Lucifer's Last Laugh

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Chapter 8: Your Tale

Your imperious actions in pursuit of Boola Boola disturb me so I materialize in the National Intelligence Director’s office and seek out your files. To my stupefaction, I find your autobiography, which portrays a woman prim, proper and parlous, utterly unlike the rather raffish you I had come to apotheosize.

From the secret FBI dossier that I peruse, I learn that you were confronting almost certain penury the day you first met National Intelligence Director Hank Himmler.

JoeL’s Tale

It is obvious, says Melchom, that I cannot pursue the

demon, Teddy Teawater, unless I have a full-time demon

working with me in all my tergiversations.

Devils can only do so much.

Melchom recommends Joe Lundrunguffa, a demon gypsy.

JoeL I find to be unprepossessing, short, hairy, ugly

in an unusual way, with gorgeously curly blond hair

set atop a face that resembles a pooped out Pomeranian

with an addiction to all known controlled (and most

uncontrolled) substances.

“Fuck you,” says JoeL in genial greeting.

“Hold on,” I depone, towering over this maudin

munchkin, “I’m the devil here. You do what I say.”

“May your asshole breathe tunes of glory.”

“You are not eager for this assignment?”

“Does a Romani suck devil dick?”

I decide to take a less authoritarian approach and

manifest myself in my true awfulness. To his credit,

Lundrunguffa doesn’t bat an eye (although he eyes the

bat hovering over my grotesque visage.)

“So? I am so unimpressed I could conjugate the verb

ennuyer for eternity. But Melchom asked me to work

with you so here I am...”

I accept this unexpected impasse with customary good

grace, reserving, of course, the eventuality of

devouring JoeL in an unusually painful fashion.

“Think of yourself, Lundrunguffa, as my familiar.

Although don’t get too familiar.”

“Little humor. You ever get up with ticks or do you just lie

down with sheep?”

“Teddy Teawater,” I proceed with good humor, “She is partly

why you’re here. A way out of control demon. Insights

into the demon mind?”

“How much you gonna pay me?”

“How about a million?” I say with all the duplicitous

generosity that I can muster.

“In the first place, a million what? Zlotys? I don’t

take ’em. Even as Euros, I wouldn’t take a million.

How about giving me Madagascar?”

I consider JoeL’s proposition briefly. Since he is a

Null One, I cannot even begin to read his mind so I

haven’t the foggiest why he wants Madagascar. On the

other hand, I don’t care.

“You got it. But only upon locating and capturing

Teddy Teawater.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I want this written in blood on

quality parchment and witnessed by Melchom.”


“I also need your help in assassinating the president of the United States.”


To say that the minister was sinister would be only a minor exaggeration.

Here was a man, six foot four, handsome, suspiciously broad-shouldered, fulsomely throated, gorgeously attired in a mega dollar suit, fashionably 1940s multicolored but nonetheless racist tie. Shoes so outré as to be spatlike chic and oozing sincerity as if he had personally patented it.

JoeL makes it plain that he wants to kill the good Reverend Bagwell P. Wilcoxon upon first sighting but I reluctantly demur.

We are here in Baggie’s luxuriously appointed study ostensibly to gauge Americans’ spiritual health, Baggie being the foremost televangelist of all time, having saved tens of thousands of souls through the simple expedient of scaring them to near death whilst blithely emptying their pocketbooks of all available change.

“In the name of Jesus, I welcome you, Dr. Thornhill. Read a summary of your Hitler book. Sounds righteous, except that you imply the Holocaust actually took place.”

“No implication there, Reverend. I flat out state it.”

“And I agree, don’t get me wrong. But some of my parishioners, you know how it goes, get major bummed by the, how shall I put it, ‘Jewification’ of the Holocaust. . .”

“Damn straight,” says Joe L, “Don’t forget the fags and especially, the Gypsies. Not to mention a whole slew of Slavs.”

The good Reverend’s grin grows even broader. “Exactly!”

“Ah, so you are not a Holocaust denier,” I say with a smile, “merely a Holocaust horseshitter.”

Baggie’s eyebrows rise in pretended dismay. “I do not tolerate obscenities, Dr., even from distinguished guests such as yourself and your dwarf-like companion. ”

It requires my full telepersuasive powers to restrain JoeL from disemboweling Baggie. I turn to the Reverend, a classic Null Five, and smile disleggingly.

“You will as of this very moment,” I declaim, “cease and desist with all such nonsensical claims and preach the real Jesus.”

“But that’s what I’ve been doing for the past forty years,” Baggie intones with an undercurrent of whine.

“No you haven’t. Jesus, if he were amongst us now, would do supreme spitty-uppy on your hackneyed homilies, racist ravings, and sexist stupidities. You must forget all of that and focus the resources of your vast cadre of cocksuckers on the sole worthwhile goal of assassinating the president of the United States.”

“But he’s such a godly man, a quoter of scriptures, a man who knows the difference between good and evil.”

JoeL’s eyes sparkle with loathing.

“Regrettably, Reverend Baggie, you bore the holy piss out of me. Do as I tell you or I will devise ways to disengage you from your scrotum that will sully your sexless ass so seriously as to make the seraphim sob.”

Baggie agrees with alacrity.

“As a first step, you will rendezvous with my trusted minion, Boola Boola Shakhur.”

“The Super Christianity terrorist. Good, I’ve always thought that Super Christian theology is quite similar to mine.”

“It is yours,” I say flatly. “Boola Boola is very good at killing people. You are equally good at bewildering them with bullshit and getting them to do what you want. Within a week, the two of you will come up with a plan to ice President Presserwesser. My colleague here will review the plan and punish you mightily if it is in any way defective.”

JoeL snarls with the anticipated pleasure of leisurely dismembering Baggie and Boola Boola.

“Gotcha, Mr. Thornhill,” says the good Reverend.

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