The devil dropped by for a solitary stroll through the streets of Mansville. He silently slipped along uneven streets and under fifty-year old yard lights. He stopped at a home on Fifth Ave and peered through the open window. The father was missing, the middle aged mother online, going live on the best products for skin health. “No phlanthates in our products!” He heard her say. Her children’s bedroom blind was closed, but he could see through anyway. A small boy tossed in bed, a Superman toy clutched in his hand. The devil smiled. The boy had once again fallen asleep without his mother’s goodnight kiss.

He moved on, across the street. Through the bedroom wall, he sensed the tension of disagreement. The town pastor’s wife laid in bed, her back coldly turned away from her husband. “Why won’t you let me speak at that conference! I would do so good! It would bring great publicity to our church, more attendees, and maybe a newspaper mention.” She employed tears to drown out her husband’s reasoning. “But honey I’m not comfortable with women speaking to men in the audience…” She turned to face him. “Oh stop! I’ve heard that archaic argument a dozen times! We’re losing attendance, your salary’s dropped twice, and it’s time we become culturally sensitive!” The devil positively crowed with delight. He would have to praise his minions for this victim. She was coming along beautifully, beautifully. He moved on.

Two streets over, through the nursing home walls, he hovered between the thin partition of the spirit world and what mankind calls “the real world.” Time to pay an old friend a visit. Olas lay in bed, moaning with pain. Rheumatic hands gripped a white bedsheet. A nurse stood at his bedside, slipping morphine under his tongue. The devil bristled as she prayed, half under her breath, for mercy on Olas’s suffering. “And give me grace for the rest of my shift,” she finished. This would not do. What an unfortunate thing to have a praying woman in his ripe harvest field. It was his harvest! He had groomed them all their life! Their souls were over-ripe peaches, sickeningly sweet with the fragrance of possession. He would page Legion to pay this place a visit, cause a little ruckus with this woman. She needed to get her hands off of his inheritance.

Several buildings down, through the library aisles he browsed. Ahh, he knew this author well. He smiled as he held her books in his manicured hand. She visited him often, sometimes monthly, for inspiration for her next production. Her success was not her own. She owed him big time. And someday, he would exact payment. He bristled jealously in his suit and brushed an invisible thread off his pants. He enjoyed dressing the times and showcasing his handsomeness. How offensive that folks thought him dark, gnarly, and red-eyed. He was handsome, stunning, enamoring really, with a smile dazzling of optic white perfection. He slid the book back on the shelf. He would increase the author’s next payout from the publisher. She was doing a good work.

He checked his burnished gold watch. Yes, enough time for a couple more streets before the big meeting in Venezia. His pager was buzzing but nothing that Santo couldn’t handle until he arrived.

He set his sights on small tired home sitting halfway between two street lights, a minivan and jeep parked innocuously out front. Inside, two men lay in bed, holding each other close. “I’m so worried about Gloria’s depression. Do you think we should schedule a meeting with the counselor? Maybe take her to therapy?” His partner agreed, saying he would schedule a meeting tomorrow. “We can’t have our daughter feeling unloved. Love is everything we stand for,” they agreed. Upstairs in the small bedroom with slanted ceilings, a teenage Gloria sat cross legged, tears streaming down her face, slashing her wrists with a gleaming kitchen knife. The devil stood at full attention. “Just a little deeper,” he whispered sweetly in her ear. “It helps the pain.” He dipped his finger in the warm salty blood pooling on the hardwood floor. Heady with the scent of human suffering, he nearly lost control of his composure. But he caught himself and whispered again, “Just a little deeperrrrr.” One of these times, when they had exhausted their man made resources of dialectical cognitive therapy, behavioral modifications, and positive self-talk, he would harvest her broken soul and dine on her defeat.

In yet another house, a man sat up late at his desk, tallying numbers from spreadsheets and websites. If he pulled from this account, he could invest it on Mega Money and it might triple within a week. He’d cash out and reinvest at the next opportunity. Focused on his screens, he didn’t hear the devil whisper, “Poor fool.” Keep them online, keep them self-focused, keep them always straining at the next gauzy dreams of gain. Thus distracted by their appetites, they would exhaust their finite hourglasses and tumble into his collection plate. And then he would feast, at their expense, yes, but also their consent. It was only the natural result of their choices. Why was everyone blaming him for “sending people to hell”? It was their own choice and he wouldn’t dissuade them, of course.

One final stop and then he’d be off for the Venezia report. Should it be the green two story or the white ranch style? No one seemed home in the two story so he selected the latter. With noiseless tread he approached the ranch style. The thirty year old divorcee slouched on the couch, images of sequined models strutting across the glowing TV screen. Oh, it was re-runs from the fashion show last year in Hong Kong. He was there in the audience that day, reveling in the raging appetites, the pride, the lust, utter flagrancy. The man shifted from his hypnotized stupor. He felt the familiar urge to touch himself, give release to his youthful impulses. When his wife was around, he just couldn’t bring himself to satisfaction. She wasn’t good enough for him. This and other factors pushed them apart. Now he lived alone, mating with himself. Perhaps he would turn into that creepy old uncle, perhaps he would keep him pleasantly docile. Either choice would be great fun. The devil was beyond pleased. Isolate mankind, keep them wrapped in layers of shame, and tell them they are alone in their struggles. It was a favorite recipe, copywritten from Yours Truly, the Father of Lies.

Time to head to the meeting. He moved away from the window and shape shifted back into a wraith. He would take to the night air and be at the meeting overseas in minutes. But overall, he was highly pleased with how work was progressing here. He would give the minions honorable mention but tell them to amp up the effort. There was so much to be done, so little time. Keep them sleepy, distracted, and isolated. He cackled under his breath and took to the skies.