Screwtape
picked up a small, black plastic object that fit neatly into the palm
of his hand. He pushed a tiny button and began speaking. “Miss
Caliente, a letter: ‘To the Underlord of Earth, Most Ignoble
Potentate Lower Regions, in Charge of Operations for the Eastern
District, United States of America: Your Lowliness: Highest regards
for your superb management of resources in the Eastern District. The
Underworld has a true champion in your person. Your efficiency
emboldens me to make inquiry regarding a subject residing in your
realm. The name is Mary Parker, female, 17, runaway. Currently
residing in Centerville, Clayton County, Alabama. Any further
pertinent information you can provide would be greatly ap-’ no,
just make that ‘appreciated.’ Let me see a draft as soon as
possible, Miss Caliente.”
“Miss Caliente, call a meeting for 4 p.m.”
---
Joe's blood was boiling. His whole body felt on fire. Mary was all he could think about; the way her lips felt, hard against his; her body soft beneath her blouse and slacks. Study was out of the question. He couldn't concentrate for more than five seconds. He had to be with her; had to have her. He couldn't wait any longer. He picked up the phone. “Mary?”
“Yes, Joe?” The sweet sound of her voice raced through him, churning.
“Can I see you?”
“Sure. Come on over.”
Joe fairly sprinted for the door.
“Joe! Where are you off to?” his mother wanted to know.
“Out.”
“What about your studies? You have school--” Isabell Langston's words were cut off by the slamming of the door.
Miz Gryder was sitting in the kitchen shelling peas when she heard the knock on the door. She just started to rise when Mary zipped down the hall and flew to the door. The young lovers locked lips in a hot embrace before saying a word. Miz Gryder sat back down to her peas, shaking her head and muttering about “in my day” and “properly chaperoned.”
Joe and Mary finally extricated themselves, allowing a few inches distance between their bodies. Then they locked fingers and went off down the sidewalk, swinging their hands to and fro, wordlessly content.
Miz Gryder watched them go, then set about canning the peas. She canned until it became dark, then she prepared supper. No Mary. Miz Gryder muttered something under her breath. She grew tired of waiting, and sat down to eat by herself. She put Mary's supper in the oven to stay warm. Miz Gryder sat down and started working the crossword puzzle. She grew impatient with the puzzle and set it aside. Still no Mary.
Finally, Miz Gryder grew weary of waiting. She took the food out of the oven and put it in the refrigerator. Then she went to bed. She did not go to sleep.
---
The chief demons were assembled in Screwtape's meeting room; all the faithless workers in the service of His Most Awful Lowliness, each in charge of a district of the United States. They stood behind their respective chairs, looking toward the door where they expected him to make his entrance. Their countenances reflected a mixture of apprehension, fear, greed and defiance.
Screwtape decided to let them wait. The tactic not only showed everybody who was in charge, it added to his underlings' anxiety, thus lessening any tendency they might have to challenge him.
“Gentlemen,” Screwtape began, “…and I use the term loosely (moderate amused murmurs), we have a lot of ground to cover, so I'll get right to the point: We're losing. Let's be clear: We're not just losing, we're getting our heads served up on platters; we're being disemboweled, demolished, OBLITERATED!” Screwtape's voice started menacingly low and increased in volume until he screamed the last word. The devils were taken aback by the suddenness of Screwtape's temper. The hair on the backs of their necks tingled. They were cowed.
“WHAT do YOU plan to do about it?”
“Miss Caliente, call a meeting for 4 p.m.”
---
Joe's blood was boiling. His whole body felt on fire. Mary was all he could think about; the way her lips felt, hard against his; her body soft beneath her blouse and slacks. Study was out of the question. He couldn't concentrate for more than five seconds. He had to be with her; had to have her. He couldn't wait any longer. He picked up the phone. “Mary?”
“Yes, Joe?” The sweet sound of her voice raced through him, churning.
“Can I see you?”
“Sure. Come on over.”
Joe fairly sprinted for the door.
“Joe! Where are you off to?” his mother wanted to know.
“Out.”
“What about your studies? You have school--” Isabell Langston's words were cut off by the slamming of the door.
Miz Gryder was sitting in the kitchen shelling peas when she heard the knock on the door. She just started to rise when Mary zipped down the hall and flew to the door. The young lovers locked lips in a hot embrace before saying a word. Miz Gryder sat back down to her peas, shaking her head and muttering about “in my day” and “properly chaperoned.”
Joe and Mary finally extricated themselves, allowing a few inches distance between their bodies. Then they locked fingers and went off down the sidewalk, swinging their hands to and fro, wordlessly content.
Miz Gryder watched them go, then set about canning the peas. She canned until it became dark, then she prepared supper. No Mary. Miz Gryder muttered something under her breath. She grew tired of waiting, and sat down to eat by herself. She put Mary's supper in the oven to stay warm. Miz Gryder sat down and started working the crossword puzzle. She grew impatient with the puzzle and set it aside. Still no Mary.
Finally, Miz Gryder grew weary of waiting. She took the food out of the oven and put it in the refrigerator. Then she went to bed. She did not go to sleep.
---
The chief demons were assembled in Screwtape's meeting room; all the faithless workers in the service of His Most Awful Lowliness, each in charge of a district of the United States. They stood behind their respective chairs, looking toward the door where they expected him to make his entrance. Their countenances reflected a mixture of apprehension, fear, greed and defiance.
Screwtape decided to let them wait. The tactic not only showed everybody who was in charge, it added to his underlings' anxiety, thus lessening any tendency they might have to challenge him.
“Gentlemen,” Screwtape began, “…and I use the term loosely (moderate amused murmurs), we have a lot of ground to cover, so I'll get right to the point: We're losing. Let's be clear: We're not just losing, we're getting our heads served up on platters; we're being disemboweled, demolished, OBLITERATED!” Screwtape's voice started menacingly low and increased in volume until he screamed the last word. The devils were taken aback by the suddenness of Screwtape's temper. The hair on the backs of their necks tingled. They were cowed.
“WHAT do YOU plan to do about it?”
Screwtape
waited a full five minutes for an answer, while his fierce gaze
skewered each one of his underlings in turn. Five minutes are five
eternities, even for chief demons who have lived thousands of years,
when they are five silent minutes under the boss' glare, and the boss
is expecting you to come up with a brilliant suggestion to win souls
for the underworld - and you have nothing. You wrack your brain -
nothing. Sweat pops out under your arms, on your forehead; nothing.
You squirm in your chair; nothing! The boss is looking directly at
you. His eyes burn. His lips curl in a contemptuous sneer. He sucks
his teeth, making an obscene smacking sound. In the next instant he
could be across the table; his talons deep in your side; your head
deep in his throat. His terrible teeth. You strive to think of an
idea, but terror drives every thought out of your mind.
“Well?” Screwtape intensified his gaze. “Anybody got an idea? ANYthing?” Then another long silence. It dragged on; the torture dragged on. Finally, Screwtape gave a derisive snort. “That's what I thought. That's just what I expected. Nothing. NOTHING! You are all WORTHLESS! I could make an afternoon's light snack of all of you - if I didn't fear indigestion! Screwtape laughed a vulgar laugh.
“I suppose it's up to me. I have to do your work for you, as usual. Well, I'm used to it. Let's get on with it. What's our best weapon against the Bully?”
Screwtape waited for an answer.
His Over Demons shuffled nervously. No one wanted to be the first to speak. It was better to have someone else offer a suggestion the Chief would shoot down. The risk wasn't worth the potential gain. The Chief never approved of anybody's ideas but his own. Even if you happened to guess exactly what he was thinking, he would change his original idea, just to make you look foolish. Well, they didn't want to play that game.
“I'm waiting.”
Still nothing.
“So nobody's got any imagination. Nothing new there. Nobody even knows standard operating procedure? Come on - it's not a trick question - what is the one thing the Enemy gave mankind that we use so effectively against him?”
“Sex.”
“Who said that?” Screwtape wanted to know. His fierce glance went around the table. Every demon was trying to avoid his gaze.
“Of course. Every Saturday night, people all over the world are getting shot or stabbed because of copulation, or the lack thereof.
“And what's second? I won't tax your miniscule brains - it's drugs. The two working together is our most potent weapon against the Enemy. Problem is, drugs often diminish the libido, so even if the barriers are lowered, sexual activity is down. The two sometimes cancel each other out.
“We need to take the next step. There's not much we can do with sex. The Enemy made up the rules on that one; all we can do is encourage excesses - which we're pretty good at. But that's not going to take us to the next level. We've maxed out our productivity in that area.
“So where do we go from here? Where can we increase efficiency?
“The answer is obvious. Our best weapon is operating at maximum efficiency. That leaves number two: Drugs.
“Every few years, we come out with newer, more powerful, more addictive drugs - but we've still got just a tiny fraction of the market potential. We need something better - the ultimate drug - a drug so sweet, so delicious, so enticing the beasts will prefer it to sex; so powerful it will overcome sex - and even - Screwtape paused for effect - even GOD himself!”
The Over Demons gasped. The shock of hearing the name of the Enemy filled them with terror and excruciating pain. One of the Underworld's most important rules was never to speak the name of the Enemy. Their eyes riveted on Screwtape, who through centuries of practice and superior willpower was able to hide his own pain.
It was worth it, Screwtape thought as he swallowed his pain. Now he had their undivided attention, respect - and more importantly, their fear.
“Yes,” Screwtape continued as if nothing had happened; as if the terrible uttering of the Enemy's name had been offhand, a matter of no concern or discomfort to him. “Yes. What we need is a new drug. It must be all-consuming; more important to the humans than breathing. We have to make it so sweet that it will be irresistible. We have to raise the addiction rates; no more paltry ten or fifteen percent - we need to raise the bar, gentlemen. I want some bold goal-setting. I want 30 percent of the population addicted after two years; 50 percent after five - after 10 years, I want every man, woman and child under its power - and ours!
The room fell silent. Screwtape was staring at a room full of dumbstruck demons. They knew Screwtape had a reputation as a tough leader, but this was madness. The entire world addicted to a single drug? It was inconceivable.
Humans are so fickle. You can't even get everybody in one small town to agree on the best hamburger joint. The demons had seen drugs of all types wax and wane. For a time this drug would be in fashion, then another would come along, promising more sweets for the Boss. But never did the addiction rate rise very high, including all known drugs, alcohol and tobacco. The whole world hooked on one drug? Evidently, Screwtape has lost his mind.
“I know what you're thinking,” Screwtape told his mute overlings. “You all think I'm crazy.”
Screwtape shrugged off a respectful murmuring and shaking of heads.
“Don't humor me. You all think I'm crazy. I'm not. We - that is you - (he pointed his bony finger all around the table) will come up with this drug. You will come up with this drug within one year. Exactly one year from today at this time, we will meet here at this table. I will share lunch with whoever has come up with the new drug. The rest of you, of course, will PROVIDE lunch!”
Screwtape licked his lips and grinned an evil grin. “Of course, if no one comes with a new drug, (Screwtape wrinkled his face into a mock sad frown) I shall have to dine alone” - Screwtape burped a vulgur burp.
“And don't think you can escape punishment by coming up with a drug that doesn't meet my goals. We will put your drug to the test. If it fails, you fail - and I eat.
“I have decided to call this grand campaign 'Project Sugarloaf.' I'm tired of half a loaf - I want it all. And I will get it all - or I will get YOU all.”
Screwtape scowled around the table. The faces of his Over Demons were pale with terror.
“That's it, gentlemen,” he said briskly. “Be back here in one year. Attendance at the meeting is, of course, mandatory.”
The district managers for United States affairs slowly filed out of Screwtape's office. At the door, Glubwart turned, mustered his courage and spoke.
“Master?”
“Well?” Screwtape demanded harshly.
“I'm still puzzled and troubled about the Mary Parker affair. She doesn't fit any known pattern. I've tried everything. She always responds with unexpected behavior. I'm at my wit's end.”
Screwtape was barely listening. “At your wit's end - well, at least you didn't have to journey very far, my dimwitted friend.”
“I only bother to mention it, because I sense something bigger may be happening, sir,” Glubwart groveled.
“You think the Enemy is planning a major offensive in Clayton County, Alabama?! Don't make me laugh,” Screwtape scoffed. “Get out. You have more important things to think about than one neurotic girl in a backwater town. You need to come up with a drug that will save your worthless hide!”
Glubwart started to object, but the red fury in Screwtape's eyes cowed him. He slunk out the door.
“Well?” Screwtape intensified his gaze. “Anybody got an idea? ANYthing?” Then another long silence. It dragged on; the torture dragged on. Finally, Screwtape gave a derisive snort. “That's what I thought. That's just what I expected. Nothing. NOTHING! You are all WORTHLESS! I could make an afternoon's light snack of all of you - if I didn't fear indigestion! Screwtape laughed a vulgar laugh.
“I suppose it's up to me. I have to do your work for you, as usual. Well, I'm used to it. Let's get on with it. What's our best weapon against the Bully?”
Screwtape waited for an answer.
His Over Demons shuffled nervously. No one wanted to be the first to speak. It was better to have someone else offer a suggestion the Chief would shoot down. The risk wasn't worth the potential gain. The Chief never approved of anybody's ideas but his own. Even if you happened to guess exactly what he was thinking, he would change his original idea, just to make you look foolish. Well, they didn't want to play that game.
“I'm waiting.”
Still nothing.
“So nobody's got any imagination. Nothing new there. Nobody even knows standard operating procedure? Come on - it's not a trick question - what is the one thing the Enemy gave mankind that we use so effectively against him?”
“Sex.”
“Who said that?” Screwtape wanted to know. His fierce glance went around the table. Every demon was trying to avoid his gaze.
“Of course. Every Saturday night, people all over the world are getting shot or stabbed because of copulation, or the lack thereof.
“And what's second? I won't tax your miniscule brains - it's drugs. The two working together is our most potent weapon against the Enemy. Problem is, drugs often diminish the libido, so even if the barriers are lowered, sexual activity is down. The two sometimes cancel each other out.
“We need to take the next step. There's not much we can do with sex. The Enemy made up the rules on that one; all we can do is encourage excesses - which we're pretty good at. But that's not going to take us to the next level. We've maxed out our productivity in that area.
“So where do we go from here? Where can we increase efficiency?
“The answer is obvious. Our best weapon is operating at maximum efficiency. That leaves number two: Drugs.
“Every few years, we come out with newer, more powerful, more addictive drugs - but we've still got just a tiny fraction of the market potential. We need something better - the ultimate drug - a drug so sweet, so delicious, so enticing the beasts will prefer it to sex; so powerful it will overcome sex - and even - Screwtape paused for effect - even GOD himself!”
The Over Demons gasped. The shock of hearing the name of the Enemy filled them with terror and excruciating pain. One of the Underworld's most important rules was never to speak the name of the Enemy. Their eyes riveted on Screwtape, who through centuries of practice and superior willpower was able to hide his own pain.
It was worth it, Screwtape thought as he swallowed his pain. Now he had their undivided attention, respect - and more importantly, their fear.
“Yes,” Screwtape continued as if nothing had happened; as if the terrible uttering of the Enemy's name had been offhand, a matter of no concern or discomfort to him. “Yes. What we need is a new drug. It must be all-consuming; more important to the humans than breathing. We have to make it so sweet that it will be irresistible. We have to raise the addiction rates; no more paltry ten or fifteen percent - we need to raise the bar, gentlemen. I want some bold goal-setting. I want 30 percent of the population addicted after two years; 50 percent after five - after 10 years, I want every man, woman and child under its power - and ours!
The room fell silent. Screwtape was staring at a room full of dumbstruck demons. They knew Screwtape had a reputation as a tough leader, but this was madness. The entire world addicted to a single drug? It was inconceivable.
Humans are so fickle. You can't even get everybody in one small town to agree on the best hamburger joint. The demons had seen drugs of all types wax and wane. For a time this drug would be in fashion, then another would come along, promising more sweets for the Boss. But never did the addiction rate rise very high, including all known drugs, alcohol and tobacco. The whole world hooked on one drug? Evidently, Screwtape has lost his mind.
“I know what you're thinking,” Screwtape told his mute overlings. “You all think I'm crazy.”
Screwtape shrugged off a respectful murmuring and shaking of heads.
“Don't humor me. You all think I'm crazy. I'm not. We - that is you - (he pointed his bony finger all around the table) will come up with this drug. You will come up with this drug within one year. Exactly one year from today at this time, we will meet here at this table. I will share lunch with whoever has come up with the new drug. The rest of you, of course, will PROVIDE lunch!”
Screwtape licked his lips and grinned an evil grin. “Of course, if no one comes with a new drug, (Screwtape wrinkled his face into a mock sad frown) I shall have to dine alone” - Screwtape burped a vulgur burp.
“And don't think you can escape punishment by coming up with a drug that doesn't meet my goals. We will put your drug to the test. If it fails, you fail - and I eat.
“I have decided to call this grand campaign 'Project Sugarloaf.' I'm tired of half a loaf - I want it all. And I will get it all - or I will get YOU all.”
Screwtape scowled around the table. The faces of his Over Demons were pale with terror.
“That's it, gentlemen,” he said briskly. “Be back here in one year. Attendance at the meeting is, of course, mandatory.”
The district managers for United States affairs slowly filed out of Screwtape's office. At the door, Glubwart turned, mustered his courage and spoke.
“Master?”
“Well?” Screwtape demanded harshly.
“I'm still puzzled and troubled about the Mary Parker affair. She doesn't fit any known pattern. I've tried everything. She always responds with unexpected behavior. I'm at my wit's end.”
Screwtape was barely listening. “At your wit's end - well, at least you didn't have to journey very far, my dimwitted friend.”
“I only bother to mention it, because I sense something bigger may be happening, sir,” Glubwart groveled.
“You think the Enemy is planning a major offensive in Clayton County, Alabama?! Don't make me laugh,” Screwtape scoffed. “Get out. You have more important things to think about than one neurotic girl in a backwater town. You need to come up with a drug that will save your worthless hide!”
Glubwart started to object, but the red fury in Screwtape's eyes cowed him. He slunk out the door.
