Meeting - Thursday - 9:45 P.M. Sharp

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.