If you ever rowed out in the wake waiting on God's mercy, been swallowed by a beast of the sea, and decided instead, at that moment, to embark trading your soul to Lucifer for liquid fungible real-world assets, then you know it is not an easy voyage to navigate. Yet, for centuries the mainstream media has portrayed the psycho-marine transaction as nothing less than smooth sailing.
As early as next week, the headlines for the Fox Sun Times Glob will read Selling Soul to Satan Never Easier. In this and other plethora of glamourized, dramatized, and sensationalized articles, Satan appears well-dressed with papers, pen, and notary public. Everything the damned ever wanted or could dream of wanting is handed over in all its ridiculous Hollywood fluffery. If only that depiction were accurate, we would all have good reason to breath a sigh of relief.
However, few are brave enough to mention the truth: namely that it often takes Hell six months to reply to a request for soul realignment, as the process of trading souls is called in the seditious and often crankshaft jargon referred to as Hellspeak. Media bias, even within the bowels of Hell, is an infectious disease. Sugar coating and fudging the realities come part and parcel with the devilish territory.
To illustrate this point, recall how last year when Satan was called by God before the Universal Court to explain corruption originating from central evil, the Hell Deuce Pickle released the front-page spread Master Visits His Mother above a photograph depicting a black crib and red mobile dripping in blood next to witch stood a God impersonator clad in red velvet drag. The article itself never, never, officially acknowledges the existence of God.
Publishers in Hell are more interested in selling magazines out of their selection of media conglomerations than in the welfare of its readers. They don't sell issues: they sell entire publication firms like dime-store sex novels wrapped in fried hotcakes.
A simple and straight-forward method for liquidating your soul fits right into their cash-and-go capitalist and scurvy elitist world narrative. Is it what the people really want to read about? Do you buy that? That is not to mention that the fallen angel spent £8 Trillion in audience management solutions last season. Who is benefiting from this windfall?
I will answer the question in a scholarly way by telling you who is not benefiting – the individuals who put their immortal soul on the auction block in Hell City. They are being taken for a short ride on a long pier and dumped off the side, used as cut-bait, overridden by the undercurrent of small print and large margin, to be devoured by clinically anxious sand sharks who take only rote pleasure in the act. Or, worse, they never exist at all, are never born. The mythos of Heinrich Faust and the stray dog can only be considered, by someone of moral fiber, childish wishing and masochistic hoping.
What actually happens is quite astounding. Researchers who are aware fully as to exact methods and techniques employed, at length, have all raptured to the dark depths of madness and therefore have no insight to offer. Authors and pseudo-intellectuals such as myself are barely functioning above a vegetative level, are lazy and indulgent to a hypocritical fault. This is the sole reason that I am, along with my duller colleagues, stridently capable of outlining for you (once and for all) the details in concerns to the Devil and his standard deal. The instructions go something more or less in this wise:
Dial six on the phone for awhile. Wait until it rings, or, more accurately, dings. You must use a rotary dial, you must wait for the satanic ding. The phone need not be plugged in or functioning. Then, an agent of Hell will take down your information, and ask you some general questions as to your demographics and reasons for approaching the Devil at this stage in your existence. You may also be asked to rate your level of satisfaction in judging the level of service offered by the agent. The questions are optional. However, there are horror stories of individuals who, having not voluntarily answered the survey, later disappeared, from which nothing has been heard since.
After the initial call, self-soul traders may wait up to two years for a follow-up. The Devil, in all his cleverness, does not believe in email and prefers to press the flesh in person. He will send yet a second agent, who will make sure its not a prank and, if it is a bonafide claim, inform the applicant that his meeting will commence within the week. If the agent drops by and no one meets him, or if any of the rules were violated previously, the agent will accost the applicant and probably mock his or her outfit.
"I had no hope,” said Dandridge, “without Satan, that is. I am, as most good people are, a poor fascist. I spent most days hurting anyone who was weaker than myself. I would make fliers and pamphlets... I had the community forgiving me and being unwitting partners in my bullying. My victims were often damaged emotionally from the experience, which is the only thing that I had to reflect on to keep my spirits from dampening. Next thing I know, I was sitting in jail. I had one call, so I just dialed six until that funny, like, ding, like a bell being rung once, but not a phone bell, which is different and distinct.”
However, because the jail phone did not have a rotary dial, the call was immediately disconnected and minions were dispatched to his cell to fist Dandridge and steal most of his cakes. They refused to take down his information, they did not listen to him when he explained that he was just trying to sell his wretched soul for riches. It was as if they were oblivious to the importance of such a call. The minions returned weeks later just to call Dandridge a punk. The bully was bullied! Nothing is more contrary to natural principles.
To add to the injury against Dandridge, jail guards reprimanded him for not following the rules of the jail. When Dandridge attempted to explain that there were also rules among the prisoners and that being complicit with jail guards was one of the principle offenses which would result in multiple stabbings that represent a more strenuous punishment than solitary torture, the guards merely responded with mirth and insulted Dandridge's intelligence.
Satan did not visit Dandridge during his entire stay at Arkansas State Penitentiary, a time period of nearly 4 years. Dandridge spent nearly two weeks in “the docks”, a form of water torture that it is not legal to mention or comment on. In all this time, according to Dandridge, the dark prince was nowhere.
“Look,” said Dandridge, “I murdered people for him. I hated with my very heart others who I had never met. Then, when its time to pay the piper, he's skipped town. This man is elusive. I cannot get in touch with him or his agents. Hell is not returning my calls.”
“Are you advocating for Dandridge?” said Hell spokesperson Margo Magellen later in a phone interview, “Dandridge is an immoral man and not to be trusted. He is also not a sane man. He is sick and the diagnosis is original sin.”
~~~
“We just want to get to the bottom of this,” I said, “I'm just performing due diligence in the matter. My editor is nothing if not persnickety. I believe it is important for all viewpoints to be expressed, regardless of their controversy. I certainly am not advocating for this monster. I merely want your side.”
“Persnickety or not, our side is that you should not be poking around where you are not welcome,” said Magellen, and the only sound I heard after was a click. But it was not a click of a phone going dead. It was the rampart of a gun being engaged with a fresh bullet.
While dubious journalists would instinctively shy away when confronting a gun-cock threat from Hell, and while all shock value seems trivial in the face of certain death, I undertook, as I had before, in going out and taking down the story among the chaos and rocket fire of warfare and murder. And vicious liars like Jules Trellis, who slandered my work in Oslo just because I did not actually witness events there as I claimed nor have I ever been to the city, should cease his attempted character assassination after this article hits the press.
The entrance to Hell is gate six (the number six seems to have motif-value in Hell) at any local airport or bus station. This has been standardized globally since 1316. However, no one can enter without permission. Hell is strict on the living, and there is a sign that reads:
The desk clerk was a drooling portly demon with a rubber stamp hanging seditiously from his mangled fist. I posed as a lost Demon who had been summoned back unexpectedly and got through with no problem.
As early as next week, the headlines for the Fox Sun Times Glob will read Selling Soul to Satan Never Easier. In this and other plethora of glamourized, dramatized, and sensationalized articles, Satan appears well-dressed with papers, pen, and notary public. Everything the damned ever wanted or could dream of wanting is handed over in all its ridiculous Hollywood fluffery. If only that depiction were accurate, we would all have good reason to breath a sigh of relief.
 |
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However, few are brave enough to mention the truth: namely that it often takes Hell six months to reply to a request for soul realignment, as the process of trading souls is called in the seditious and often crankshaft jargon referred to as Hellspeak. Media bias, even within the bowels of Hell, is an infectious disease. Sugar coating and fudging the realities come part and parcel with the devilish territory.
~~~
...While dubious journalists would instinctively shy away when confronting a gun-cock threat from Hell, and while all shock value seems trivial in the face of certain death, I undertook, as I had before, in going out and taking down the story among the chaos and rocket fire of warfare and murder...
~~~
To illustrate this point, recall how last year when Satan was called by God before the Universal Court to explain corruption originating from central evil, the Hell Deuce Pickle released the front-page spread Master Visits His Mother above a photograph depicting a black crib and red mobile dripping in blood next to witch stood a God impersonator clad in red velvet drag. The article itself never, never, officially acknowledges the existence of God.
Publishers in Hell are more interested in selling magazines out of their selection of media conglomerations than in the welfare of its readers. They don't sell issues: they sell entire publication firms like dime-store sex novels wrapped in fried hotcakes.
A simple and straight-forward method for liquidating your soul fits right into their cash-and-go capitalist and scurvy elitist world narrative. Is it what the people really want to read about? Do you buy that? That is not to mention that the fallen angel spent £8 Trillion in audience management solutions last season. Who is benefiting from this windfall?
I will answer the question in a scholarly way by telling you who is not benefiting – the individuals who put their immortal soul on the auction block in Hell City. They are being taken for a short ride on a long pier and dumped off the side, used as cut-bait, overridden by the undercurrent of small print and large margin, to be devoured by clinically anxious sand sharks who take only rote pleasure in the act. Or, worse, they never exist at all, are never born. The mythos of Heinrich Faust and the stray dog can only be considered, by someone of moral fiber, childish wishing and masochistic hoping.
~~~
He is as a wanderer who asks 'but why is it that I wander?' When there is no answer but scorching wind, he is to be found self-medicating with angel dust.
~~~
What actually happens is quite astounding. Researchers who are aware fully as to exact methods and techniques employed, at length, have all raptured to the dark depths of madness and therefore have no insight to offer. Authors and pseudo-intellectuals such as myself are barely functioning above a vegetative level, are lazy and indulgent to a hypocritical fault. This is the sole reason that I am, along with my duller colleagues, stridently capable of outlining for you (once and for all) the details in concerns to the Devil and his standard deal. The instructions go something more or less in this wise:Dial six on the phone for awhile. Wait until it rings, or, more accurately, dings. You must use a rotary dial, you must wait for the satanic ding. The phone need not be plugged in or functioning. Then, an agent of Hell will take down your information, and ask you some general questions as to your demographics and reasons for approaching the Devil at this stage in your existence. You may also be asked to rate your level of satisfaction in judging the level of service offered by the agent. The questions are optional. However, there are horror stories of individuals who, having not voluntarily answered the survey, later disappeared, from which nothing has been heard since.
After the initial call, self-soul traders may wait up to two years for a follow-up. The Devil, in all his cleverness, does not believe in email and prefers to press the flesh in person. He will send yet a second agent, who will make sure its not a prank and, if it is a bonafide claim, inform the applicant that his meeting will commence within the week. If the agent drops by and no one meets him, or if any of the rules were violated previously, the agent will accost the applicant and probably mock his or her outfit.
~~~
...When Dandridge attempted to explain that there were also rules among the prisoners and that being complicit with jail guards was one of the principle offenses which would result in multiple stabbings that represent a more strenuous punishment than solitary torture, the guards merely responded with mirth and insulted Dandridge's intelligence...
~~~
Many people who set out to sell their soul find that the red tape usually leads to a less-than-ideal outcome. To illustrate this point, I spoke with Miles Dandridge, the 48-year-old accountant who, after failing at business, decided that he would rather take the easiest possible way out of a hardscrabble middle class life in the world of Wall Street finance."I had no hope,” said Dandridge, “without Satan, that is. I am, as most good people are, a poor fascist. I spent most days hurting anyone who was weaker than myself. I would make fliers and pamphlets... I had the community forgiving me and being unwitting partners in my bullying. My victims were often damaged emotionally from the experience, which is the only thing that I had to reflect on to keep my spirits from dampening. Next thing I know, I was sitting in jail. I had one call, so I just dialed six until that funny, like, ding, like a bell being rung once, but not a phone bell, which is different and distinct.”
However, because the jail phone did not have a rotary dial, the call was immediately disconnected and minions were dispatched to his cell to fist Dandridge and steal most of his cakes. They refused to take down his information, they did not listen to him when he explained that he was just trying to sell his wretched soul for riches. It was as if they were oblivious to the importance of such a call. The minions returned weeks later just to call Dandridge a punk. The bully was bullied! Nothing is more contrary to natural principles.
~~~
“Yes, I did actually. I was outraged as you are. I'm pretty sure she is a Jew as well. Sent no doubt to torment me. How much can I endure? How long will this go on? Jerry, you were a reverend, right? How long is damnation?” said Hitler so viciously that his armband nearly fell completely off.
~~~
To add to the injury against Dandridge, jail guards reprimanded him for not following the rules of the jail. When Dandridge attempted to explain that there were also rules among the prisoners and that being complicit with jail guards was one of the principle offenses which would result in multiple stabbings that represent a more strenuous punishment than solitary torture, the guards merely responded with mirth and insulted Dandridge's intelligence.Satan did not visit Dandridge during his entire stay at Arkansas State Penitentiary, a time period of nearly 4 years. Dandridge spent nearly two weeks in “the docks”, a form of water torture that it is not legal to mention or comment on. In all this time, according to Dandridge, the dark prince was nowhere.
“Look,” said Dandridge, “I murdered people for him. I hated with my very heart others who I had never met. Then, when its time to pay the piper, he's skipped town. This man is elusive. I cannot get in touch with him or his agents. Hell is not returning my calls.”
“Are you advocating for Dandridge?” said Hell spokesperson Margo Magellen later in a phone interview, “Dandridge is an immoral man and not to be trusted. He is also not a sane man. He is sick and the diagnosis is original sin.”
~~~
A simple and straight-forward method for liquidating your soul fits right into their cash-and-go capitalist and scurvy elitist world narrative
~~~
“We just want to get to the bottom of this,” I said, “I'm just performing due diligence in the matter. My editor is nothing if not persnickety. I believe it is important for all viewpoints to be expressed, regardless of their controversy. I certainly am not advocating for this monster. I merely want your side.”“Persnickety or not, our side is that you should not be poking around where you are not welcome,” said Magellen, and the only sound I heard after was a click. But it was not a click of a phone going dead. It was the rampart of a gun being engaged with a fresh bullet.
While dubious journalists would instinctively shy away when confronting a gun-cock threat from Hell, and while all shock value seems trivial in the face of certain death, I undertook, as I had before, in going out and taking down the story among the chaos and rocket fire of warfare and murder. And vicious liars like Jules Trellis, who slandered my work in Oslo just because I did not actually witness events there as I claimed nor have I ever been to the city, should cease his attempted character assassination after this article hits the press.
The entrance to Hell is gate six (the number six seems to have motif-value in Hell) at any local airport or bus station. This has been standardized globally since 1316. However, no one can enter without permission. Hell is strict on the living, and there is a sign that reads:
Positively No Living Persons Can Enter This Gate
Damned Must Die Before Being Allowed To Pass
No Exceptions
The desk clerk was a drooling portly demon with a rubber stamp hanging seditiously from his mangled fist. I posed as a lost Demon who had been summoned back unexpectedly and got through with no problem.
"May I see your credentials, madam demon?"
"Fuck what?!" I screamed, "I am a high-ranking demon. My papers were burned to ash. Look at you. You got it made here with your rubber stamp. I have to face mortals everyday of me life. Hmmmmph. If you don't mind being called before the Master, just keep delaying me. Man, I wouldn't want to be you when he learns you ruined this deal."
"Which deal is it?" He asked sheepishly.
"I didn't tell you?" I asked, delivering surprise, "you mean I didn't tell you about the soul deal? I'm going to get Master off the hook with a million fresh souls. Dirty bombs and paperwork! Am I right?"
"I'm sorry but that ain't good enough," said the night man, "I have very explicit instructions. As a high-ranking demon, you must understand that."
"I guess you'll be in the docks next Tuesday," I said casually, "I could never envy someone like you, and I mean never. You hate it when you get ahead."
"What do you mean?" he said with a confused eye, "get ahead, I've gotten this far haven't I?"
"You've got to think," I said, "when I tell Master how you saved me after I stupidly burned my papers by mistake while freebasing, you're looking at less torture for a while. Might be pretty sweet."
"You tell a good story," he said, and unchained the iron lock.
The stout imp stamped my hand fastidiously, and ducked in to eyeball it from an inch away to insure it was properly affixed.
Once inside, I quickly found no information desk and was lost in Hell. Amusement and torture in the underground are one in the same. This is a lesson I would learn repeatedly as if it were some sort of regional aspect.
I was an undercover spy in the land of the dead. I was staying in hostels and became somewhat of a celebrity among the damned, having been invited to Mussolini's to grovel and moan for redemption, a hopeless and depressing state of gray and mahogany. A mist of sulfur brisked the wind.
Hitler noticed my soul when the Hellish wind departed and for a mild second torment was lessened a single iota. Hitler's mustache and head were shaved and he looked less confident than the man who waved his fists around and pointed villainous contempt and violence at Jews in the dirty thirties. He had seen me weeks prior and declared that he was certain I had been descended from Hebrews.
“Hey!” Hitler shouted now, “you have a soul. Why do you have a soul? Who let you have a soul? You vicious JEW! You have a soul. They took my soul. Where is my soul? Have the living invaded the space of the dead? Is this a reverse apocalypse?”
What happened next was the scariest moment of my entire life: I was suddenly confronted by Jerry Falwell.
“What are you doing here?” he asked me, “you're alive. You still have a soul. It isn't fair. I'm with Hitler. This is way out of line, this is a farce. This is an obstruction of justice. This is very mean and cruel. Gays did this to us. Feminists!!! What are you doing here? This is a war crime. This is against my religious freedom. Conspiracies are at work, no doubt. Adolf! Come here.”
“Yeah,” said Hitler, “Hello, Jerry? Where's Pat?”
“Pat? He isn't here yet... Thank God. Don't make me lose my train of thought. You saw this person, is that true?” Falwell said, pointing a crusty fat finger in my direction.
“Yes, I did actually. I was outraged as you are. I'm pretty sure she is a Jew as well. Sent no doubt to torment me. How much can I endure? How long will this go on? Jerry, you were a reverend, right? How long is damnation?” said Hitler so viciously that his armband nearly fell completely off.
~~~
“Yes, Adolf, I was, but remember that I was sent to Hell. So, I'm not really one you would probably consult in a case like this. I never believed any of it until I was dead on the bathroom floor. However, it doesn't take an expert to know it is eternity.”
“Shit stain! They send in this courageous and beautiful woman to bother me. Himmler went to Heaven that stupid fat Jew lover.”
“Everyone shut up,” I said loudly, “listen up. You can't do shit to me. You are all ruined and destroyed forever, alright? You listening, Adolf? Don't forget that. I am here to inquire about your master. It seems that he has not been very diligent lately and has been shirking responsibility. People rely on him, you know? Anyone know anything about that?”
“Oh yes,” said a calm voice in the distance, causing Falwell and Hitler to run as fast as they could away into the sulfur winds, “the master is not well lately. He has resorted to taking bribes as the Pharisees do, letting unrepentant sinners go free, issuing fake passes to Heaven, and things like that.
He doesn't have an interest in things that used to interest him. He is as a wanderer who asks 'but why is it that I wander?' When there is no answer but scorching wind, he is to be found self-medicating with angel dust.”
On that day all the brutes were laid low, bleeding out in the streets of virtual Purgatory to die like animals. Systematic laws were engaged that, more or less, meant the end of all times. I was proud to have been someone who was there when the four corners of the flat earth were unleashed in torrential climax, to shake the violence out of mankind in ways not seen since the Culbin sand drift of 1694. Ways were about to change and this was the moment that it happened. My machine was almost ready, and I would leave the wreckage behind to forget a new future.
Once inside, I quickly found no information desk and was lost in Hell. Amusement and torture in the underground are one in the same. This is a lesson I would learn repeatedly as if it were some sort of regional aspect.
~~~
“Are you advocating for Dandridge?” said Hell spokesperson Margo Magellen later in a phone interview, “Dandridge is an immoral man and not to be trusted. He is also not a sane man. He is sick and the diagnosis is original sin.”
~~~
I was an undercover spy in the land of the dead. I was staying in hostels and became somewhat of a celebrity among the damned, having been invited to Mussolini's to grovel and moan for redemption, a hopeless and depressing state of gray and mahogany. A mist of sulfur brisked the wind. Hitler noticed my soul when the Hellish wind departed and for a mild second torment was lessened a single iota. Hitler's mustache and head were shaved and he looked less confident than the man who waved his fists around and pointed villainous contempt and violence at Jews in the dirty thirties. He had seen me weeks prior and declared that he was certain I had been descended from Hebrews.
“Hey!” Hitler shouted now, “you have a soul. Why do you have a soul? Who let you have a soul? You vicious JEW! You have a soul. They took my soul. Where is my soul? Have the living invaded the space of the dead? Is this a reverse apocalypse?”
What happened next was the scariest moment of my entire life: I was suddenly confronted by Jerry Falwell.
“What are you doing here?” he asked me, “you're alive. You still have a soul. It isn't fair. I'm with Hitler. This is way out of line, this is a farce. This is an obstruction of justice. This is very mean and cruel. Gays did this to us. Feminists!!! What are you doing here? This is a war crime. This is against my religious freedom. Conspiracies are at work, no doubt. Adolf! Come here.”
“Yeah,” said Hitler, “Hello, Jerry? Where's Pat?”
“Pat? He isn't here yet... Thank God. Don't make me lose my train of thought. You saw this person, is that true?” Falwell said, pointing a crusty fat finger in my direction.
“Yes, I did actually. I was outraged as you are. I'm pretty sure she is a Jew as well. Sent no doubt to torment me. How much can I endure? How long will this go on? Jerry, you were a reverend, right? How long is damnation?” said Hitler so viciously that his armband nearly fell completely off.
~~~
Who is benefiting from this windfall? I will answer the question in a scholarly way by telling you who is not benefiting – the individuals who put their immortal soul on the auction block in Hell City.
~~~
“Yes, Adolf, I was, but remember that I was sent to Hell. So, I'm not really one you would probably consult in a case like this. I never believed any of it until I was dead on the bathroom floor. However, it doesn't take an expert to know it is eternity.”“Shit stain! They send in this courageous and beautiful woman to bother me. Himmler went to Heaven that stupid fat Jew lover.”
“Everyone shut up,” I said loudly, “listen up. You can't do shit to me. You are all ruined and destroyed forever, alright? You listening, Adolf? Don't forget that. I am here to inquire about your master. It seems that he has not been very diligent lately and has been shirking responsibility. People rely on him, you know? Anyone know anything about that?”
“Oh yes,” said a calm voice in the distance, causing Falwell and Hitler to run as fast as they could away into the sulfur winds, “the master is not well lately. He has resorted to taking bribes as the Pharisees do, letting unrepentant sinners go free, issuing fake passes to Heaven, and things like that.
He doesn't have an interest in things that used to interest him. He is as a wanderer who asks 'but why is it that I wander?' When there is no answer but scorching wind, he is to be found self-medicating with angel dust.”
On that day all the brutes were laid low, bleeding out in the streets of virtual Purgatory to die like animals. Systematic laws were engaged that, more or less, meant the end of all times. I was proud to have been someone who was there when the four corners of the flat earth were unleashed in torrential climax, to shake the violence out of mankind in ways not seen since the Culbin sand drift of 1694. Ways were about to change and this was the moment that it happened. My machine was almost ready, and I would leave the wreckage behind to forget a new future.
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