Satan Loves You - By Grady Hendrix Page 0,59
an interview and the last thing he wanted was to do an interview with someone he assumed was a serious journalist and then watch it appear in the Village Voice. Satan’s first interview would be cheapened by appearing in a free paper. Without Nero here, he had no idea which of these reporters were important and which worked for giveaways that mostly existed to advertise adult massage services. He decided to play it safe and give everyone the cold shoulder. The reporters nodded to themselves as Satan turned his back on them. As expected, he was going to be a stiff.
“Perfect,” the religion correspondent for USA Today said to the stringer from Reuters. “My readers don’t want a sympathetic Satan, anyway.”
Where was Nero? Satan wanted to look around for him, but he could feel everyone’s eyes boring into his back and it made him too self-conscious to do anything but sit perfectly still. He wished he’ d brought a legal pad, or a pencil, or anything, really.
At the front of the room the bailiff stood up and shouted, “All rise for the Nevada First District Court of Carson City, Judge Cooooooodddddyyyyy Goooooold presiding!”
All around him Satan could feel people resist their natural inclination to burst into applause when Judge Cody Gold made his grand entrance, throwing out his billowing robes behind him and taking his seat on the bench.
“Welcome to the Nevada First District Court of Carson City. Brothers and sisters, we are gathered here today in the great state of Nevada to rule on the case of Babbit vs. The Devil, but before we begin, a quick show of hands. Who has my photo book?”
Almost every hand in the courtroom shot up.
“Righteous. How about my DVD?”
A few hands went down, but most stayed up.
“Anyone have an unauthorized copy of my new single, ‘Come Correct For Justice’?”
Three people kept their hands up.
“Those are unauthorized!” Judge Cody Gold roared. “Get them out of here. Torture them! Just kidding. No, wait. Is torture legal in Nevada?”
“It’s not illegal,” the clerk of court said.
“Then I’m not kidding. Torture the hell out of them.”
Deputies dragged the three protesting spectators out of the courtroom.
“That’s going to be on iTunes in two weeks. Can’t people wait for anything these days? Whatever happened to patience? Okay, first thing on the agenda: who is representing the plaintiff, Frita Babbit?”
“I am, your honor,” a slick young man in a nice suit said. “Eddie Horton of Bluestein, Krell, Capers and Cox.”
“Nice to meet you counselor,” Judge Cody Gold said. “I trust I don’t have to impress upon you that these proceedings need to be treated with the utmost seriousness, do I?”
“No, your honor,” Horton said.
“And who’s representing the defendant,” Judge Gold asked.
Satan hadn’t anticipated this part. He’d thought this would be a simple “He said/She said.” It was becoming clear that he hadn’t really thought any of this through.
“I am?” he said, rising.
“Who’re you? And why is your suit all torn up.”
“I was attacked outside the courthouse this morning,” Satan said.
“Why did people attack you?” Judge Gold asked. “Did you say something racist? Or sexist? Because there’s nothing the good people of Nevada hate more than racism and sexism.”
“I have no idea why I was attacked.”
“I didn’t hear a ‘your honor’ on the end of that.”
“Sorry?”
“When you address me you are addressing the whole body of American jurisprudence, and so I expect a little bit of respect. Gimme a ‘your honor’ on the end of your sentences or I’m gonna make you drop and give me fifty.”
“Fifty?”
“Push-ups!”
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, your honor?”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. What’s your name?”
“Satan, your honor.”
“That’s the name of the defendant.”
“Yes, your honor.”
“You’ve both got the same name? That’s going to get confusing. I’m going to call you Mike during the trial, all right?”
“Your honor, I am the defendant.”
“You’re representing yourself?”
“Yes, your honor. I guess I am.”
“The man who represents himself has a fool for a client,” Judge Gold said.
“Yes, your honor.”
“That means I think you’re a dick,” Judge Gold said.
“Oh,” Satan said.
“I’ll represent Satan,” a voice said from the back of the courtroom. “Your honor.”
All heads turned. There, standing in the double doors of the courtroom was Nero, resplendent in Roman finery. At four feet seven inches he didn’t cut the most impressive figure, but his brilliant white toga glowed. It was draped dramatically over one arm and a bold purple stripe ran along its edge. If he had not been standing in a dismal little room with laminated wooden walls it would have looked quite dramatic.