushing to make connections to another flight, inwardly cursing the inefficiency of the airlines. Over there was a young couple in casual dress, waving their arms, bodies arched and tensed. They were arguing about something. Slugthorn didn't stay long enough to figure out what.

He kept searching. A young, attractive woman flitted by. She was intent on making a good impression at her upcoming job interview. Traveling at a slower gait was a plain, but not homely woman, perhaps in her late twenties. She was miserable. She was empty. She wanted a home and family, but couldn't even attract a boyfriend. She hadn't had a date in three months.

Anguish rent Slugthorn's brain. A harried, heavyset man with wild hair lumbered by. He was worrying about his job. Sales were down in his department. His boss had called in him for a “job performance conference.” That meant only one thing. He was going to be fired, to make room for younger men with newer ideas and lower paychecks. It was a way to save the company money on both ends, and get rid of deadwood. They got a younger man for less money, and didn't have to pay his retirement benefits. On top of everything else, his wife had filed for divorce. He was desperate. Wild thoughts of murder and suicide raced through his brain, and Slugthorn picked them up.

Slugthorn, for the first time in his existence, felt something for this human whose fate seemed so similar to his own. It was a slowing of the pulse rate, almost like sadness. It wasn't sympathy, but it was probably as close to it as a lower demon could come.

[“I'm really slipping. Maybe my time is up.”] Slugthorn shook his head to clear his thoughts. He had to come up with something -- anything. No, not just anything. Something grand -- a coup.

There was a buzzing in his brain. Something repelled and attracted Slugthorn at the same time. He swiveled his head, zeroing in on the signal like radar. At last he pinpointed the location. It was coming from a little boy.

Suddenly, a searing pain almost knocked Slugthorn down. A blinding white light exploded in his head, and he reeled backwards. The Enemy's aura emanated like a beacon from this insignificant human child.

Slugthorn was knocked unconscious. He staggered in a drunken daze, attracting the suspicious looks of passersby. His brain was out, but his legs still held him up.

When his brain did check back in, he was careful to keep the brain-browsing switched off. Cautiously, he looked over to where he had last seen the child. He was gone. Slugthorn breathed a sigh of relief.

[“What is going on here? I haven't experienced anything like this since that accidental brush with Gabriel. It was ten times worse than the sting I felt when I bumped into Mother Teresa in JFK airport in New York. What's that insignificant whelp doing with so much of the Enemy's power?”]

“Hey, old man -- why don't you go somewhere and sober up?” A cocky teenager wearing a filthy short denim jacket with spears of hair sticking straight up from his head, wearing garish rings on his fingers and in his ears, bopped by with two of his similarly-attired friends, bouncing up and down, full of youthful energy. They were laughing and looking over their shoulders at Slugthorn.

“You young whelps,” Slugthorn snarled in his most hideous growl, “I'll send you all to HELL!” Hate gleamed from his furious, fiery red eyes. He didn't look like a drunken bum anymore.

The faces of the three teenagers blanched, and the hair on their necks stood up. Their intended victim, the butt of their crude jokes, had become an awful, ugly, towering monster. The hot breath of Hell breathed out of his flaming red nostrils. A pungent smell like the acrid fumes from the molten iron of a blast furnace assailed them, suffocated and singed them.

They stumbled in their haste to get away from the old man. They quickened their steps, looking back over their shoulders to make sure he wasn't following. When they got further down the corridor, and groups of people came between them and Slugthorn, they resumed their mocking, but without their former exuberance. Their voices were subdued. They strove to convince themselves, without mentioning it in so many words, that their glimpse of Hell had only been a mirage; all in their imagination.

They kidded each other in hushed tones.

“Hey, you were really scared by that old geezer, weren't you?”

“Nah.”

“Yeah, sure. I saw your face.”

“Was not.”

“Were too.”

Slugthorn shook himself again and tried to regain his equilibrium. Even dazed as he was, he had been able to scare the wits out of those young hoodlums. Now he was trying to collect his thoughts.

He proceeded down the corridor to the main concourse, went out onto the street and hailed a cab. All the while, his brain was trying to make sense out of the incident. Cautiously, he switched his brain-browsing back on.

Nothing. Just the usual clutter. Shopping lists, car repairs, stereos, TVs to buy, rock concerts to attend, etc. Slugthorn increased the power slightly, expanding his range. Right away, he picked up another buzzing, frighteningly like the one that came from the child. Slugthorn couldn't see the source of the emanations; perhaps that was well, considering what had happened last time. So he fine-tuned the audio. They were the thoughts of a child.

It was lucky for Slugthorn the signal was weak. He couldn't distinguish clear, complete, formulated ideas, but the general feeling was love -- clean, pure and bright -- blinding white sound. Love for his mother, father, brothers and sisters was there, of course. But there was more. Something Slugthorn had never experienced. Something huge and grand. Awful. It was love overflowing; boundless, limitless, selfless love. Love without walls. 

Slugthorn was severely wounded. He shut off the brain-browsing mode before he sustained real damage. [“What in Hell's name is going on here? First that brat at the airport, now this. What is the earth coming to?”] Slugthorn wondered, wounded. No matter. It wouldn't be his concern much longer. His end was near.

The rest of the taxicab ride to Screwtape's office building was uneventful. Slugthorn paid the cabby and stepped out. He looked up. The office building was like dozens of others in the city -- modern, tall, clean lines, lots of glass and stainless steel -- soulless. Slugthorn took a long breath (it tasted foul and polluted; he loved it). He looked at his watch. It was time to go.

It was quick. Quick movement. Something caught his eye. A shuffle and a jumble, a scattering of footsteps. A youth in blue jeans and tennis shoes was bumping his way through startled pedestrians on the sidewalk, running. Now Slugthorn saw why. Three other youths were chasing him, bumping and shoving and shouting. It was the kind of thing you could see every day in the city, although not usually in this section; usually farther down in the lower end where the newspapers blow across the street and the smell of rotting vegetables hangs heavy in the air.

The youth stumbled and fell. A few more jostling, bumping leaps, and the others caught up with him before he could pick himself up. They began beating him and kicking him. The passersby who had been bumped and jostled now made a wide path around the small knot of flailing elbows and feet and yells and shouts. Most of them didn't even look, Slugthorn noted with approval.

Suddenly, there was something else. A little boy was suddenly in their midst, pulling and tugging at the ruffians. He was so small that the attackers didn't notice him at first. But when he started kicking and biting and punching and yelling at them to stop, they became annoyed. One of them lashed out viciously, kicking the small intruder in the head. He went down.

Slugthorn was intrigued. He walked over to where the small boy was lying, unconscious. He turned his back to the continuing melee, and turned his attention on the tot, who was now quietly moaning.

The three attackers, however, noticed the presence of the big man, and mistook his intentions. They fled, leaving their victim holding his stomach and gasping for breath.

Slugthorn bent down over the small child. The child had a small bruise on his forehead. His legs twitched. His eyelids fluttered, then opened. He looked up into Slugthorn's face, and smiled.

Slugthorn shrieked.

He shot straight up as if a million volts of electricity had slammed into him. His body straightened up, then went past the vertical, and arched backwards. He fell. His head hit the pavement first.

Stone cold blackness. Slugthorn groped through eternal night. Long, hairy, rough things pulled and tugged at him. Rough, scratchy, clawing heat. Terror in the ether like an implacable hand; like an oily, choking, poisonous gas penetrating every pore, blotting out rational thought; unreasoning terror. He had to flee. But flee where? There was no refuge, no asylum. No escape from the scratching, tearing claws.

In his nightmare, Slugthorn ran and stumbled, stumbled and ran. A hellish gauntlet; Slugthorn a victim of his own device. Yes, it was he who invented the little game and taught it to the ones called Indians, those who marched the long icy trek to the undiscovered country. Their life was hard and cruel, dictated by a hard country and cruel climate. They had to make themselves tough. So Slugthorn had taught them the gauntlet. Let the members of the tribe, women and children included, form a double row, facing each other, about two arms' length apart. Let the victim run down between the two rows, while the people beat him with their war clubs. If he survives, well then, he may be counted innocent.

        But Slugthorn's hellish gauntlet was neverending. The unseen blows rained down upon him incessantly. There was no end in sight.

Nothing in sight. Nothing but blackness and stumbling and terror. He wandered in the Realm of the Dead. He could sense, not see, horrors floating in the inky depths. Slugthorn screamed, but his screams were voiceless; gagged in his throat.

What is a demon's notion of Hell? Are his imaginings any closer to the terrible reality than the frightened imaginings of man? Slugthorn had never visited the Lower Regions, not even on tour. He had only heard rumors from some of the older demons. He didn't believe the half of it; it was surely nothing but braggadocio, calculated to impress and frighten the young rookie -- or was it?

Slughthorn shriveled, and tried to hide. No good. They were finding him, poking, prodding, torturing him.

“I don't know. One minute, he was just crouched there, bending over the boy; the next minute he was lying on the sidewalk.”

“I think maybe some of those young hoodlums did it.”

“No. They were already gone by that time. Maybe he had a heart attack.”

Slugthorn heard voices out of a fog. His consciousness began to register people crowding around him, poking at him. He felt things. Fingers were jammed down his throat. Human hands were probing all around him, rhythmically compressing his chest. The first semi-conscious feeling he registered was revulsion.

His head was yanked back, his jaw thrust opened, and one of the disgusting humans actually put her mouth over Slugthorn's, and began to blow.

“Rau ow owwwrr,” Slugthorn groaned. The humans jumped back, startled. He hadn't intended to frighten them, just get them away.

“Are you all right?” He heard one of them say. Slugthorn tried to open his eyes to see who was addressing him. Then he realized his eyes were open.

He was blind!

His mind was amazed; dumbfounded. His thoughts were disordered. Painfully, he tried to recount what had happened to him. It hurt to think. What had happened? Where was he? Slowly, bits of  information began filtering into his consciousness. He remembered Screwtape's furious, terrifying voice on the phone. He remembered why he was here. Then he remembered the plane ride, and brain-browsing.

Brain-browsing. It had all started with that old, tired tactic.

The child. It all goes back to the child. That's where things started going wrong. The child had blown his brain-browsing circuits. And now this. The child. The same child. Or was it another child? No matter.

Then he remembered bending over the child. The child opened his eyes. Slugthorn looked into the face of... blinding white light, searing pain...

“Where does it hurt?” a voice called down him. Slugthorn hadn't realized that he had been screaming.

So this was how it was. They had always told him it would be like this. If one from the Lower Regions ever dared to look into His face (they even capitalize His name down there), he would be blinded, and die a painful death.

But Slugthorn was still alive. Still alive. That was it. Suddenly, Slugthorn felt another blinding flash. But this one was internal only. A blinding brain-flash. Sudden insight. From whom? Slugthorn was afraid to ask. But now he knew. He knew the meaning of it all; why the child... That was it. His one and only chance. He had to tell Screwtape. It was his only chance to live.

“Stay right there. Don't move,” a voice said. Slugthorn was rolling over, was trying to get to his feet. He rubbed his eyes, trying to make them see. Something was starting to come through. His vision was clearing at last.

An anxious face peered down at Slugthorn. It was a young woman in a down skier's jacket. Her blond hair was cropped close and brushed back.

“I'm ... I'm all right.” Slugthorn managed to mumble. His tongue was thick.

“The paramedics are on their way,” the young woman said. “Just take it easy. You'll be fine.”

“No. I don't have time. I have an appointment.” Slugthorn tried to look at his watch. He must be late already. Why hadn't they sought him out?

“Your appointment can wait. You need to be checked. Just lie still.”

“No. I said no. I'm fine. Please leave me alone. I must go now.” The urgency in Slugthorn's voice was increasing. He started to get up.

“Just lie back.” The young woman gently pushed Slugthorn.

“Rowrrrr!” Slugthorn growled. He rolled over, got to his knees, stood up and roughly brushed her backwards. He had had enough of these meddling humans.

“You've got to take it easy. You might have a head injury,” she insisted.

“I think he really hit his head hard,” someone in the gathering crowd said. “He's acting funny.”

Without a word, Slugthorn tore himself loose from the grasping hands and groped his way toward the revolving door.

“Well, that's gratitude!” an elderly woman snapped. “Could at least have said ‘Thank you.’” Slugthorn wasn't listening. His thoughts were racing. He knew he was on the right track. But how to put it to Screwtape? How to manage it so Screwtape would have to trust him? If he could only figure out the details in time. Time. There was so little time.

Chapter 2: Slugthorn's disgrace

Slugthorn’s hand trembled as he put the receiver down. He knew what to expect. There was only one punishment for failure.

He had failed to notice his client’s growing conscience until it was too late. In a moment of inattention, months of planning had gone down the drain. The still, small voice of the Enemy had grown stronger in the human’s ear, drowning out Slugthorn’s carefully implanted programming. The client reported the impending drug operation to the authorities, even though it meant a prison sentence for him. Now, the worm was even reading the Enemy’s Book, and attending chapel at the prison. It gave Slugthorn a sick feeling in his stomach. Slugthorn had not seen what was happening, or did not want to see. And now he would pay.

Thoughts raced round and round in Slugthorn's brain like mice in a treadmill. Escape. Flee. Flee. But there was no escape. The talons of the Lower Empire were long. He could feel them clawing at his back even now. In a daze, he wandered out of his office, not even stopping to clean out his desk. His former underlings lowered their heads and withdrew when he passed, stealing stealthy glances at his receding figure. They retreated, as if mere contact with him would drag them down, too. They knew. His failure was thick in the air. No one needed the words to be uttered. He felt as if he were wearing a huge sign on his back, marking him as utterly damned.

Slugthorn had seen a lot of changes in the South since becoming district chief. He slipped into nostalgic reminiscing during the trip to the airport. How he had relished the misery of the black humans! A warm glow came over Slugthorn as he remembered their screams, the tears, the wailing and gnashing of teeth; babies torn from mothers, families ripped asunder! Ah yes, those were the good old days! Slugthorn had enjoyed the best of both worlds. On the one hand, he could watch the humans suffer, while reaping in souls with the other hand. And how they flocked to him in those days, the souls of the white humans! There seemed hardly enough room in Hell to hold them all. Plenty of black souls, too, yes.

Of course, there were blemishes. Large numbers of the perverse black humans inexplicably took up the Enemy’s hated religion, and slipped smilingly out of Slugthorn's claws. Imagine that! He would never understand humans. The Hebrews in Egypt had driven him to distraction, and now this! ... Perhaps it was just as well that he was finished. ... Giving thanks when they had nothing to be thankful for! Slugthorn had worried for his safety even then. But some small failures can be forgiven, when things are going so well for the Empire.

And things had been going very well, indeed, for Slugthorn in the South in the 19th century. Even now, the same old engine that drove so many souls through the Empire's wide, welcoming gates, was still claiming its share, despite a disturbing trend toward racial tolerance. Slugthorn had tried to deemphasize its importance in his annual reports.

Yes, he had seen a lot of changes. And each change brought new challenges; had tested his powers of innovation. Well, all that was over now.

He was airborne now, flying in a commercial jet to his meeting with Screwtape. He was looking down on the battlefields; the scenes of Slugthorn's triumphs and mistakes. Was it all a matter of luck? Could a lower demon really affect the outcome? Maybe it was this nagging thought that had dulled Slugthorn's aggressiveness and led to his downfall.

Far down below, they were like insignificant ants, invisible inside their miniature automobiles. This was the proper perspective to take of the humans. So tiny. So insignificant. So utterly contemptible. And yet -- why then was the Enemy so interested in them? The thought irritated Slugthorn.

He considered making the plane crash, just for a lark. It would be fun, hearing their screams, seeing the look of terror in their eyes, feeling his superiority over them one last time, his immortality... his immortality...would soon be coming to a horrifying, painful end. Or would it? Maybe, just maybe, he could still hope for a pardon. 

Slugthorn laughed a harsh laugh. From Screwtape? That implacable, horrible devil? But maybe, maybe Screwtape could be convinced that Slugthorn could still be of service. There was still much to be done; things that only Slugthorn could accomplish. That was his only hope. Certainly to hope for mercy would be absurd; ludicrous in the extreme; a contradiction in terms.

Slugthorn became bored. He began brain browsing. It was a pastime that he had once, as a young demon, found exciting -- listening in on the thoughts of his intended victims, hearing what they were thinking, hoping, planning. The instructor had explained how to make use of every scrap of information, every half-forgotten whim; to use it against the client. But it quickly became drudgery. The humans were so predictable, so banal, so unimaginative. Slugthorn tried to alleviate the boredom by searching for glimmers of intelligence; something to offer a little challenge. 

He found it seldom. Searching for a spark of intelligence in a human brain was like trying to find one particular grain of sand in the Sahara.

But now he was so bored, that even brain browsing was a relief. He skimmed the plane lightly, picking up random thoughts. It was as boring as he had expected. Here was a businessman, trying to figure out how to “cook” the figures, to make his proposal look more attractive. Over there was another one trying to find loopholes in his income tax returns. A young girl was thinking about -- what else -- young boys. Slugthorn was about to give up.

Then he focused on a child sitting with his grandmother, about three seats in front of Slugthorn on the other side of the aisle. Nothing new here, either. The child was thinking about toys that he wanted to get for his birthday. Slugthorn switched his attention to the grandmother. She was widowed, and was worrying about trying to make ends meet on Social Security. Her daughter couldn't help, because she was recently divorced, with no job; that was why she was picking up her grandson to come live with her. The added expense would put a real strain on her fixed income.

That piqued Slugthorn's interest. Human suffering always did that for him. He switched back to the boy. The boy was still daydreaming of toys that he hoped to get. But Slugthorn sensed no fear, no sadness in the boy over his mother's divorce and his separation from her.

Slugthorn was totally unprepared for the next thoughts he intercepted. The boy was thinking about his grandmother, and how he could ease her burden. He was feeling pain for her! Now, the young whelp was even rejecting his earlier thoughts of toys!

It was coming in too clearly now. [“Grandma can't afford toys. I was selfish to think about that. I have to think of a way to help her get more money...”]

Slugthorn recoiled, and switched off his brain browsing. His mind automatically started trying to think of ways to save him from Screwtape's wrath. He couldn't help it. It was hopeless, but his brain wouldn't listen to reason. It kept charging around like a computer gone berserk, picking up random bits of data, discarding them, then returning to the same place again and again. It was torture. A foretaste of Lower Hell.

Nothing could save him now. The rules were brutally simple: succeed and live, fail and die. Slugthorn had failed. Slugthorn needed success, and a lot of it. But success was something you couldn't fake. Anyway, it was too late. But if... if... If he could come up with a plan, a strategy ... maybe he could sell it to Screwtape in return for his life. But what? It would have to be good; a master stroke. Nothing short of total victory over the humans could abate Screwtape's fury. And there was no time. If all the lower devils through all the ages could not find a way, how could he do it in the few hours remaining on his flight to Los Angeles?

Useless to think of running; it wouldn't even buy him an instant of time -- and the Empire had eons. The talons of the Lower Empire were long and terrifyingly swift. His appointment with Screwtape was at 2:30. If he did not appear punctually, they would find him at the appointed instant, and carry out the sentence. No. Escape was not the answer.

What then? It would have to be good. Better than all the wars. Better than sex. Better than drugs. Better than divorce. Better even than the torture of little children. Something really epoch-making; breaking new ground; radical, innovative, ingenious, truly, truly diabolical. Slugthorn needed a miracle. Hah! a miracle! Slugthorn snorted at the idea; borrowing a term from the Enemy to describe his predicament.

Could he switch sides, at least long enough to escape Screwtape's wrath? No. The Enemy would see through that dodge. Slugthorn's brain was still racing when the jet's tires squealed and squeeked. His meeting with Screwtape was drawing near.

Chapter 1: Trouble in Hell

SCREWTAPE'S LAST CAMPAIGN

a novel by

Charles G. Brooks, Jr.

(C) Unpublished work by Charles G. Brooks, Jr.
  





Dedicated to the glory of God, with special thanks to C.S. Lewis.

CHAPTER 1

Most Low Demon in Charge of United States Area, Earth District, His Dishonor Screwtape, leaned forward over his massive desk and flicked a switch. “Take a memo, please.” Moments later, Miss Desiree Caliente sashayed into Screwtape's cavernous office, brushing her ample hips against the furniture.

She appeared as a lush, full young woman in her early twenties. Her much too tight, red leather skirt and white lace blouse protruded deliriously, the fabric stretched thin and tight, giving the appearance of a luscious, ripe, fruit, ready for peeling. The outdated appellation “tomato” fit her.

Her swaying hips stopped traffic on more than one occasion; a few times with tragic consequences. During one exceptionally bloody week, when she wore her hot pink skirt and white frilly blouse with plunging neckline, she caused multiple rear-end collisions, two of them fatal. City officials seriously considered asking the court to issue an injunction against her, requiring her to dress more modestly, or take an alternate route to work. But a civil rights group protested on her behalf, saying the city's action would be an infringement of her constitutional rights. They picketed city hall. Public opinion (an unusual combination of feminist and male segments) was on Desiree's side. The motion soon died, and the councilman who suggested it was hounded from office.

The incident led to a tenfold increase in the already numerous tasteless, vulgar jokes being circulated about Miss Caliente, who despite her Spanish surname, was not Latin at all. She was from some big city in the East, and spoke with a hard, nasal accent reminiscent of gangster movies. It was rumored that her ostentatious stage name was a holdover from her career as a striptease artist. No one knew what her real name was.

She became a local celebrity, and appeared on a number of local talk shows. Wisecracking police officers on the beat suggested hanging an orange triangular danger sign on her “bumper,” warning drivers of the traffic hazard.

The long trek from the door to Screwtape's desk took a full two minutes to negotiate, at Miss Caliente's languid gait. She sat down in a straight-backed chair in front and to the left of Screwtape's huge plush reclining chair. Slowly, she crossed her long, shapely legs, revealing a rounded calf, as her too-tight skirt slid upward. Her cigarette, which she had been carrying between her fingers, hung at a rakish angle from her mouth as she waited wordlessly, pencil poised over writing pad.

Screwtape took no note of her eye-boggling entrance, nor her theatrical posture. He was deep in thought.

With his eyes closed, he leaned back in his chair. “My Dear Mr. Glubwart,” Screwtape began without looking at his secretary, “due to a recent vacancy, you are requested to report to my office at your earliest opportunity, to discuss your promotion to Southeast District Chief. Urgent matters require your immediate attention. Your personnel file shows you to be a competent, industrious worker. I have every confidence that you will prove worthy of the recognition being extended to you. Congratulations on your promotion. 'Sincerely Yours' -- no. 'Signed,' -- no. Just end it, 'Screwtape.'”

Still without having uttered a word, Miss Caliente arose from her chair, circled around it, and swayed slowly toward the door. This time, Screwtape's gaze followed her intently, focused on her rotating hips. Fire blazed through his veins, pumping, squirting, bursting. When she reached the door, he almost called her back, but held himself in check. “Get that out right away,” he called. 

Without looking back, Miss Caliente just nodded, bored. The door closed behind her with a solid thud.

Screwtape turned his attention to his next communication, the sensitive nature of which did not allow him to go through his secretary. He twisted the pen and ink set on his desk, and a secret, covered drawer slid out (Screwtape was a movie addict; spy thrillers were his favorite). Screwtape inserted a key in the sliding top panel, and the panel slid back to reveal a red phone resting in the bottom of the drawer.

Screwtape took a deep breath and removed the receiver. A scratchy voice on the other end growled, “Yes?” “Let me speak to the Chief,” Screwtape growled back. He tried to make his voice sound more terrifying than the one on the other end.

“The Chief is busy -- trying to clean up one of your blunders, I believe.”

Screwtape ignored the insolence. “I must speak to the Chief,” he insisted.

“Very well. I'll see if he's available,” the voice growled. Silence lasted long minutes, while Screwtape was left dangling. Finally the voice was back. “The Chief is on another line,” it said. “It's been chaos down here since your last fiasco, I can tell you. If you have something to tell the Chief, leave a message.”

Momentary relief was replaced with dread. Screwtape knew he couldn't leave a message. He had to talk to the Chief himself. His anxiety increased the gruff edge to his voice.

“Dammit, do you know who you're speaking to?,” Screwtape blustered. “This is the central office for the United States of America! I am the director! This is top priority code. I must speak to the Chief himself!”

When the voice spoke again, it was less brash, a little more subservient. “Very well, let me try again.” Screwtape's fierce grimace almost turned into a smile.

Screwtape waited. Fear and trembling cooled the hot pumping of his arteries. Ice daggers scorched his insides. Sweat popped out on his forehead. It was like this every time he had to talk with the Chief, especially when he had to report failure. Everybody dreaded reporting to the Chief -- even the Utmost Devils. He fidgeted. His stomach muscles knotted, unknotted and knotted again. He shuffled his feet. He drummed his fingers on his desk. How many eternities would it be this time? “For a moment is but a thousand years in his sight.” Screwtape allowed himself a smirk. He also allowed his mind to wander.

Then, suddenly, when he least expected it and was most unprepared for it (somehow, he seems to know the precise moment), a voice a hundred, a thousand times more terrible than Screwtape's most hideous growl, thundered, clawed and scratched its way into Screwtape's ears -- “WELL?”

“United States Director Screwtape reporting, Your Lowest Eminence, Sir...” Screwtape, Magnificent Underlord in Charge of Operations, United States of America, normally shortened his grandiose title when addressing his boss; he spoke it with a flourish when dealing with subordinates. Screwtape paused, but when the Chief made no comment, he stammeringly continued, “...the...the Slugthorn affair --”

“WAS A DISASTER,” the Chief bellowed, cutting him off. “That dismal affair, that atrocious failure was YOUR responsibility, Screwtape!” (An electric shock of fear raced through Screwtape at the thundered word, 'YOUR'). “Yes, your Lowness,” Screwtape mumbled meekly.

“Slugthorn was YOUR subordinate! Through his bumbling and inattention he ruined months of planning. An entire operation failed! An entire shipment of sweets that will never be! Think of all the ruined lives! Who knows how many souls we might have won, Screwtape!”

Screwtape cringed. Why did the Chief have to pick on him? Was it his fault that Slugthorn was a miserable incompetent? Was it his fault that the human, who was Slugthorn's responsibility, suddenly and unexpectedly went over to the Enemy? Was it his fault that the drug operation collapsed, and the meddling Coast Guard stopped the cocaine from entering the country? The thought of it made him seethe. He would deal with Slugthorn. He would enjoy it.

“As...as I was saying, Eminence...Slugthorn will pay dearly for his blunder. The Lower Empire will have its revenge.”

Screwtape changed his tone, trying to salvage what he could from disaster. “I have already found a replacement, Eminence -- it is Glubwart, a demon who has shown some promise. I tutored him when the Enemy was beginning his invasion of Rome. It was really quite humorous, Eminence, the way he made those Christians dance! He even took the shape of a lion for a few days, to get a real TASTE of 'em, if you catch my meaning, sir, ha ha. He reported that they do not suit his palate -- altogether insipid and without spice, he said. Said he preferred Buddhist monks -- spice and incense, and all that. This Glubwart's a real card, I tell you. Later, I understand he did some rather elegant work with the Germans during the Second World War.”

“Never mind the sales pitch, Screwtape,” the Chief growled. “Just show me results.” There was an abrupt click followed by emptiness on the line. Screwtape still sat there with the machine in his ear, mouth open. He didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved. At least the ordeal was over. He had survived. He had reported failure to the Chief and had survived.

At this point, one could expect a weak, slobbering human to get sentimental, and be moved with pity for someone less fortunate. Thank Satan, Screwtape was not afflicted with such weakness. Now he was ready to turn his full fury on that imbecile, Slugthorn.