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The Devil talks... | small poet at large

small poet at large

The Devil talks to his teenage son and gets raked over the coals.

Shut the damned door behind you and take off those wingtip shoes! What have you done to your hooves? Hold them up. Higher! I want to see your red soles. Why did you bleach your hair white, why cover your horns? Are you trying to torture me? And your tail, your glorious tail, are you using your tail for a belt? With the fork for a buckle?

I don't mind rebellion, hell I invented rebellion. Hold my eyes, don't look up. By the time I was your age, I'd lost track of the souls I'd collected. You haven't bought one soul since your mother turned on me.

Your mother... She was the only survivor of Noah's flood. Stole the raft her sisters built, split their skulls with a staff. Deep-fried Noah's dove for dinner the night we conceived you.

I gave you a simple task yesterday. Occupy Sarah while Abraham and Isaac were away. Not snare her soul, just make small talk, flash that toothy grin, share some bread. Instead, Sarah asks about your kin, you sob, she strokes your hair, buries you in her bosom. Ten minutes later, you're pulling Abraham's knife away from Isaac's throat and sacrificing my stud ram to you-know-who.

Do you have any idea what you did? Do you know how long I worked to set that up? People will fill parchment for ages, debate the why, and guess-who will get the credit. What were you thinking?

Well, Loose Junior, quisling Loose Junior, will you say anything at all? Or do you have The Devil to pay?

Published in Sahara
All rights reserved including copyright - Richard H. Fox 2003