There is no more quintessential shifting of blame, shirking of responsibility, laying of fault at the foot of a convenient scapegoat than the devil made me do it.

Think about it: He created the world and called it good. But even a flame burns itself out in search of darkness. Everything has its opposite, even existence; although, full disclosure, we, He and I, have never experienced its opposite.

He created all that is visible to the human eye, and when his creation disappointed, He could not blame himself (God forbid...so to speak), and so, he revealed me. I mean, the Bible is His word, yes? So, He blamed Eve's choice (original sin indeed; more like original scapegoating) on outside influences rather than an intrinsic flaw or design defect.

Deflect.

Consider this: if humanity has free will and makes choices considered not good (although I have to say that which is defined as good seems to live in a fluid, murky place), if you blame humanity, ultimately, you blame that which created humanity for having produced something at best, imperfect.

Similarly, if you say all is predetermined, that from the moment He conceived of Creation, He knew everything and everyone that would ever be until all that is returns to what it was pre-Creation, then who else can one blame other than the Creator?

The devil, of course.

And so, we have the devil made me do it.

Which, in the end, is all the same really.

As I said, everything in existence has its opposite. We, He and I, are the epitome of that duality. Two sides of the same coin, we are. The yin to his yang. The darkness he fills with light...or which douses it every now and again.

Where He is so too am I, the face he prefers to deny and call other.

It just makes Him and, I dare say, you, feel better to say the devil made me do it.

I don't mind.

"It's not a uniquely human condition."

Two men sit on the same side of a booth in a busy pub. If anyone cared, some would wonder if they were lovers.

The man who speaks wears no parka, despite freezing weather. He's in an immaculate bespoke suit. It almost swallows light, so dark is the black on black. He is regally pale in contrast, as if the warmth of the sun is a tale whispered by fairies.

His companion, leaning as far onto the wall as he can, is ruddy with drink. Even so, he is aware, sharp, focused.

Afraid.

"Come again?" he stammers.

The elegant man smiles like a rattlesnake.

"Hope. Hope is not a uniquely human condition."

"How so?"

"Take dogs, for example. You think it's love in their eyes when they stare at the dinner table? No. It's optimism. Begging for whatever scraps master will throw them."

"I see."

"Do you see you're the dog?"

"Who is the master?"

"Whom do you serve?"

"...I work at Sainsbury's, mate."

The man in the suit laughs, and the temperature in the pub drops. Winter's chill settles into the warm public house.

"Did you study Latin in school?"

"I remember a class, but nothing stuck."

The pale man calls for another round.

"Dum spiro spero." Two pints of Kronenbourg land on the table and the server quickly disappears. He's careful not to touch the man on the outside of the booth's seat, but he can't say why. "While I breathe, I hope."

"I like that."

"Breathing, or hoping?"

"Both."

"Abandon one, and you'll abandon the other."

The fearful man doesn't know what to say, so he drinks.

"Do you know why I order ale when I take these little walks topside?"

"Topside?"

"Among you mud-fucking monkeys. His favorite pets. His dogs. Only, your dogs are actually dogs, so I think you have the better of it."

"Mate, I'm just trying to have a pint. Never owned a dog, nor fucked a monkey."

The pale man laughs again; mugs on the table frost over.

"I like you, Oliver."

"Ollie. Dad was Oliver."

"Oh, I know him."

"Knew him?"

"Know."

"He was a right cunt."

"Is."

"What're you on about, anyway?"

The suited man swirls a delicate index finger in his pint. "I order ale because He made wine." Bright yellow lager turns into black stout.

The drunk doesn't believe his eyes, so he shuts them.

"Spirans erit cupidum memoria, Ollie."

"Cupid's memory?"

"What would you give to keep breathing? To prevent breath from being a fond memory?"

For the first time, Ollie looks into his guest's eyes. He sees a beautiful creature who looks like a man, but doesn't know beauty. True fear is lead inside him; even beatings taken as a child from Oliver the elder didn't weigh like this moment.

"Mate," he whispers, voice tight and chest hollow, "not much. To you? Nothing."

"Do you know who I am?"

"I can guess your name."

The devil laughs and everyone shivers.

I tell five students to wait at the corner in the afternoon sun. They obey.

“But school is done,” a demanding third-grader says, “and I wanna cross the street now!”

I just look at the kid, and he hangs his head. We go to the same red-brick elementary school, but I am in fifth grade and I am a “safety boy.”

And the white cloth “safety patrol belt” that stretches over one shoulder and down and around my waist commands respect. It is the elementary school symbol of peace, justice, and crosswalk control. And attached to my safety belt is one extra bit of authority—a lieutenant’s badge. Which means I can boss some of my fellow safety boys around.

I cannot help that my position brings out the worst in me. Excessive pride produces the elementary school equivalent of being drunk with power. Not a good look for a lawman, I know, but…

“Hey!” an adult voice snaps me out of a braggadocious daydream.

It’s Mr. Coates, the school janitor/safety boy director, standing in the middle of the street with outstretched arms. I immediately tell the kids on my corner to cross the street.

Soon, Mr. Coates tells me that one of my charges went home sick, and I need to pull another safety boy off this street and put him on the school driveway.

I walk up the street and yell, “Tucker, take the driveway post.”

Tucker shakes his head.

I cannot allow a subordinate to question my absolute authority. I get nose-to-nose with Tucker and shout, “You are gonna go there, NOW!”

“Make me,” he says.

I reassess, the mark of a true leader. And I say, “Never mind, Tucker. I’ll take the driveway post, and tell Mr. Coates that you refused to go.”

Before I can take a step, Tucker stomps off to the driveway.

Later, when the last child has crossed the street, I turn and Tucker is standing in my way. He pushes me. I push back.

The next thing I know, the two of us are throwing punches, rolling around on the sidewalk outside a drug store. Several safety boys surround us, yelling. All of us are still wearing our safety belts.

“Disgraceful!” a woman’s voice quiets the lawboys and stops the fight. “I am reporting all of you to your principal.”

The next day at school I am called to the principal’s office. What did the passerby say? Am I about to be stripped of my lieutenant’s badge? Maybe even lose my safety patrol belt?

At the office, the principal says four words, “Don’t do it, again.”

That is all!

As I walk back to class, my fiendish pride returns and I plot ways to make Tucker feel my wrath.

People who say, “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,” in response to being uncomfortable in summer temps have never attended a Council of the Damned meeting. Heat is just one of the factors that makes these unbearable. I’ve been a member for some time now and still haven’t gotten use to the conditions.

The room smells of burnt hair. It’s poorly lit. Heavy, woolen drapes have never been pulled back so the windows have never been opened. Gritty dust clings to every surface. The constant sound of an unseen, leaking faucet reverberates across the barren walls.

Thirteen chairs are situated around the trapezoid-shaped table. Four occupy each lateral side while five are stationed on the longest parallel side. I’m in the tenth position. An elevated, over-stuffed throne covered with blood-red, crushed velvet and adorned with skulls is situated on the table’s narrow end.

The individual chairs are uncomfortable. There’s no contour to the seats. The unpadded backs extend up just below your shoulder blades and have irregularly spaced, knobby protrusions. The front legs are shorter than the rear ones by almost two inches. Arm rests are nonexistent. As you are constantly adjusting your posture, it’s impossible to remain in one position for any length of time.

Arriving council members gravitate to their assigned spots. Names are not used here. We are referred to by the corresponding number of our table position. Number One, to the throne’s right, is the designated secretary, hence the pen and paper in front of him.

On our chairs is an individualized list of things each of us are responsible to complete after the meeting. I pick up mine to read: Take Cerberus for a walk and clip his nails. Seriously? Again? I did these last week. Still have a torn rotator cuff and bite marks as proof. I despise that hellhound. Everyone is less than enthused with their assignments as well. We shift in our seats, miserably waiting.

The pair of large metal doors behind the throne open, accompanied by that distinctive creaking sound. Two imposing figures clad only in loincloths emerge. Their muscular bodies covered with sweat and soot. Their faces are obscured by burlap sacks. Narrow horizontal slits have been cut for the eyes. One is holding a scimitar. The other a glaive. I say to myself, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Suck-Up Twins.”

We immediately rise to attention with lowered heads. Our boss strides in with an oversized, almost cartoonish, pitchfork and occupies his designated place. He pauses for dramatic effect, then sits. Raising his hand, he quickly lowers it as a directive. We gingerly take our seats.

He bellows, “How long have you all worked for me here at Fallen Angel Enterprises?”

Attempting to interject some jocularity into the meeting, Number Nine replies, “Feels like an eternity.” Expecting an aggregate chuckle from her peers, Number Nine swallows hard when the room remains quiet except for the now amplified sound of dripping water. Our eyes focus on her.

With a tilted head, Satan turns toward the comment’s source. “It appears we have a comedian joining us tonight.” Nine does not respond. “Speaking of comedians, weren’t you the one who missed out on securing Bob Sagat’s soul?” In an attempt to divert the pending wrath, Nine stammers, “Ah, um...me...no, that was Number Twelve’s assignment.”

From a rush of adrenaline, Twelve sits bolt upright, his back pressing against the raised bumps, and defiantly counters with, “Excuse me, absolutely not. That’s incorrect. You might want to check the records as I was never notified of being the lead in that case. And, I don’t appreciate being thrown under the bus or...”

“Maybe Number Nine needs some time to work on her jokes,” the Prince of Darkness interjects. “How about a week in our,” creating air quotes with raised demonic fingers resembling dried twigs, “Day Spa.” A collective gasp resonates from us. “Percy. Melvin. Escort Nine to the lower level.” The burly duo step forward and grab her by the elbows. Still holding their armament, she is lifted out of her chair with ease. Number Nine offers no resistance.

Number Three purses his lips, which had been sewn shut after they removed his tongue. As the only member who has ever returned from a visit to the “Day Spa,” he knew what was in store for Number Nine. The next 168 hours will be unpleasant, even by Hell’s standards, for one of the Council’s newest additions.

Although we know what’s coming, the four of us don’t move until instructed, “Ten, Eleven, Twelve and Thirteen, shift one seat over to your left.” We oblige. Nine’s seat is warmer than I expected. Beelzebub then informs Number One to “Add ‘Find a replacement for Number Nine’ to next week’s agenda.” One obediently scribbles on the paper.

“Now, does anyone else have a witty comment they’d like to add for the amusement of the group before I continue?” Since all questions asked are rhetorical, no one speaks. “Great, let’s get on with the business at hand. Our numbers are dismal, our membership anemic,” Lucifer begins while referencing a spreadsheet. “For the first time in a while, we have ample room to move about down here. That’s bad. We need the misguided to keep us, ironically, out of the red. With talks of tariffs, the price of supplies to fuel our fire and brimstone are rising.” We nod in agreement, as per usual. Every statement during every meeting, whether based on reality or phantasmagorical, is responded to with agreement nods.

“Funding has dried up. People are finding their conscience. I thought AI would counter this but that hasn’t been the case. Sure, there’s the usual lost souls that have strayed way off the path. We’ll always have new arrivals from those who don’t think about the long-term ramifications of their actions.

“We’ve got to get back to some new, edgy advertising to attract the distractable. Using my name in ‘the devil may care attitude’ or ‘the devil is in the details’ phrases put me in the spotlight but soon became part of the common vernacular, like Band-Aid, Kleenex or Jacuzzi. They lost their uniqueness and became diluted from oversaturation.”

Both phrases were from the mind of Number Two, a senior member. He never got credit or even acknowledgement for either. I think these oversights still bruise his psyche.

Getting worked up, Satan continued, “And ‘YOLO’ was beneficial for us until folks started looking at it from the perspective of how they could make a positive difference in other’s lives.”

That was Number Eight’s contribution. Again, uncredited. Fun fact: Eight’s original anagram was YOLD, which stood for “Yo soy Oscuridad Lord Diablo” (“I am darkness, Lord Devil”) in an effort to grab a larger portion of the non-English speaking market share.

But some Gen Z temp mistakenly typed an O instead of a D in the press release. It wasn’t caught by the editor in time. So, when questioned about the mistake, they said it meant “You only live once.” Nobody has heard from or seen the temp and editor since.

Diablo continues his rant, “Just look at all who attended the Pope’s funeral. More than 250,000 faithful waited for hours to see him lying in state or attend his service. How did this happen?” Again, silence on our part. Satan warns, “Don’t make me be the bad guy.” I covertly roll my eyes. “Because I’ll be forced to if you all don’t start drumming up business.

“So, meeting adjourned. Help yourself to some tepid coffee and a moldy Danish as you leave. Don’t forget to complete those chores tonight. We’ll reconvene at 6:45 a.m. tomorrow so I can hear your ideas on how to fix our problem. Keep up the evil work. Now get the hell out and do my bidding.”

We shuffle toward the secondary exit with the common, unspoken thought - This meeting was yet another monumental waste of time since the gist of it could have been conveyed via email. But, as middle management, we understand our position in the company is to toil away. Our struggles, no matter how insignificant or long-term, are for the betterment of the whole.

Walking down the hall, we pass a doctor and nurse pushing a cart with a bottle of anesthesia, a scalpel and sutures heading toward the Day Spa. It’s going to be another long night, yet again, for the Council.

(A tongue-in-cheek take on this challenge)

The first time I met the devil was during divorce negotiations.

It began like a dream; infatuation, love at first sight, and unbridled passion. She was a beauty with brains, a university professor teaching mathematics. Me, a computer programmer who had a windfall with his current employer and got a handsome share of stock options as a joining bonus.

Our first real fight was just before marriage. She wanted a prenup and, besotted as I was, I read the agreement like a technical documentation and signed it. I wanted to get over all the humps so we could get to the good part. Then, we said our vows, promised to love, and respect each other till the end of time… which was today.

Flanked by our respective lawyers, we sat poker-faced in the room that smelled of varnish. I managed a glance at her and found a stare with the crooked smile I loved so much. Now, it seemed like a sly one.

As the lawyers exchanged notes, I avoided her gaze and scanned the room.

“Did you read the prenup before signing it?” My lawyer ended my reverie.

“Huh? What do you mean? Of course I did!” I was more embarrassed than angry.

“All of it, in detail?”

“Well, yeah. What’s the problem?” I frowned.

A sly smile across my wife's face told me the devil had got me.

“Here,” my lawyer flipped open the agreement to a page and almost broke his index finger jabbing at a sentence he wanted me to read: In the event of an irreconcilable dispute, party B (her name here) will receive everything divided by half…

A quick math told me I had to pay her twice of what I owned!

“Fuck me!” I managed.

“Already did.” She drawled.

It can tie you up and twist your words.

A noose threaded with lies and deceit.

The hang man stands in the shadow,caped in obscurity.

Around your neck its sinewy hands can lift you up to unfathomable heights.

It promises you the world,with the promises of archaic words.

The malevolent maestro bends the crooked wand,whipping the truth seekers into a chaotic choir of muted hymns.

Their voices rise,lifting the dead bones out of the sepulchre of a stillborn prevericated heart.

Lucifer stared out over the city of Los Angeles from his office window, the neon lights flickering like all of the broken promises. The bass of the club’s music pulsed through the walls, vibrating in his chest like a second heartbeat. The city was alive with desire, anger, lust: everything he had once embraced, everything he had once been.

The people below him, swarming through his nightclub, had no idea who they were dancing for. They had no idea that the devil himself, in human form, was watching over them. Watching them drown their own regrets in alcohol and pleasure, the same way he had tried to drown his own.

His fingers drummed against the glass, the sharp sound louder than the music. Every beat of it only added to his pounding headache, taunting him, reminding him of what he had lost.

Everything.

The crown he had once worn in Heaven. The love of his father, the one who had cast him down the moment his ambition had dared to defy the cold, fucking perfect order of Heaven. The trust he had betrayed, the family he had torn apart with his ego.

He had been so much more once.

Now, Lucifer was just a man, a broken man with a nightclub as his kingdom, and regret as his companion.

He turned away from the window, the darkness of the room swallowing him. The shadows had been his only companion since his fall. They knew him, the way he knew them. No light could reach him, not now, not after everything he had done.

Was it too late for him?

A knock at the door broke the silence of his self deprecating thoughts, sharp and intrusive. His head snapped toward it, and his eyes narrowed. Nobody came to see him in this office unless they had something to sell, or something to beg for.

“What?” he said in a low growl.

The door creaked open. She stepped in, her heels clicking softly on the floor, every step deliberate. Amber. She wasn’t one of his usual customers. She wasn’t here for the drinks, the drugs, or the distractions.

“You’re not in your usual mood,” she said, her voice smooth as silk, but with an edge to it. She took a step inside, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Lucifer leaned against his desk, the whiskey in his hand the only thing keeping him grounded from the chaos in his head. He looked at her with a mix of curiosity and annoyance.

“You know I hate visitors,” he said, the words laced with annoyance.

Amber’s eyes glittered a hint of amusement. “Maybe,”

“But I’m not here to reprimand you on your mood swings. I’m here to say that you’re wasting your time,” she said, her voice low. “You think you can hide behind this club, behind your games, and your broken dreams. But you're just like everyone else in this shitshow. You’re drowning in your own mess and pretending like you don’t give two fucks.”

A chill ran through him. He had heard it all before. But her words felt like a searing blade, cutting through the walls he had built around himself.

“What do you know about it?” He snapped, holding Amber’s gaze.

Amber didn’t flinch. “I know that you’re still holding onto something. That tiny flicker of hope, that piece of you that hasn’t fully died yet. Otherwise you would’ve burned this dump to the ground and gone all supervillain on us. But it’s only a matter of time before that hope burns out. The devil always gets burned in the end, doesn’t he?”

Lucifer’s grip on the whiskey glass tightened, his knuckles white. No one spoke to him like that. Not anymore.

“Get out,” he spat, his voice cold, like ice scraped on steel.

But Amber just smiled, a slow, dangerous smile. “I don’t think you want me to leave, Lucifer.”

In truth, He didn’t want anything to leave.

Lucifer turned away from her, his back to her now, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The weight of the years, the centuries of regret, crushed down on him. Was this all there was left?

“Even if what you say is true, I’ll never be free. I’ll never be redeemed. If I get burned, so be it. And I will drag everyone down with me.”

If the Devil were a figure, separate, it would be a fair fight. We'd have it out, battling all our facets like paragons, one city night. Alas, I fear the Devil is my shadow, long or short, trailing right beside me. But when there is no light, the Devil with care, slides closest to me, weaves between my ears, out of sight-- resides in the concave of my heart and mouth-- and stands behind my pupils with blinding fright.

And when I no longer have beside me that Shadow, of a doubt, when I feel most irately that I am Right, and am willing to death to scheme and blight, it's then, we can be absolutely sure, the Devil won.

04.15.2025

Devil May Care challenge @SelfishNeurotic

I'm walking down peter street, late evening.

I spy, to my surprise, the devil waiting at a bus stop.

I stop.

The Devil peers at me with a sideways glance, so I ask, "What are you doing here?"

Beelzebub looks at me, with the air of someone who's known too long to care.

He is unmistakable in his appearance though as to why, I'm unclear.

He meets my question with a slight mock grin, and turning eyes to the sky he replies,

"Waiting on a bus."

'Waiting' came with the ring of an eternity.

The kind of low buzz that sings constantly from electricity humming wires playing the rare to notice soundtrack of our day to day, it's The sound of forever.

Unnerved, a little I checked my watch with a jerk.

I thought I was late so I stammered,

"The bus, uh.. It should have just come and passed, right? Only just before I got here?"

I was thinking out loud.

"Has it come?"

Scanning in my direction with a disconnected glance, immediately turning his head back to a unfocused stare he shrugged.

"I'm still waiting" he growled plainly, in a raspy voice with flavor hints of disdain, but he maintained the sheerest of friendly demeanors.

I leaned nearer the sign post parallel my posterior, Resting my weight in a lean to on the poll I try to show

an illustration of my continuing comfort. A falsehood cause I understood who was right there facing me. I felt unsafe inexplicably, but the feeling was understandable.

My safety was lost to a battle with my imagination, sieged upon the realization of who was there making my acquaintance.

I gotta stop, so grasping at my common sense I try looking about, strategically casual.

I say "Looks like there's no telling" in a breathy sighing moan, as if to reassert my comfortable stance out loud.

He saw through me in one scant peek, I knew it, but my weak mind kept it's finger upon the now tattered security blanket It had made for me. Be polite and speak casually,or no, seek help or ask for help, but nothing's wrong really, so why am I alarmed?

What do I do? Here without a clue I ask the first thing I see when I drop my chin in self pity and my eyes focus on my feet on the ground.

Somehow, Their lack of wisdom was profound and exactly the answer i need.

Scrawled out I perceive letters and I read, beseeched by invisible words spelling out, 'do nothing at all'.

Then my shoes posed some

amusing proof I suppose that did well to actually ease me.

"I still have my soles intact!" I chuckle to myself and I'm amused at this fact before I recall my surreal situation.

The motivation for my jubilation did not absolve the danger presently felt right there.

So the grin my face cracked I withdrawal.

I must stave off the invitation my mind sending to welcome to myself total fear.

Then,

'stay calm'

A voice in my ear came through and instructs me. It tugs me a bit back to my senses and my back straightens, and I realize he winces at the momentary shift in stances.. and suddenly I see how I can withdrawal myself from any potential situation, with the lovely realization that I choose what I do and think and

Today I think where I'm going I'd rather walk, and quickly I saunter off.

I named the devil in my heart at the age of 21, when the world decided to hand another one of my friends a gun to play with. They go bang, if you didn't know that already. I named that devil grief, although I suppose a more apt name would have been to call him bitter. I've been a marionette for that devil since I was eight years old, when he was just a stranger and didn't need a name. Now I linger on puppet strings, my tears an accent to the organ songs played at every funeral. He comes around so often that most people would say we're close enough to call each other friends. Maybe it'd be easier if the only game being played was age, then at least I'd only be rolling the dice against time and expectation. But this devil plays with knives, stabbing through the back, striking through the heart. He plays with ropes and guns and the lungs of little girls. He plays with memories and mistakes, with heartbreak and heart attacks. He plays with age too, he takes too soon. He turns my grief to anger, to bitterness, to spite. He turns it into two fingers raised high to the sky, slowly stripping away my ability to cry. I named him grief as a reminder. I named him grief to remind myself of what sits at the impetus of all of my actions. I named him grief to give less weight to the bitterness and the hate that festers inside. He may sit inside my heart, and he might puppet half my moves. But I have named my devil grief and I've been told that names have power.