Chapter 6: The new recruit

When Screwtape had gorged, he stumbled drunkenly to the intercom. “Miss Caliente,” Screwtape croaked, “come here. I want you.” His voice was choked with blood and lust.

In a few moments, she came to him. There were no words, Soon they were wanton and groping, grunting; wallowing and smearing their naked bodies with Slugthorn's blood. He flailed away at her awkwardly with his hideous, slashing talons. Screwtape's scales and claws ripped into her soft cushion of flesh. Her blood mingled with that of Screwtape's latest victim. She screamed the banshee scream.

When they were finished, Screwtape rolled over, pulled himself up on his desk, and got to his feet. “Clean this mess up,” he commanded, then disappeared behind a side door.

In a few minutes, the distinguished-looking executive Screwtape was showered and laundered, and seated again behind the handsomely appointed desk in his spotless office.

He leaned over and pushed a button on the intercom. “Miss Caliente, when is Mr. Glubwart expected?”

“His appointment is scheduled in ten minutes, Mr. Screwtape,” was the answer.

By the time Screwtape had poured himself a drink and glanced over his prepared remarks, Desiree buzzed back that Glubwart had arrived.

“Send him in,” Screwtape said.

“Welcome aboard, Glubwart.” Screwtape addressed his newest recruit. Stretching as far as he could across the wide desk, he was just able to touch Glubwart's outstretched hand. He motioned for Glubwart to take a seat.

“Thank you, sir,” Glubwart said.

Screwtape sat up straight and began importantly: “Now that you're on the team, you've got a lot to learn,” Screwtape continued. I'm afraid there isn't much time to break you in slowly. The failings of your predecessor left the office in a state of crisis.” Screwtape paused to let the gravity of the situation sink in.

“The Enemy has been making inroads all over the country, and particularly in your district.” Screwtape exaggerated for effect; things weren't really as bleak for the Lower Empire as he was painting them. “Thanks to the bungling of your predecessor, we missed a golden opportunity to turn that trend around. Now you've got a lot of catchup to do, just to stay in the ballgame.”

Screwtape stood up and turned his back to his new District Manager for the Southeast United States. He walked over to the large plate glass window and stared out at the blue water of the Pacific Ocean.

“We're in a war, Glubwart,” he continued, pacing slowly up and down in front of the window with his hands clasped behind him. “We're battling for our lives. We've got troops on the frontlines, but they need and deserve good leaders. Your predecessor” (Screwtape emphasized the words 'your predecessor') “let them down. He dropped the ball. Now you've got to provide the leadership that he lacked.”

Suddenly Screwtape whirled to face his new recruit. He pointed an accusing finger at Glubwart. “Now, what do you propose to do?”

Glubwart was caught totally off guard. “Er, ahh ...” he stammered. This experienced demon, who took part in torturing Christians in ancient Rome, felt like a novice when confronted with the infamous Screwtape. Screwtape's deeds were legendary.

Screwtape cut him short with an impatient gesture. “Do you think this is a game, Glubwart?”

“Ahh, er...”

“Well, I can tell you it's not! The Enemy is playing for keeps. And so must we. There is NO ROOM in this organization for slow thinkers, equivocators, or half-hearted, squeamish namby-pambies. Do you follow me?” Glubwart just nodded.

“You must be implacable, Glubwart. The Enemy gives no quarter. Do you think there will be mercy for us at the end?” Screwtape's stomach quivered briefly. But then his courage returned, and he thundered, “NO! If you can't smile, giggle and coo, and chuck a baby under the chin, and then dash its brains out against a wall, you are no good to us! You must be stone. A child's hysterical, agonized screams, tears and pleading for mercy, for its very life, must be as inconsequential to you as the revelation that a platypus has four toes, instead of three.

“You must have your wits about you at ALL times. Your predecessor was caught napping, and you see what his reward was.”

Glubwart was growing more and more uncomfortable. He fidgeted.

Screwtape had resumed his pacing during his monologue. Suddenly, he stopped in front of the window and turned to Glubwart again. “You have no plan,” he said accusingly. Glubwart looked miserable.

“Very well. I will give you some advice: “In a way, it's very simple. All you have to do is exaggerate. The Enemy gives us openings everywhere. Just take those things that are pleasing -- sex, food, drink, sleep, vacation, movies, -- anything -- and exaggerate it. Even love! Yes, believe it, Glubwart! You would be amazed what you can work with an overdose of love. Just turn it inside; make it a self-seeking desire, an obsession. Do you know what mayhem is wrought every Saturday night in the name of love?

“Forget the big stuff -- war, torture, famine, pestilence, rape. Sure, they're fun and grab headlines, but they're not always productive. The humans can be damned frustrating. Sometimes, if you're not careful, if you push just a little too hard, they can turn the tables on you -- triumph in the face of misery; pull together in the darkest tragedies. Hell, Glubwart, they write books about stuff like that -- don't you ever read? Even if they lose their lives, the Enemy wins their jewels.

“No. Stick to the small stuff. The mundane, ordinary: greed, hate, gluttony, lying, pride, hurt feelings, nagging, guilt, recriminations. Make them gnaw on old wounds, keep them fresh. Make them always want to have the last word, win every argument.

“We've had huge success with this method, Glubwart! Do you know what the divorce rate is in this country? You think success like that comes by accident? It's damned hard work! Hah! Yes, it's the little, dirty, everyday stuff that gets 'em. That's our bread and butter.

“Make your client feel good. What he is doing is important and right. Always make him think of himself first. This is where you will win him or lose him. If you can just get him to concentrate on himself, on his on needs and desires, he is ours.

“Having said that, let me say this. It is simple, yes. But there's an endless, sophisticated net of possibilities. It can be refined as highly as you have talent and resources to pursue it.

“Sex is it. In our game, it's where it's at, I believe the expression goes, n'est pas? Almost everyone can be turned with sex. Millions have been already -- let's make it billions -- like the hamburger, eh? The Enemy did us a huge favor when he invented sex. It is so strong. So powerful. Addictive. Your client, if he is a normal, healthy, red-blooded male, will do almost anything to get it. It’s your job to do away with ‘almost.’ Without a list of conquests, a man is only half a man.

“If that runs out, try something else. Try a new twist; try whips and such; anything new. Drugs are our best ally! Sex and drugs make a fine combination; he may even get so heavily into drugs that he gives up sex altogether. It happens that way with cocaine, you know.

“Never give up. Have an answer ready for everything. If he mentions AIDS, tell him AIDS has nothing whatever to do with promiscuity. The simple darling will believe anything you tell him, if it adds to his pleasure. Tell him he only has to be careful, and AIDS is nothing to fear. Just the fact that he is more worried about his body than his jewel is a point in our favor. Never let him even suspect that he has a jewel in the first place. Keep his attention riveted on his body, his poor, lovely, conceited, perishable body. He's ours.

“A good way to start him down the road is to tell him that the Enemy’s ways are old-fashioned. A derisive guffaw is in order here: ‘You don't really hold to THOSE old-fashioned ideas, do you? This is a new century, for chrissake.’

“Glubwart -- pay attention! Always be careful, when speaking the Enemy's name, to make it sound like a surprised curse. If you do that, you may avoid the sting. Should you feel the sting anyway, mask your face so that your client does not see your pain. A slip now would be disastrous.

“Where was I? Oh, yes. ‘Old-fashioned.’ It's a popular and very useful dodge. Snorkelfus has had great success with it. Anything that reeks of the Enemy is ‘old-fashioned.’ Whatever makes your client feel good is modern, up-to-date, and just the thing smart people do. Only stupid, dull, hopelessly naive people bury themselves in the musty past.

“It goes without saying -- never let the subject of Sodom and Gommorrah come up, especially not when taking this tack. If you do, even the simplest dolt may see through your stratagem.” Screwtape paused from his lecture for a moment, and searched Glubwart's face for a sign of understanding, a glimmer of intelligence. Finding none, he threw up his hands in frustration.

“You don’t see how? You are more stupid than I thought. He'll see, of course, that our ways are only slightly younger than the Enemy’s, you fool! Do you think Sodom and Gommorrah were wiped out yesterday?”

This was going to be harder than he thought. Disgusted, Screwtape sat down in his chair again, picked up a cigar and chomped down hard. His eyes glazed over as he gazed into the distant past.

“...I'll never forget that day -- one of our greatest losses to the old Bully.

“Take heart. Do not let the story of Job get you down. He was truly one in a billion. Millions more have come over to our side, with far less coaxing.”

Screwtape slowly swiveled around to face the ocean, his back to Glubwart. He mused, almost forgetting his audience: “It's all self. Just keep them thinking of self. Everything turns on that crucial point -- the snares of sex, power, drugs, money -- it's all for self. Abortion -- what they're thinking about is self -- not the little whelp inside.

“Music? Heavy metal, yes. Fine. It can't hurt. But steer your client away from that classical stuff. It tends to lift upward and outward. It leads you out of yourself. That loud, other kind, turns you inward. That's OK. That's fine. That's what we want. But beware Beethoven, Handel, Strauss. Their music is dangerous. It evokes feelings that can even... even offer a glimpse of ... of ... God ... (Screwtape grimaced in pain; he had learned to steel himself against the pang of uttering the Enemy's name, but this time he blurted it out before thinking) er...uh. That's bad. The din of rock music is like an ear-shattering bag that envelopes its victims. How can their thoughts go outside? They literally can't even hear themselves think!

“We must completely smother that 'still small voice' until it can no longer be heard above the shouts of ME,  ME, ME!

“You have some great operatives in the 'me' generation. If we can keep them thinking there is nothing above their puny, miserable selves, we have them. We have them, Glubwart! “Stick to the basics, Glubwart. Take heed. No, take greed (Screwtape smiled inwardly at his bon mot). Those who have less will justify any crime to get more. They owe it to themselves. Those who have more will use the laws to jealousy guard every penny they have, and make still more.

“Everybody's looking out for themselves. Hospitals and doctors charge too much. So do auto repair shops. They know the customer doesn’t care how much it costs, because ‘the insurance company is paying for it, anyway, and aren't my premiums high enough? Charge the insurance company for repainting the whole house; I'll wash the walls and pocket the money. I deserve it, after all those premiums I paid.’ The insurance company, meanwhile, knows it is going to get ripped off, so it jacks up the premiums and writes contracts with clauses to reduce the amount of claims it has to pay. Who started first? Who cares, Glubwart? They're all standing around in a vicious circle, with everybody's hand in everybody else's pocket, and some of them think they are getting rich by it, while others think they are being cheated. And they're all really losing -- isn't that rich? The only winners? Why Glubwart, I think you can guess by now. Us, of course!

“Abortion. That is something we need to push, and push hard. It is not a human being the silly women are killing, it is simply a mass of tissue, that might cause them inconvenience. If we can get them to kill their own whelps unborn, then Hell's the limit. If we can get them to kill their own children, we can get them to do anything, Glubwart! From there, it's just a small step to euthanizing (what a great euphemism!) mental patients, the terminally ill, and elderly.

“You know all the arguments, use them: back alley abortionists, reproductive rights, it’s her own body, isn’t it? (don’t let the fool think about ITs body, just her own).

“Glubwart -- it's a veritable greenhouse for us! It takes no special effort on our part; just some judicious gardening. Nurture those hatreds, those envies, those budding egos, grasping greeds. Soon they will be ours, ripe for the picking. Ah, Glubwart!”

For a long time, Screwtape did not speak. He was lost in reverie, wrapped up in his own wisdom, savoring his words.

Finally, he awoke with a start.

“Well, Glubwart. --That should give you something to go on. Any questions? Then go out there and get started. Bring me some jewels.”