As the instigator, I feel I should probably contribute something. So, here is the (thoroughly unfinished) story that actually made me think this might be a nice thing to have.
And, yes, I know that the last chunk is consists primarily of awkward exposition. Here it is anyway, dammit.
The Devil had an Italian soda. Peach. A little girls drink. A mormon girls drink. Lotâ€™s of syrup, lots of soda. No whipped cream. He seemed to enjoy it.
I spotted him in the cafÃ© late one morning. Of course, I didnâ€™t know he was the devil when I saw him. But that revelation would come soon.
I watched him as the cute girl with the pierced eyebrow took his order. He seemed awkward, unsure of himself. I guess when youâ€™re the Devil, you donâ€™t really have the same set of social skills as the rest of humanity. The rest of the pantheon. Whatever.
The girl smiled at him as she handed him the soda. A sly smile, like they were sharing some ironic little tale, and no one else in the coffee shop knew. I knew the smile well, I saw it every time she handed me my grande latte. Every coffee girl in the world had a smile like that.
The Devil walked away from the counter and made for a small loveseat near by me. Tallish, with long brown hair, the Devil could use some style tips. Never wear a short sleeve button up shirt over a t-shirt, unless its buttoned up. Boots donâ€™t work with shorts. Ever.
Slung over his shoulder, the Devil was carrying a battered leather briefcase. Hong Kong knockoff of a second rate designer label, Iâ€™d wager. But he clearly bought it second hand, so itâ€™s no big deal. He sat down on the loveseat and lowered the briefcase to the seat next to him. He pulled from it an aging iBook, and opened it up. He was using some third party OS, Linux or something. At least he wasnâ€™t using Windows. The Devil seemed determined to avoid stereotype.
Of course, at this point, he was just Soda Geek to me. He was Poor Kid.
I guess he saw my reflection in the startup screen, or maybe it was just some fucked up spidey-sense, but as I was staring at the back of his head, wondering how his ears came to be so uneven, he turned slowly around at looked straight into my eyes. He smiled, like a kid who is sick of hearing how he looks like such and such celebrity, but kind of flattered still.
Then, out of nowhere vertigo swept over me, and everything went black.
Thatâ€™s when I had my first grand mal seizure.
Consciousness trickled back into me in stages. I guess I regained motor skills and some semblance of coherence pretty quick. Memory was the last thing to show up. Iâ€™m still missing the time between that mirror-against-mirror moment looking into the devils eyes, and stubbing out my cigarette against the side of the dumpster out back.
It would seem that the Devil was the first to get to me. I was shaking on the floor, and he hopped over the back of the loveseat and rolled me over onto my side. After I started moving around and answering simple questions, he walked me out the backdoor and gave me a cigarette.
Thatâ€™s what he told me, anyway. But, he would later point out, he is the King of Lies.
The cigarette was a French thing, galloise, or something like that. I had a taste like barbecued chocolate in my mouth when I came back from the blackout. It was my first cigarette. The Devil said I asked for it.
What happened, I asked. Why am I smoking?
He told me. Everything that had happened, from the seizure onward. Good memory, the Devil has.
He asked if I needed a ride, I told him I could walk home.
You sure, he said. Remember you just had a seizure. I could call a cab. Or I could drive you.
Itâ€™s a teachers trick. Offer an unattractive option first, then a slightly more pleasant option. Guarantees that the subject will choose the latter.
So I climbed in his car. A bit messy, but a decent car nonetheless. A jetta, fairly new, black. I had too move the seat back to fit in. Who keeps the passenger seat jammed all the way forward?
Pulling into the street, I finally got my bearings enough to ask the Devil who he was.
He told me his name was Luke. I never got that double-level joke until just now, writing it down. Luke as in Lucifer, but also as in the gospel according to. I wonder if he had to sit up at night to think that one up.
We pulled up outside my building. I was still confused enough that I didnâ€™t realize that I never told him where I lived. Or maybe I did. Maybe while I was smoking. I guess I was talking then.
I got out of the car. I thanked him through the rolled down window. He stared straight ahead.
Hey, I called. Thanks for the ride, I called.
He acted like he hadnâ€™t heard me. He kept staring at the car in front of him, and at length, he spoke.
â€œWould you believe anything I told you right now?â€
...And then they made me their chief.