Not Today, Satan
Hell was a busy place ever since November 9th 2016. Lots of damnation, sudden death, other rather grim requests from North America, a few from around the globe, but mostly from people who wished any and all manner of early demise upon the PEOTUS. Many of these requests came from people who couldn’t believe what they’d woken up to.
Satan was rarely idle after things went to Hell, almost literally after the unlikely win by a bully even he would have no truck with. He’d taken a moment to read some of the missives again, wondering what was possible, what wasn’t. A rather fun one caught his eye as his assistant scurried in to leave lunch for him and get back to checking in damned souls.
“Please, let him get hit by a car, or for his jet to fall out of the sky. Maybe some of that fake gold plating in his penthouse will poison him!” was one enthusiastic please from somewhere around Chicago.
“Hmm, that has promise but his sycophants will blame it on liberals and maybe kick off another war that I simply don’t have time for.” Another plea for help, anything caught his eye, this one from a teen somewhere in rural America.
“Ok, I know I shouldn’t be asking you for favors but I can’t live here anymore. This isn’t ok, I can’t take the gloating. Please make this not be real, please make the news that he won a really, really bad nightmare? Please? My parents love Pence and I don’t want to be sent away! Please, take my soul, anything but make this not true!” Satan frowned at the letter, the desperation of a young human, one who was willing to bargain with him for a re-do. He sat it aside in the read later pile, which was thankfully short.
Most missives were easily burned after a quick perusal, most too fantastical even for his powers, or worse things even HE, Prince of Lies would not resort to for anything. Even Satan had a limit, which some people needed to realize. Though he pondered how soon the incoming figurehead would usurp that title from him. Soon he’d be the Bann or Lies or maybe just open a boutique of lies, really good ones that weren’t as transparent as the ones peddled by the incoming POTUS.
Another inquiry caught his attention, and soon he had filled another bin of requests to be scorched, most half-assed pleas made in a moment of duress that he knew the requester didn’t mean, ones that would be reneged on if he’d bothered to answer. That wasn’t his business either, to get fools out from under the weight of their hubris. Despite what many thought he didn’t make deals often, or without a great price paid to him. So many thought he’d take any deal offered even if he got the short end of the stick.
Souls were easy currency, they were nothing in the economy of Hell and thus useless to offer up to him. Service, being an agent of His will in the world, now that had a chance of getting his attention. Sadly, many thought the evil that mankind did was all in His name, easily swayed by the power they thought he would toss around so easily.
The truth was some people were just damned evil, and not his brand of evil. Not his preferred type of it he would say. That included someone who petitioned him almost weekly for more power, more ability to corrupt his fellows. Except Fannon didn’t need his help, he’d done a bang up job all on his own with his fake news agency, the lies he’d spun to gormless fools that ate up his every word as truth that would get them the women, the power, everything they thought was their due.
Fannon’s requests got more and more outlandish until one landed on his desk that made even HIM feel unclean after reading the scrawls, stained with whiskey and something else that the fool thought would help his plea be heard. It wasn’t an actual letter, hand addressed to Satan, it was a transcription from one of the imps charged with putting requests made to HIM into a tangible thing to read, file, destroy or on his whims, acted upon. They capture the desperation of thought perfectly in tattered paper, dark reds, blues and blacks, stains mimicking the darkness of the soul that brought forth such a request for his consideration.
It was the burnt edges, the dark rings that stank of cheap whiskey and the shaky scrawl begging such horror if only he would help Fannon secure his power in the White House, power he knew was not truly his that the demon lord incinerated it with a thought and left for his rooms, eager for a bath, good drink and a romp with a succubus to cleanse that from his mind.
He hung a sign on the door before locking it, simply stating “Not today, Satan. Not today”