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(C) Unpublished work by Charles G. Brooks, Jr.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 The outdated appellation “tomato” fit her.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.