The wife was nervous. Her husband had been acting strange lately. She didn't know what could be wrong with him. It gnawed at her as she finished the breakfast dishes -- something evil in the pit of her stomach. Several times she stopped what she was doing and went to check on the babies. She reassured herself that they were playing peacefully in their playpen.
The wife couldn't concentrate. Several times she started to cook dinner, but her heart wasn't in it. She was more than nervous. A cold, dark feeling of dread changing to fear. What was wrong? Why was he so depressed lately?
The man was fidgety, restless; they wouldn't leave him alone. Whispering -- they kept whispering. Whispering turned to shouting; his head so full of it he couldn't hear his own thoughts. Were they his thoughts any more? He didn't know where he stopped and they started; what was real and what was imagination. No; they were real -- more real than that policeman over there eyeing me suspiciously -- the pig.
“They won't leave me alone. I must trust them. I will. Yes.”
The gravy was burning in the skillet. The wife discovered it too late, and sighed. Suddenly, she sobbed, and couldn't stop. The sobs took her and shook her.
He was alone in the office. They were closing in. It's her fault. It's her fault Kathy and Johnny are ... are the way they are. Somebody's gotta pay. It's her fault, and she's gotta pay. You've got to do it. Nobody else. Only you. You're a lawyer, you know how the law is; how corrupt. You've got to fix it. You you you you you.
The slim, tall, handsome man in his smart-looking, dark blue, $1,000-suit opened the door to his uptown, upper class,high-rise apartment.
His wife, still in the kitchen, trying to save the burned gravy, shrank at the sound. Icebergs in the pit of her stomach. She put down her spoon and went toward the living room, forgetting to turn off the stove.
“You -- you're home early,” she stammered. “Just couldn't stay away from my lovely wife,” he smiled charmingly.
He sounded normal -- more normal than he had in months -- like the young, eager man she married. But something felt wrong.
“I've got a surprise for you,” he said. “Go in the bedroom and close your eyes.”
“What surprise?”
“Something nice. You'll see.” He smiled an impish, disarming smile.
Shaking, she obeyed.
He followed her. On the way to the bedroom, he stopped, reached in the hall closet and pulled his favorite putter from the richly polished leather golf bag, filled with a forest of glittering metal.
He stepped up softly behind her, raised the putter high over his head, and buried it in the center of her skull. Then he went and did the same to his babies.
-------
“Yes, Miss Caliente?” Screwtape's voice was tired, bored.
“Mr. Glubwart on line two, Mr. Screwtape.”
Screwtape sighed a deep sigh. He's no doubt calling to gloat over another minor success. A dog digging up scraps and proudly presenting them to his master for a pat on the head. Well, Screwtape wasn't in the mood. “Very well,” he said finally. Put him on.”
Glubwart's excited voice rang like a pimply-faced Boy Scout's, not like the thousand-year-old demon he was.
“An entire family, Mr. Screwtape!” Glubwart gushed. He polished off his wife and two kids -- with his favorite putter! The one that he won the country club match with. Then he blew his own brains out with the gold shotgun the firm gave him for robbing widows and orphans...saved us the tedium of pre-trial hearings, motions about mental stability, the whole charade -- pretty good for an afternoon's work, eh, Mr. Screwtape?”
There was a long silence.
“Mr. Screwtape? Are you there, Mr. Screwtape?”
“What's the bottom line, Glubwart?” the tired voice finally said.
“Excuse me, Mr. Screwtape?”
“How many sweets have you got for me, Glubwart?” Screwtape demanded.
“Well, I -- er -- uh”
“HOW MANY?” “Just -- just the one, sir,” Glubwart stammered. He tried to say something else, then fell silent.
Screwtape sighed again. “Mr. Glubwart. I don't care if you're a thousand years old. You may be older than sex, for all I care -- older than, if you'll excuse the expression -- sin. It doesn't mean a thing. You're a rookie, Glubwart -- pathetic -- hopeless.
“So you got a man to kill his sweet, loving wife and kids. The Enemy just beat you three to one! You hurried three little souls off to heaven, and we get only one! You call that a good transaction? Can you count, Glubwart? We're getting our heads kicked in, and you're boasting of a one-for-three trade?!”
“But sir--” Glubwart started to protest.
“You've got to remember, Glubwart, we're in the death business. It's what we do. It's what we do best. Nobody does it better than us. Death of the body, sure, that's fine. But what we're after is the BIG death; the death that swallows up everything; death like a black hole; death that denies all life. Blood and gore? It's fun. The Holocaust? An evening's light entertainment. But it's not what brings in the bread.”
Screwtape hung up the phone and rubbed his eyes. It was going to be a long century.
The wife was nervous. Her husband had been acting strange lately. She didn't know what could be wrong with him. It gnawed at her as she finished the breakfast dishes -- something evil in the pit of her stomach. Several times she stopped what she was doing and went to check on the babies. She reassured herself that they were playing peacefully in their playpen.
The wife couldn't concentrate. Several times she started to cook dinner, but her heart wasn't in it. She was more than nervous. A cold, dark feeling of dread changing to fear. What was wrong? Why was he so depressed lately?
The man was fidgety, restless; they wouldn't leave him alone. Whispering -- they kept whispering. Whispering turned to shouting; his head so full of it he couldn't hear his own thoughts. Were they his thoughts any more? He didn't know where he stopped and they started; what was real and what was imagination. No; they were real -- more real than that policeman over there eyeing me suspiciously -- the pig.
“They won't leave me alone. I must trust them. I will. Yes.”
The gravy was burning in the skillet. The wife discovered it too late, and sighed. Suddenly, she sobbed, and couldn't stop. The sobs took her and shook her.
He was alone in the office. They were closing in. It's her fault. It's her fault Kathy and Johnny are ... are the way they are. Somebody's gotta pay. It's her fault, and she's gotta pay. You've got to do it. Nobody else. Only you. You're a lawyer, you know how the law is; how corrupt. You've got to fix it. You you you you you.
The slim, tall, handsome man in his smart-looking, dark blue, $1,000-suit opened the door to his uptown, upper class,high-rise apartment.
His wife, still in the kitchen, trying to save the burned gravy, shrank at the sound. Icebergs in the pit of her stomach. She put down her spoon and went toward the living room, forgetting to turn off the stove.
“You -- you're home early,” she stammered. “Just couldn't stay away from my lovely wife,” he smiled charmingly.
He sounded normal -- more normal than he had in months -- like the young, eager man she married. But something felt wrong.
“I've got a surprise for you,” he said. “Go in the bedroom and close your eyes.”
“What surprise?”
“Something nice. You'll see.” He smiled an impish, disarming smile.
Shaking, she obeyed.
He followed her. On the way to the bedroom, he stopped, reached in the hall closet and pulled his favorite putter from the richly polished leather golf bag, filled with a forest of glittering metal.
He stepped up softly behind her, raised the putter high over his head, and buried it in the center of her skull. Then he went and did the same to his babies.
-------
“Yes, Miss Caliente?” Screwtape's voice was tired, bored.
“Mr. Glubwart on line two, Mr. Screwtape.”
Screwtape sighed a deep sigh. He's no doubt calling to gloat over another minor success. A dog digging up scraps and proudly presenting them to his master for a pat on the head. Well, Screwtape wasn't in the mood. “Very well,” he said finally. Put him on.”
Glubwart's excited voice rang like a pimply-faced Boy Scout's, not like the thousand-year-old demon he was.
“An entire family, Mr. Screwtape!” Glubwart gushed. He polished off his wife and two kids -- with his favorite putter! The one that he won the country club match with. Then he blew his own brains out with the gold shotgun the firm gave him for robbing widows and orphans...saved us the tedium of pre-trial hearings, motions about mental stability, the whole charade -- pretty good for an afternoon's work, eh, Mr. Screwtape?”
There was a long silence.
“Mr. Screwtape? Are you there, Mr. Screwtape?”
“What's the bottom line, Glubwart?” the tired voice finally said.
“Excuse me, Mr. Screwtape?”
“How many sweets have you got for me, Glubwart?” Screwtape demanded.
“Well, I -- er -- uh”
“HOW MANY?” “Just -- just the one, sir,” Glubwart stammered. He tried to say something else, then fell silent.
Screwtape sighed again. “Mr. Glubwart. I don't care if you're a thousand years old. You may be older than sex, for all I care -- older than, if you'll excuse the expression -- sin. It doesn't mean a thing. You're a rookie, Glubwart -- pathetic -- hopeless.
“So you got a man to kill his sweet, loving wife and kids. The Enemy just beat you three to one! You hurried three little souls off to heaven, and we get only one! You call that a good transaction? Can you count, Glubwart? We're getting our heads kicked in, and you're boasting of a one-for-three trade?!”
“But sir--” Glubwart started to protest.
“You've got to remember, Glubwart, we're in the death business. It's what we do. It's what we do best. Nobody does it better than us. Death of the body, sure, that's fine. But what we're after is the BIG death; the death that swallows up everything; death like a black hole; death that denies all life. Blood and gore? It's fun. The Holocaust? An evening's light entertainment. But it's not what brings in the bread.”
Screwtape hung up the phone and rubbed his eyes. It was going to be a long century.
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