HIGHWAY TO HELL

The strangest thing happened to me the other day. I had just entered a coffee shop, and ordered myself a cappuccino, when i noticed a cellphone lying on the table in front of me. When summoned, the buxom waitress looked askance. "Look," she said, fixing me with a stern look, "you found it." And with that, she flounced away, no doubt to hassle some other equally nonplussed and well meaning customer.
I stared at the cell phone lying on the table. It was the latest razr sleek model, in a gold covering. Very bling-bling. And even as I watched, the phone began to vibrate and ring. The display flashed, bright red. The ring-tone was Highway to Hell.
Interesting choice.
The phone kept ringing, and the other customers in the coffee-shop began to dart suspicious, evil glances at me. One pious-looking woman, accompanied by her five-year old son, placed her well-manicured hands over her son's ears, as his head started bobbing in beat to the refrain.
The song got louder and louder, till it filled the whole shop.
Soon all the customers in the shop had turned towards me, steely anger glinting in their eyes. One portly man, a regular mafioso-looker, approached my table and stabbed a stubby finger in the phone's direction. "Pick it up," he said, "Pick it up, or else..." He clenched his hand into a fist.
Suffice it to say I took the call.
"Hello?" I murmured, tentatively.
""Where are you?" A shrill voice shrieked. "All the junior demons are on strike! And you know what that means - no torments for all the wicked sinners! Tantalus is happily munching on fruit and drinking. Sisyphus is taking a break from rolling that stone uphill. And no one is prodding Adolf's butt with a fiery pitchfork! Can you imagine? He's actually smiling! And Stalin has sneaked across to talk to Chegniz Khan!" Here the voice dropped to whisper. "You better come home quick, I think a rebellion might be in the offing..."
"But..." I finally managed, after a stunned moment. "Who is this?"
"Huh?" The shrill voice was taken back. "Isn't this Lucifer?"
"I found this phone..."
"Christ!" The voice cursed and hung up.
I stared at the phone, perturbed. After a moment, I ventured to examine the phone, and called the last number dialed, hoping to discover who the cellphone owner was and return his bizarre instrument to him.
It was an American number. A girl with a southern accent picked up the phone on the first ring.
"Hello?" She drawled, shyly. "Is-Is that God? Sorry, I'm just an intern, the President didn't expect your call and he's just in the loo." She giggled now, a little embarrassed. "This is my first day in the Oval Office. God, if you have a moment, I was wonderin', if you heard my last prayer-"
I ended the call.
This phone was truly evil.
The phone rang again, and before the customers could gather and lynch me, I answered it. A germanic voice spoke. "Mephistopheles? This is Dr Faustus here. You haven't been..."
I snapped the phone shut. The phone rang again, and I stuffed it into my handbag, and ran into the street. No matter how many times I pressed the end call button, the phone would soon start to ring. Kim Il Jong, the editor of the New York Times, a leader of an obscure californian cult, Richard Branson's personal assistant, all called, in quick succession.
The devil was clearly a busy man.
I tried everything. I tried to lose the phone - but it wouldn't get lost. (which made we wonder - how had the devil lost the phone in the first place?) I tried to burn it - it proved immune to fire. I tried to drown it, to bury it, to convince a dog to eat, to give it away at blind beggar - but nothing worked. The phone remained, stubbornly, with me.
Finally, the devil called himself. "I need my phone back," he said.
"I've been trying to get rid of it," I told him. "Really, I don't want it. It's horrible. I've been getting a horrible perspective into how things really work - and it's really sinking me into depression-"
The devil cut me off. "Let's cut to the chase. Give me back my phone. What do you want? Helen of Troy - the most beautiful woman? Hugh Grant? Prince?"
"No!" I screamed horrified.
The devil sighed. "So what do you want then? Quick, I'm a busy man. What will it be? You're a writer, I see. The pulitzer? The booker?" When I failed to respond, he continued. "You drive a hard bargain. The nobel it is."
"Look," I finally managed to stammer. "I don't want those things, at least, not this way. It wouldn't be real. You can have your cell phone back."
The devil grunted, disgusted. "Nothing in life is for free, baby, that's my motto, and it's the only thing I stick by. So, if you aren't going to accept something in return, we'll have to work something else out." He paused. "Let me ask the Big Guy. Hold on."
I was put on hold for a few minutes, to the tune of Madonna's "Like a Prayer." Finally, the devil came back on.
"That was funny," I said.
"What was?" He replied, his voice suspicious.
I told him about the hold tune. He cursed. 'That Gabriel again! Always playing practical jokes on me! huh!" He paused, and then his tone changed. "I spoke to the Man Upstairs. He'll manage the exchange, but this way, you'll have to give up something."
"What?"
"Frankly, if I were in your shoes, I don't think I'd do it." The devil sighed. "But here it is. It's your choice." He told me how to get rid of the phone.
I couldn't believe it. "Are you sure that will work? It sounds so simple."
"Of course it will work," The devil replied, irritated. "A deal's a deal. You'll just have to stick to the terms. He ended the call.
I contemplated the phone for a couple of minutes. It began to ring. Then, I made a decision.
I did it.
Minutes later, I checked my bag. My prayers had been answered. The phone had gone.
Since that day, I've had to attend church regularly, even though I had been a confirmed agnostic for most of my adult life. As the devil says, a deal is a deal.
But one day, a thought crossed my mind.
A moment later, my landline began to ring.
It was the devil. "Yeah," he replied sheepishly. "I've been thinking that too. The Big Guy is the one that's gotten the most out of the whole affair - so it stands to reason...But there isn't anyway out of it. I'm mean, even if the Big Guy did set it up that way, you're bound to the terms, unless there's a loophole."
"Is there?"
"Well," the devil drawled, "I may be able to work something out."
And that's how I ended up in Hell Pit number 3, with a pair of horns surgically attached to my forehead, prodding Adolf's butt with a pitchfork.
Hell. It ain't so bad. The company's interesting - I got to give it that. Atilla and Rasputin are more entertaining company that Reverend Francis and Mervin, the church organist could ever be.
And Oscar Wilde, in Hell Pitt number 4, says the most hilarious things.

Red Rain

Light a fire. Light a fire that spreads fast. Light a fire that spirals into the sky, red tongues of flame licking the clouds, flames ascending the heavens. Watch the sky turn red, blood-red, watch the sky bleed red drops of rain onto the ground. The rain comes fast, red and full of fire, scorching skin, burning earth.

A god is dying, and his blood rains down upon us.

There is blood on our hands - on your hands and mine, and as we reach towards each other. My palms are slick with blood, my hands slide across your face, marking your face with blood. You reach, with your red fingers, inside of me.

And there under a red sky, under a bleeding, dying God, we make love.

His eyes are full of sadness, as he watches me climb onto your lap, watches you grasp my hips and heave, watches us beat a tattoo, faster and faster, against the red, bloody earth.

His eyes drip tears, crimson tears that drop upon my head and yours, tears that writhe down our bodies, sneak into our crevices, snake along the insides of our innards, worm through our veins, and pierce our hearts.

We shudder then, together, at the same time, we shudder. You pull my head down, onto your chest, and I rake my fingernails across your back. My screams are muffled by your skin, and your moans are silenced by my hand across your mouth.

Red rain still falls, as we wriggle apart, as I claw my way through red, bleeding mud away from you, as you struggle upright, zipping your fly, buttoning your wet, torn shirt.

The god above us breathes his last, his dying breath, forcing the clouds together, and thunder sounds across the sky.

I look up into the sky, full of horrible sound and noise. I am scared, and I pull my skirt down, wipe the mud and blood off my face.

In the distance, through the falling rain I see your back, as you walk between the trees. There is fury in me, and I clench my fist so hard, that blood spurts as my nails dig into my palm.

And you - you feel the heat of my glance on your back, you feel my burning anger sear your skin, charr your clothes. You pause, and you reach a hand across your back, fingering the marks of my nails, tracing a trail of love bites that lead towards your neck.

And then your eyes fill with fire, fill with venom, a poison that blackens your eyes. Your eyes spit black poison, and earth shrivels under that black, deadly glance.

Under the gaze of a dying god, Hatred is born.