Spokesman

The vehicle was horrifically ostentatious when one considered it held only three people, one of whom was the driver. Most times, a stretch limousine of that scale was only required for large bachelor parties or for wealthy Japanese businessmen who travelled in herds or for when the entire state of Ohio chose to go on a road trip together. The fact that the limo was crimson red was just the finishing touch on its ridiculous grandiose.

The two passengers in the rear sat side-by-side. The man on the right gazed at the passing cityscape, legs stretched out fully, right ankle over left, clapping his shoe tips together. “Mr. Draven,” he said, turning to the other man. “Remind me again why we’re doing this? I certainly don’t need the money.” 

“I told you…there’s a buzz around you right now,” Mr. Draven replied while brushing a small piece of fuzz off the sleeve of his dark double-breasted suitcoat. “You’re trending. Gotta keep fanning those flames.” 

“How could I possibly be trending? Don’t people understand what I am?” 

“Does it matter?” 

“It’s simply not logical. Who in their right mind would want me to be their spokesman?”

“It’s advertising. Does this really surprise you?”

“No, I suppose not.” The man’s focus returned to the scenery on the other side of the car window. His mind, however, wandered beyond the buildings as it attempted to make sense of the circumstances. “Would you mind turning up the heat, Mr. Draven? It’s uncomfortably normal in here.”

“As you wish.” Mr. Draven cranked the knob as far to the right as it would go.

“What are we advertising again?”

“Apples.”

“Apples?”

“Apples.”

The man let it soak in. “Is it because of that event from some time ago?”

“Yes, it’s precisely because of that event from some time ago.”

“Hmmmm. That does seem appropriate.”

“This is going to work out. Lots of exposure. Lots of opportunities. Doors will open.”

“It’s just…I’m not accustomed to working in such a…publicly visible way. I’ve always operated…more subtly…in the shadows, so to speak.”

“It’s a different world now. You know that,” Mr. Draven responded. “And we have to take advantage of new ways to reach a greater audience.” 

“Yes…I see your point.”

The limo stopped. The driver stepped out, hustled around the front end and commenced the laborious trek required to reach the rear passenger door. Panting, he pulled the handle. Mr. Draven, in his lint-free double-breasted suitcoat emerged first. The other man followed, plunking the butt end of a pitchfork on the concrete sidewalk as he pulled himself out of the vehicle. “I’m still not certain about this.”

“Relax, Satan. This is going to be good.”

“I don’t do good.”

###

“Blasted. What’s the line?”

Satan stood in a large studio set flanked by a remarkably realistic apple tree prop. Greenery sprouted up all around him. A serpent coiled itself around his torso. The script girl rolled her eyes. Again. 

“It’s ‘The original temptation, always worth the consequences. Enjoy Garden of Eden Apples.’” She huffed out the world’s most exaggerated sigh at a volume noticeable to all, including Satan.  

“Why can’t I get this right?” he muttered under his breath. “Enjoy Garden of Eden Apples…Garden of Eden Apples…Garden of Eden Apples…” Satan tapped at his forehead as if attempting to hammer it past his skull and into his memory banks.

“Let’s go again,” the director shouted. “Back to one.”

The crew scurried around the set, fluffing ferns, adjusting serpents, rolling cameras into place and dabbing at Satan’s face to remove beads of sweat caused by the intense stage lights and nervousness. Satan cleared his throat and took a deep, calming breath, readying himself for take number thirty-two.

“Camera rolling. Annnnnndddd…action!” 

“The original consequences, always worth the temptation. Enjoy Eden’s Apple Garden.”

“CUT!” The director, decked out in a fitted leather jacket and jeans that were undoubtedly cutting off circulation to all body parts below the waist, walked over to Satan. “You did it again.”

“Did what?”

“You screwed up the line.”

“Maybe I keep screwing it up because it’s cliché and trite. Not to mention, asinine.”

“Or because you’re not using the cue cards. Also, you didn’t do the hissing thing we talked about.”

“You do realize I don’t actually hiss, correct? I may have a forked tongue, but I’m an articulate orator charged with communicating to the largest conglomeration of souls in the universe.”

“Second largest, actually.”

“AS I WAS SAYING… if I were required to hiss with every ‘s’ I spoke in a given day, I’d never complete a single sentence.”

“The client wants hissing.”

“And I want to unleash a swarm of flesh-eating locust upon them. But one does not always get what they want.”

“I’ll be sure to relay that valuable little life nugget next time I chat with them. For now, let’s just hiss the way we practiced.” He turned his back to Satan, returned to his monitor and grabbed his overpriced coffee, being certain not to cover up the logo on the cup. “You got this! Thirty-third time’s the charm!”

Satan surveyed the scene and seethed. “Thissssssss sssssucksssssssssss asssssssss…”

###

“Dammit…which is the right remote? Why the Heaven do we have so many remote controls?? DRAVEN! Get in here and figure this out!”

Mr. Draven scuttled into Satan’s office. “Yes, sir. You beckoned.”

“I just want to watch ‘Dancing with the Stars.’ Is it too much to ask to have one of these blessed remotes do that?!” Satan gathered up an armful of remotes and flung them on the desk.

Mr. Draven fished through nineteen identical devices. “It’s this one, sir.” He poked a button and the TV snapped to life.

“Ahhh, very good. Thank you, Mr. Draven.”

“Look, sir…it’s your commercial.”

“So it is!”

“I must say, sir, this is a striking performance. Truly sinister, yet oddly convincing.”

“You know, I do believe you’re right,” Satan said, nodding as he admired his on-screen presence. “They really did capture my persuasive side rather astutely. I suddenly find myself in the mood for an apple!”

“And here’s more encouraging news, sir – your numbers continue to trend upward. That commercial has really got people talking about you. And, to put a cherry on top, arrivals down here are up. Lots of new residents.”

“This worked out better than I thought. You know what? Bring me two apples!”

“Will do, sir.” Mr. Draven set off to fetch the requested fruit but turned shy of the door. “One more thing. I know you’re probably not interested but…,” Mr. Draven smoothed a wrinkle out of his suit pants. “We did receive another endorsement request.”

“From whom?”

“The Lowertown Garden Tool Foundry.”

“Garden tools?”

“Yes.”

“Why would they be interested in me?”

“They make pitchforks.” 

“Oh. I see.”

Draven started back toward the door. “I told them you were very busy and would probably decline the…”

“No, no, no.” Satan interjected, still admiring himself on screen. “Tell them I’ll do it.”

###

God was writing in his book, the one titled, My Plan, when Saint Peter charged into his office, startling the Creator of All Things.

“EGADS! DOES NOBODY KNOCK ANYMORE?” When God speaks, it is customary for the words be written out in all caps…it’s a Chicago Manual of Style thing. That does, however, make it difficult to distinguish when He is simply talking and when He is shouting. In this case, He was assuredly shouting.

“My apologies, God. But I have a piece of information I’m sure you’ll find interesting.”

God returned to a more conversational decibel level. “WHAT IS IT, PETER?” 

“Well, Sir, it seems as though your counterpart has added the title ‘spokesman’ to his resume.” 

“RESUME? MORE LIKE RAP SHEET.”

“Yes, Sir. Look at this.” Peter pulled out an iPad and played the commercial for Garden of Eden Apples.

“WAIT A MINUTE. I THOUGHT WE OWNED THE TRADEMARK ON ‘GARDEN OF EDEN.’”

“We did, Sir, but I believe we let it lapse a couple years ago. Bit of an oversight in the legal department, you see.”

He resumed shouting. “REMIND ME TO CUT OFF SPA PRIVILEGES FOR THOSE OVEREDUCATED AMBULANCE CHASERS.” 

“Yes, Sir. But more importantly, what are we going to do about this?” He pointed back to the screen, paused on the visage of the devil, holding a waxy, red apple. “Surely, some counter measures are in order. Perhaps a legion of angels should be summoned?”

“HMMMMM.”

“Or a crying Virgin Mary appearance in the bark of an oak tree or a jar of peanut butter. That will draw some attention away.”

“YOU’RE RIGHT, PETE. WE SHOULD DO SOMETHING.” God returned to his book. “LET’S HAVE AN APPLE.”

###

In exchange for appearing in several print ads wielding a Lowertown pitchfork and testifying to the reliability and effectiveness of these impaling implements for all manner of farming and sin-skewering duties, Satan was offered a lifetime supply of their most plush model – one dubbed, “The Vlad.” It sported a cushioned grip, plated chrome handle and triple reinforced tines. Satan agreed to the terms. However, as an eternal being, a lifetime supply, in essence, referred to the lifetime of Lowertown Garden Tool Foundry. 

The following week, he recorded a series of national radio commercials for Inferno Charcoal Briquettes. “I’m a fellow who knows a thing or two about fire,” the script read.

After that, the proverbial floodgates opened. Companies eager to hitch their wagons to the sudden and unlikely celebrity of Satan sent endorsement requests by the dozens. 

“Mr. Draven! What’s on my schedule this week?”

“An appearance at the New Jersey Devils game on Tuesday. There’s a photoshoot for Tongue Blister Hot Sauce on Wednesday. Thursday you have a meeting with the reps from the Las Vegas Tourism Board…they want you for a Sin City campaign. And on Friday, you’re doing something involving deviled eggs.”

“And my numbers?”

“Rising. Twitter mentions are up significantly, focus groups have been responding favorably, trust and believability numbers remain surprisingly high.” Mr. Draven snickered. “And sales for all stakeholders are growing. Our advertisers are quite pleased.”

“Wonderful. Any new opportunities on the horizon?” 

“Yes, as a matter of fact. The inquiries are pouring in every day. You’re in rather high demand.”

“Excellent. Schedule them all.”

“All? Ummm…sir…if I might make a suggestion…now that your star is on the rise, you might consider being a bit more…selective.” Mr. Draven brushed a wayward hair off his shoulder. “Let’s find the right opportunities – the truly high-profile ones that best fit your ‘brand.’”

“Noted. And ignored.”

“But, sir…”

“Listen carefully. I’m going to strike while the iron is hot. I want to flood the planet with all things me. This is a chance to own it all. To be the face of the capitalistic machine that attracts those greedy, materialistic fleas! I will be the voice of all that they desire. And they’ll come to me, willingly, laying down at my feet, thirsting for all I tell them they must have. And I’ll give it to them…for the price of eternity. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. But…”

“Draven! Be silent.”

Fighting the urge to straighten the crease in his pants, Mr. Draven obeyed.

###

When the bachelorette party poured into The Lumiere Lounge at 1:27 a.m., Eddie knew the crazy was coming: the squealing, the suggestive dancing, the inappropriate “accessories,” the obligatory drama, and the batted eyes teamed with pleas of “we’re just a bunch of cute girls so we should drink free.” The only upside was it tended to come and go quickly, not unlike a tornado. Eddie reached for the shot glasses in anticipation.

“Wooooooooo hoooooo!!!! Hey girls! It’s shot time!!!!” The ringleader of the pack was a tall, raven-haired woman in stylish heels and make-up straight from the Kardashian collection. 

“What’ll it be, ladies?” Eddie asked.

She leaned onto the bar, surveying the bottles behind Eddie. “I don’t know…what’s good for some untamed girl fun?” She completed her inquiry with a piercing “woop!” The congregation gathered behind her echoed in unison at a glass-shattering level.

“Hmmm…well…Satan says Fireball tastes like liquid ssssssssin.”

“Oooo…I like the ssssssound of that! Line ‘em up! Woop woop!!”

###

The TV in the Anderson house blared at a deafening level. “Do you sssssuffer from heartburn? Do you feel the fire rissssssing from your sssssstomach? Maybe you should fight fire…with fire. Try Esssssssophagusssss Lava.”

Gert looked over at Arty. “Maybe you should try that, dear.”

“Huh? Try what?”

“The heartburn medication that Satan is talking about.”

“I don’t have heartburn.”

“Yes, you do, dear.”

“I do? That doesn’t sound good. What should I do?”

“Try the medication, Arty. Satan says it’s good.”

“Oh, well, if he says so, I should try it. Think it’s good?”

“Yes dear. He says it’s good.”

“Who says it’s good?”

“Satan, dear. The nice young man with the horns.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, if he says so, I should try it. Guys with horns always know stuff.”

###

St. Peter was pacing in the breakroom of Heaven HQ. The increasingly frequent appearances of Lucifer continued to make him anxious. And that, in turn, made him reach repeatedly into the bowl of marshmallows, popping one after another into his mouth at a near gluttonous pace. He reminded himself, after all these years, it shouldn’t be in his nature to doubt God and His Plan. Yet, he failed to see the wisdom in inactivity. And his waistline reflected that.

God walked in, making a beeline for the coffee pot. “OH, THANK HERE FOR COFFEE. IT REALLY IS A GIFT FROM…WELL…ME.” He filled His mug, the one reading, “Coffee, then Prayer Answering,” and took a long pull, letting out a satisfied “ahhhh” afterward. He then reached in the bowl of marshmallows, only to find it empty. “PETE, BY THE LOOKS OF THIS DISH, IT SEEMS AS THOUGH YOU’VE BEEN WORRYING AGAIN.” God grabbed an apple instead.

“Yes, Sir. It’s this whole Satan situation. It’s just that…he’s gaining so much steam. I’m worried that he may have finally found a wide enough crack in the human spirit, and he’s exploiting it in a new and effective way. He’s found these channels to deliver his message. And right now, they’re listening. And personally, I simply don’t think we should allow him to go unchecked…not when we can do something about it.”

“I SEE YOUR POINT. PERHAPS WE SHOULD DO SOMETHING.”

“Really? Oh, I’m so glad, my Lord. I was hoping You’d say that.”

“YES, WE WILL DO SOMETHING. AND THE SOMETHING WE SHALL DO IS…,” God waved his hand over the marshmallow bowl, refilling it. “…NOTHING.” God bit into his apple and strolled off.

Peter filled both fists with marshmallows and stuffed them all in his mouth.

###

In the early morning hours, Lug and Roger carted boxes through the cramped aisles of Miller’s Market on Euclid Street. Their first stop was baking ingredients. 

“Roger, man, have you seen that new checkout chick? She’s pretty hot.”

“Dude! That’s my sister!” 

“Think maybe she’ll scan my Italian sausage?”

Roger debated knocking out his teeth but concluded that would undoubtedly result in a foul-smelling, bacterial infection in his knuckles.  

Lug pried open a box filled with cake mixes. “Hey, man, check these out.” Lug shoved a package of cake mix into Roger’s face. 

“Seriously? Satan’s pushing cake mix now?”

“Not just any cake, man. Devil’s food cake!!”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“See, it’s cool ‘cuz, like, he’s the devil and this is probably something he’d use as food.”

“Aren’t you kinda getting sick of him though? He’s on everything now. I mean, I saw him in a vacuum infomercial.”

Lug ripped into the box and poured the powder straight into his mouth. “Hey! Tastes like damnation! Want some?”

Roger scrunched up his face. “I’ll pass.”

###

Mr. Draven appeared in the doorway of Satan’s office. “Sir, mind if I interrupt you?”

Feet up on his desk, engrossed in a game of Mahjong on his phone, Satan couldn’t be bothered to look up. “I mind terribly.”

“Pardon, but, you see, it’s concerning our numbers.”

“Our numbers?” 

“Yes, sir. They seem to be…dropping.”

He put the phone down and paid heed to Mr. Draven. “Dropping? How could that be?”

“I’m…I’m…I’m not certain.”

“Stop stammering, Draven, and get me answers!” Satan focused and rubbed his chin. “I must not be getting enough exposure. Get me more bookings, Draven. I can’t risk falling off the map.”

“The requests are slowing but…” Mr. Draven brushed a streak of dirt off his polished shoe. “There is one proposal…”

###

“This is Entertainment Tonight, and I’m Lizzy Lee. Social media is abuzz today with news that Satan is now appearing in ads for erectile dysfunction pill manufacturer, Cialis. His latest foray into spokesmanship features the fallen angel enjoying a blood red sunset side-by-side with a she-devil, holding hands while seated in separate bathtubs. Side effects of the devil’s latest appearance include ridicule, mocking and overwhelming criticism from advertisers, media experts and viewers alike. Here’s what they had to say:”

“He’s not only watered down sponsor brands, but also his own personal brand by appearing in so many places. Once a rather intriguing, daring choice for advertisers, he’s now oversaturated the market.”

“The research is showing there’s a vast amount of Satan fatigue. Viewers are reacting negatively to it and turning their backs on the products he’s endorsing.”

“I thought he was kinda cool. But I guess he’s just a media whore – one who needs pills to perform his whoring duties.”

“So what’s next for the Lucifer? Publicists were vague with their plans, but they promised to re-evaluate future sponsorships and consider a possible image makeover for the Prince of Darkness. Turning to other news, Pope Francis took to Twitter to express his gratitude for the sudden surge in followers. Last week alone, the Pontiff added a whopping five million new followers, a thirty percent increase in the Pope’s already hefty social media flock. When asked what he was doing to garner such an impressive influx of new digital disciples, Pope Francis said, ‘nothing.’”

Satan tried to shut the TV off, but he fumbled with the remote buttons, managing only to rewind to the media whore quote. Frustrated, he chucked the remote at the screen. It sailed left, however, and clunked onto the rocky floor. Mr. Draven retrieved it and flicked the TV off.

“Damn, damn, damn!” Satan pounded on the desk. “This is just the kind of miscalculation that will set me back a hundred years.”

“No, sir,” Mr. Draven comforted. “It will be forgotten in no time.”

“I don’t think so, Draven. This was a monumental failure. A publicity nightmare.” Satan paused, looked downward and stared at his feet. “I just feel like…well…like…I…I…”

“Yes, sir?”

“I sssssold my sssssssoul…”

Satan wasn’t positive, but he thought he heard laughing echoing throughout the halls of Hell.

“Anything I can do to cheer you up, sir?” Mr. Draven asked.

“I don’t think so.”

Mr. Draven thought for a moment. He brushed a loose thread off the hem of his pants. “Might I suggest something to take the public’s mind off it? Some event to draw attention away? How about something like a…like a…a nice global pandemic?”

###

Peter was mindful to knock this time, despite an uncontrollable eagerness to share the latest with God.

“COME IN.”

“I come bearing exciting news, Sir.”

“YES?” God was again etching in his book.

“Sir, there’s been a cataclysmic shift in the numbers in the last few days. A swing like I’ve never seen before! Lucifer’s numbers are tanking, and ours are skyrocketing!”

“VERY GOOD. VERY GOOD, INDEED. GLAD IT WORKED OUT.”

“Sir, one other thing.”

“YES?”

“Well, I did some digging, and it turns out we didn’t let that Garden of Eden trademark lapse. As a matter of fact, not only do we own the trademark, we also own Garden of Eden Apples.”

God closed his book slowly, placed both hands on the cover and smiled at Peter. “IMAGINE THAT.”

SPOKESMAN

A Short Story by Tom Witkowski

9 Circles Fiction

Photo Credit: Waldemar Brandt

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