the beach. “And time has never been something I’ve had too much of. Bartering for souls, keeping the penitents in agony, stoking the infernos of unutterable suffering and so forth. And then, as if that’s not enough, having to deal with all the endless constant whining. Oh please, Master, please take my soul, please grant me unlimited wealth and fame and eternal youth and sex with any gal in the office, I’ll do anything you ask, please please. When a guy’s in the damnation game, he never gets a moment’s rest. If I’d met you five years ago, Mel? I don’t think I’d have stopped working long enough to realize what a wonderful, giving person you really are. But I’ve got the time now, baby. Come here a sec. I’ve definitely got lots of time for you now.”
They moved in together. They had children—a girl and a boy. They shopped at the Health Food Co-Op, campaigned for animal rights, and installed an energy efficient Aga in the kitchen. They even canceled the lease on the Devil’s Volvo, and transported themselves everywhere on matching ten-speed racing bikes. These turned out to be the most wonderful and relaxing days the Devil had ever known.
Then, one afternoon when the Devil was sorting recyclable materials into their appropriate plastic bins, he received a surprise visitor from his past. Melanie had just taken the kids to Montessori. The Devil had been looking forward all day to catching up with his chores.
“How they hanging, big boy? I guess I imagined all sorts of comeuppances for a useless old fart like yourself, but certainly never this. Wasting your once-awesome days digging through garbage. Cleaning the windows and mowing the lawn.”
When the Devil looked up, he saw Punky Wilkenfeld climbing out of a two-door Corvette. Clad in one of the Devil’s old suits, he looked slightly out of place amidst so much expensive retailoring. Some guys know how to hang clothes, the Devil thought. And some guys just don’t.
“Why, Punky,” the Devil said softly, not without affection. “It’s you.”
“It sure is, pal. But they don’t call me Punky anymore.”
“Oh no?” The Devil absently licked a bit of stale egg from his forepaw.
“Nope. These days, people call me Mr. Wilkenfeld. Or better yet, the Eternal Lord of Darkness and Pain.”
“It’s like this, Pop,” Punky continued over Red Zinger tea in the breakfast room. “When you took off, you left a trillion hungry mouths to feed. Mouths with razor-sharp teeth. Mouths with multitudinously-forked tongues. Frankly, I didn’t know what to do, so I turned the whole kit-and-kaboodle over to the free-market-system and just let it ride. We went on the Dow in March, and by summer we’d bought out two of our closest rivals—Microsoft and ITT. I even hear Mr. Hot-Shot Heavenly Father’s been doing a little diversifying. Doesn’t matter to me, either. Whoever spends it, it’s all money.”
“It’s always good to see a former employee make good, Punky,” the Devil said graciously. “I mean, excuse me. Mr. Wilkenfeld.”
Punky finished his tea with a long, parched swallow. “Ahh,” he said, and hammered the mug down with a short, rude bang. “I guess I just wanted you to know that I haven’t forgotten you, Pops. In fact, I’ve even bought this little strip of beach you call home, and once we’ve finished erecting the new condos, we’ll move on to offshore oil rigs, docking facilities, maybe even a yachting club or two. Basically, Pop, I’m turning your life into scrap metal. Nothing to do with business, either. I just personally hate your guts.”
The Devil gradually grew aware of a dim beeping sound. With a sigh, Punky reached into his vest pocket and deactivated his digital phone with a brisk little flick.
“Probably my broker,” Punky said. “He calls at least six times a day.”
The Devil distantly regarded his former chargé d’affaires, whose soft pink lips were beaded with perspiration and bad faith. Poor Punky, the Devil thought. Some guys just never learn.
“And wanta know the best thing about this shoreline redevelopment project, Pop? There’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. You take it to the courts—I own them. You take it to the Board of Supervisors—I own them. You organize eight million sit-down demonstrations and I pave the whole damn lot of you over with bulldozers. That’s the real pleasure of dealing dirt to you born-again types, Pop. You gotta be good. But I don’t.”
The Devil watched Punky stand, brush himself off, and reach for his snakeskin briefcase. Then, as if