78. Mission Statement

It’s a foolhardy thing to take your own deal to The Devil. Mephistopheles usually comes to Faust or even Motorcycle Club members, if it’s "Titties and Beer" that’s on offer. I doubted Mr D ever called them Hell’s Angels, even if that particular deal was ever done. You might say this particular spiel was a Hellevator Pitch, since if Satan didn’t buy it, I’d be riding the infernal machine all the way to the top and I’d be Jasper Carnelian on the Emerald Throne until the end of days – or until two other fools could be persuaded to sit either side of the Cosmic Chessboard. I knew which was more likely to happen first. Besides, I had unfinished business on the Earthly Plane.

‘Go on. I’m waiting.’ Sure he was, but I didn’t think there was much patience involved.

‘So am I,’ Lilith still had me down as the amputee rodent, so yeah, she did purr.

‘A change is as good as a rest. Think of it as a sideways promotion. A chance to see how the enterprise works from the other side. Run it up the flagpole and see who salutes. You could change the mission statement to one of your choosing. You’ll have the best office, I’ve seen that Emerald Throne. There are 24 others, you could demote anyone you like and sit in theirs. I. AM. NOT. YOUR. GUY.’

Fine, I didn’t say that last bit, but I think they both heard it.

‘Hmm… See. Lookit that fellow there,’ He pointed at the Lord of All Things, whose face was no longer in the pasta bowl, but was turned skyward. The effect was spoiled by the gaping mouth drooling fish sauce into the beard, adding to the ragu stains. Mr D checked we knew who he meant with the high-brow eyebrow, the kind your literature professor uses when he starts discussing the beat poets.

‘Yeah, well, he hasn’t been well for some time. I’ve already seen it from his perspective, since I’ve been playing the white pieces too, ever since the last meeting here at Rushmore, off and on. So I don’t think so, Gabe...’

He thought for a while. I didn’t know if that was a good sign. Lilith started a game of footsie under the table. I moved my chair discreetly.

There was a smile on Satan's lips, ‘I’ll play you for it. Chess?’

‘You’re joking. Let’s make the playing field even.’

‘I hate sports. They’re too easy to fix. I haven’t taken much interest since Meyer Lansky’s betting coup.’

‘How about a hand of cards?’

‘Pinochle?’

‘I was thinking poker.’

‘I’ll deal,’ said Lilith.