The Interview

Author's Note: My first short story! Ahh, the memories...



The Interview
by Lithopedion


The reporter rang the buzzer at the apartment complex. "Come on in, Michael," the voice at the other end said. The door clicked, as it unlocked. Mike Donaldson stepped in and walked down the hallway. It was dingy, with drab, worn, olive-green carpeting that went out of style in the late 70's, and smelled like old cigarette smoke, and dust. The doors lining the hallway were badly in need of lacquer, and were starting to warp, and chip at the bottoms. Nice place, he thought darkly. A heavy stillness filled the hallway, the only sound his feet padding along the floor with dull thumps. Finally he came to the door he was looking for. Apartment 776. He opened the door slowly.
"Come in, come in," a voice said. He looked over, and saw a young man sitting at a table that was about as old and decrepit as the rest of the apartment complex. Must have come furnished, he thought. He closed the door behind him, and looked around the room. There was some simple furniture scattered about in a miserable attempt to perk the place up. "It came furnished," the man at the table chuckled, confirming Mike's suspicions. "Except for the pictures on the wall," he added, as an afterthought. The pictures were beautiful. One was of an angel, one of Jesus, and an etching of Satan being cast from heaven. "The picture of the angel is a depiction of the Archangel Michael," the man said, "Funny, eh? That's your name."
"You can call me Mike," Mike said.
"I'd rather call you Michael," the man said, smiling. But his voice did not share the same friendly quality.
"Uh… ok," Michael said nervously.
"The etching," the man continued, as if Michael had not said anything, "was created with the works of Milton in mind."
"They're beautiful," Michael said.
"Thank you," the man replied. He sat silently for a moment, and then exhaled loudly. "Well, I suppose we should get down to business."
"Yeah, good idea," Michael said, "so what exactly am I doing down here?"
The man smiled, "Blunt aren't we? I like that. Reminds me of myself. Well, I'm here to give you the story of your career." Michael looked unimpressed.
"What if," the man continued, "I could give you undeniable proof that the Devil exists?"
"This is insane," Michael said, and turned for the door.
"Wait," the man said. Michael turned.
"I know you're an atheist," the man said, "and even if you weren't, I could see why you would be skeptical. Anyone would be. But you might as well hear what I have to say. If it's true, it'll make your career, and if not, well, you can go home and forget you ever met me. Hmm? What do you say?"
"Alright," Michael said.
"Have a seat," the man replied.
Michael sat, set his bag on the table, and took out a tape recorder, with plenty of tapes. For the first time, he stopped to study the man. He was young, probably in his mid-twenties, clean-shaven, with neatly spiked black hair. He was dressed nicely, in a tight, black, long-sleeved shirt, which hinted at a well-toned body underneath, and black dress pants, with a pair of shiny, expensive-looking black shoes on. This man had money. And his demeanor and mannerisms made it obvious he was familiar with traditional etiquette, in the way only someone of a wealthy background was. So what was he doing living here? Michael was, by contrast, in his late thirties, but a pretty decent looking man himself. While nowhere near being rich, he managed to get by pretty well on his own.
"Let's begin, shall we?" The man said. Michael clicked on the tape recorder.
"So," he said, "You can offer me proof on the existence of Satan?"
"That's correct," the man replied.
"Ok, well… who is he? Where is he now?"
The man chuckled again. "He's right here. You see, I am Satan."
Michael sighed disinterestedly, "Uh-huh."
"I know you don't believe me," Satan said, "so ask me a question. Anything."
"Ok," Michael said, "What am I thinking right now?"
"How clichéd. Really Michael, you can do better than that. But, if you must know, you're very annoyed with me, you think I'm some psychotic with delusions of grandeur, and you're looking forward to knocking back a few cold ones, and watching the late show, back at your apartment. Of course you never make it through the whole thing. You always fall asleep in the middle of it. You try not to think about your pretty ex-wife anymore, but you still love her. You want to get back together with her."
"That's it? That's supposed to make me believe you're the Devil? All that proves is that you've been stalking me, or some crazy shit like that."
"I'm not done Michael. There's only one thing that's making this interview bearable… I hesitate to mention it… you'll become upset with me."
"No I won't." "Very well. Let me attempt to phrase this delicately. The only thing that makes this interview bearable is… well, you've been wondering about your sexual orientation lately, and you're feeling just the slightest attraction towards me…"
"That's it!" Michael snapped, "I've had it with this shit!"
"I told you you'd be upset!" The Devil said, laughing.
Michael stood, preparing to storm away. "I didn't come here to be mocked by some lunatic!"
"Michael, sit down!" the supposed Devil's voice snapped, taking on a hard edge. Michael stopped. "You asked me what you were thinking, and I told you. I'm not mocking you. I couldn't care less what your sexual orientation is. Besides, all I said was that you were unsure of your sexuality, not that you were a homosexual. It's perfectly healthy. Better to explore those feelings than to repress them. Otherwise you'll just wind up becoming a child molester, or some such thing. Just look at Catholic priests!" here the Devil laughed.
"Surely you're not implying that all priests are child molesters," Michael shot back.
"No. It was simply an attempt at humor. I thought it was rather clever. I apologize. But my point is, at least I am accepting of that fact. Unlike certain institutions." Michael sat back down.
"Would you like something to drink?" the Devil asked.
"Sure," Michael said.
"What do you want?"
"What do you have?" Michael asked.
"What do you want?" the Devil repeated.
"Uh… a Mountain Dew," Michel replied. "Good choice, that's my favorite kind of soda as well." The devil tossed him a can, which he caught.
"This isn't going to cost me my soul is it?" Michael said smiling. The Devil chuckled. "Of course not, Michael. I really have no use for your soul. I can get plenty voluntarily, I have no need to go tricking people out of their souls."
"Well, that's a relief," Michael laughed.
Satan sat down, with a can of Mountain Dew for himself.
"So what is your sexual orientation, Lucifer?" Michael asked.
"Wrong!" the Devil exclaimed, "I am not Lucifer. Lucifer is a fallen angel, but he is not the same as I. Common misconception. It was due to a mistranslated passage in the Bible. But to answer your question, I have no sexual preference. I am attracted to neither sex. In fact, I have no sexual desire whatsoever."
"Ah, I see," Michael replied, "So… Satan. What kind of music do you like? Marilyn Manson and Rob Zombie, I'm guessing?"
Satan snorted. "Not at all, my dear Michael, not at all. While modern music does have its good points, I have always preferred classical music. Baroque especially. Bach, Vivaldi, that sort of thing."
"Hmm, I would've thought you'd be into music that paid tribute to you."
"A classic stereotype," Satan said, "That if I'm 'evil' as they say, I must be barbaric as well. Well, quite on the contrary."
"I see. So what's your favorite song?"
"My favorite song would have to be Requiem, by Mozart."
"Requiem?" Michael echoed. "Don't think I've heard of it."
"Oh, you really must listen to it," Satan replied eagerly, "It was, in my opinion, Mozart's magnum opus. It is a death mass that he was contracted to write. He poured all of his pain and suffering into it. Then he died. It was his final work. You might say that it was his own death mass."
"Let's move on to another subject," Michael said, shifting uneasily.
"Of course. What would you like to talk about?"
"I've got a good one for you," Michael said, "Are humans basically good or evil? Do you tempt people, make them do evil things?"
"I should say not," Satan replied, "In fact, as far as tempting humans to do naughty things goes, I'm a scapegoat. Sure, I'll toy with someone once in awhile, but ninety-nine percent of the time, they do it themselves. That's why humanity needs me. You know, 'The Devil made me do it!' If they don't have me to blame, then who do they blame?"
"So, would you consider yourself evil?"
"Of course not. No one thinks that they are evil. But by your standards, yes, I am evil."
"Why?"
"Because, quite simply, I hate all humans, and long only for their total destruction."
"Wow," Michael said, "Yeah, that would pretty much classify you as evil in my book."
Satan laughed. "I thought as much. You see, this is why I chose you. You're looking at this whole situation with a healthy dose of disbelief. I mean, imagine if I had chosen a Christian to come out here and interview me."
"They probably would have gotten pissed at you and left," Michael replied.
"Yes," the Devil said, "Especially after the Catholic priest joke."
Michael laughed again, "I dunno, I mean, if you're so evil, why haven't you, you know, hollowed out my head, and started using it as a fruit bowl or something?"
This time it was Satan's turn to laugh. "You're a funny man, Michael." His laughter died down, and he continued, "Why would I do that? First off, it wouldn't accomplish much, and secondly that kind of décor is rather tasteless. I'm a gentleman, you know. And a gentleman is a good host. He doesn't murder his guests."
"I would not have thought the Devil had much of a sense of humor," Michael said, chuckling.
"Surprise, surprise," the Devil said, raising his eyebrows.

"Hey, I've got another question."
"Ask me anything you want," Satan replied. "Why do you have pictures of angels on your walls? Don't you hate religious stuff?"
"Actually, no I don't. One thing that humanity seems to forget is that I was once an angel myself. They're my brothers. It's God that I'm angry at, but I don't really hate him either."
"Why are you angry at God?" Michael asked. "Quite simply, because of humans."
"Because of us?"
"Yes. You see, I was the most powerful angel. I served God with all my heart. But then he wanted to make you, physical beings, on earth, away from his presence. I tried to tell him not to, that without being in his presence, you would fall prey to your own ambition and selfishness. He insisted that He would watch over you, without interfering, and dole out help and punishment, as it was needed. But He doesn't seem to realize that you can't comprehend His presence here on earth. He is in every atom of everything in this universe. He shares everyone's thoughts, experiences life for the first time through everyone's eyes. But He can't understand that you don't feel His presence. It's understandable though. How do you see something not existing, when you know it does? It reminds me of a quote I once heard. 'The apparent nothingness of God, is in fact the actual reality of God.' That sums it up pretty much. I told Him I would not be a part of this, but he would not listen to me, His most faithful servant. That is why I left. And now look at humanity. You're like a disease, and the only way to fix things is to destroy you. Then maybe I can make things right with my Father."
"Wow," Michael said, leaning back in his chair, "that's quite a story."
"Thank you," Satan said.
"But I still don't believe that you're Satan."
Satan frowned. "Why not?"
"You claimed you could offer me irrefutable proof that you were Satan. Proof that even I, an Atheist, could not deny."
"And what I told you about you innermost thoughts did not convince you?"
"So you read a few psychology books. You study up on body language. You're a con man, plain and simple."
"Well, that's not good," Satan replied, "Looks like I'll have to find some way to convince you." He paused for a moment. "Did you bring a camera?"
"Yeah, sure," he said. He pulled it out of its case. "Take a picture of me," Satan said.
"Yeah, alright," Michael said. He took a picture. The first picture on the roll. "How's that supposed to convince me?"
"You'll see when you develop it," Satan said, grinning, "When you see the picture, you'll believe in me."
"Well, unless there's anything else, I should get going," Michael said.
Satan escorted him out of the apartment. Michael went home, and went to bed.

He woke up in jail. "Wha-?" he stammered, "What the hell am I doing here!?" Some armed guards came to his cell, opened it, and put him in restraints, then took him out to the courtroom. Michael sat, shocked as the judge entered, and declared court to be in session.
"Do you understand the crimes for which you are being charged?" The question snapped him back to reality.
"No!" he screamed, "No I don't! What's going on here?"
"Eight months ago, you went out to interview a man for the newspaper for which you work. Witnesses saw you enter the apartment complex, then leave."
"I did!" he screamed.
The judge continued. "The landlord claims that no man has lived in that apartment for some time. The only resident of that apartment was an elderly woman. She was found strangled and disemboweled." Michael's mind reeled in horror. "You are then alleged to have gone to your ex-wife's house, and murdered her, in a similar manner."
"No, it's not true!" Michael screamed.
"Mr. Donaldson, please calm down!" The judge said, as Michael was on the verge of hyperventilating. Suddenly it hit him. The photograph.
"I have proof!" he said, "I have a picture of the man who did it! It's in my camera! The first picture!"
"Mr. Donaldson, we have developed the photograph- "
"Let me see it!" he exclaimed, "Let me see it!"
"Very well," the judge said, "Bailiff, please show Mr. Donaldson the photograph." The bailiff brought him a copy of the photograph, and he snatched it up. He stared at it for a second, and then dropped it to the floor.
"No," he mumbled, "No, no, no, nononononoNOOOOOOO!!" The bailiff picked up the photograph. The photograph of Michael taken at arm's length. His evilly grinning mouth was covered with blood, and a maniacal gleam was in his eye. And in his blood-soaked left hand, was the head of his ex-wife.
He looked up, and for a moment, everyone in the courtroom had the face of one person. The handsome young man from apartment 776. He flinched, and everything was back the way it had been. When you see the picture, you'll believe in me, Satan's voice mocked, in his memory. He began to laugh, louder and louder, the high-pitched laugh of madness.
"What is it Mr. Donaldson, what's wrong?" the judge asked with concern. What he said next chilled everyone in the courtroom to the bone. It was a phrase to be remembered by those present for all time. Just one sentence, between his laughs of bitter irony.

"The Devil made me do it!"


THE END