What say you fellas? This good or should I change up some things on this flash piece?
By Zeb Carter
The Devil. The devil isn’t what you think. He’s not red or blue with cloven hooves or some antiquated shit like that. He’s not a dark spirit that dwells in the hearts and dark recesses of immoral men. The Devil is flesh and blood.
He’s not confined to catacombs or stalactite adorned caverns at the earth’s core alight with orange flames or rivers of magma upon a throne of obsidian or carved from the bones of sinners and saints alike. The Prince of Darkness doesn’t live in an abandoned or dilapidated church or a warehouse near the docks. Satan lives in a confessional in a catholic church.
One with its candles lit daily and pristine carpets, floors and fixtures. He is still clothed in black, the only exception being the collar of white at his throat. He is portly with kind eyes not blue not quite brown almost slate grey with flecks of gold. Even with a bit of a belly he is a handsome enough man. His hair not blonde and not grey just white neatly parted and combed to the back razor straight. He greets every parishioner with a smile and crosses himself daily in full view of all who care to look.
After the holy water rests on his brow he walks into the confessional and will not leave until the sun has come down and it is time to lock up for the night. He doesn’t dine alone, hell he doesn’t dine at all. If you ask him if he’d eaten he will say he took his meal in the confessional and dismiss you with a hand to your shoulder and a soft smile.
This isn’t a lie.
When you walk into that other booth and ask his forgiveness and regurgitate your lustful thoughts or shoplifted piece of gum, your affairs or vanity, your alcohol fueled bisexual tryst or the little white lies you tell your followers on Instagram when you supposedly don’t use a filter. He takes them all and swallows them licks his lips as the words filter slowly through that screen and dance across his taste buds as gracefully as a ballet dancer.
When you leave that booth feeling lighter with nothing burdening your soul you thank him and in return do a few Hail Mary’s or Our Father’s and all is forgiven.
Despite the P.R. campaign The Prince of Lies, it would seem is your friend. What you should be worried about is the day that people stop coming to this little parish.
On that day, Old Scratch will grow hungry and when he does he like all creatures that hunt will venture outside of his territory and when he does anyone is fair game.
So be good little Christians and drag your spouse off the couch during the game and put your kids in clothes that itch their necks and wrists and make them tell the kindly priest about pinching their sibling or saying their first swear word.
Hell, tell them all about your jealousy of that prissy little bitch on the food network every time your muffins come out lopsided and scorched. You may think skipping a Sunday doesn't matter but trust me, it does. After all...
every little bit helps.
If I wrote it you can read it unless you sound like Fran Drescher.