“Thank God for Erectile Dysfunction”
The peculiar little room was the only place where conditions of perfect silence and perfect darkness existed. Even the functional sounds of the human body that become almost deafening in total silence - heartbeat, breathing, churning of the digestive tract - were somehow absorbed by the vacuum of sensory information. Their absence was eerily apparent. He pushed the door shut and instinctively clicked the bolt into place. Even after 10 years of these strange weekly conference calls (excluding the agreed upon vacation days, of course) he had never grown comfortable with the stillness. Being in this room, he imagined, was the closest to death he had ever come. A familiar voice finally broke the silence. It sounded terrified.
“Halt! Who the fuck is that? Who goes there?” The man replied with bored patience:
“Who else would it be?” The tone of the disembodied voice immediately changed.
“Hmmm, let me think…did I order a pizza? I often order pizzas then completely forget. Oooh, wait! You must be the cable guy! I did order that cross-dimensional sports package and they told me to wait at home between the first coming and judgment day.”
“Can we please just get down to business?”
“Shit, you’re sour. Your sense of humor is almost as bad as God’s, that ornery prick. Oh well, this is a long distance call anyway. Spill it.”
“I had a problem today.”
“Yeah? What happened?”
“Someone called in Angels on me.” The room was again painfully silent before the voice continued.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. They walked right in the door.”
“Damn, that’s inconvenient. How many? Large or small? Armed or not?”
“Two, both as tall as man and a half. One had a sword, but it wasn’t drawn.”
“Fuck.”
* * * *
I had been trying to get into
Lucas Wagner’s popular lecture ‘Archaic Religions in a Modern Context’ for two
years. Wagner was the undisputed gem of
I successfully enrolled in RELS-06-66 the fall semester of my senior year. I don’t think I had ever actually seen Prof. Wagner until I sat down that first day of class. As the class of about 60-70 students filed in, he was sitting on top of a desk in the front of the room, staring at each person just long enough to make them feel as if they had been thoroughly sized up. It was moderately creepy. Girls tended to get flirtatious around Wagner, not that I was an exception. He was handsome, but more in a sexual sense than a distinguished sense. He had a full head of dark hair, always well-styled, dark eyes, and a healthy outdoorsy complexion. He dressed young, but could pull it off. To me, his style and demeanor screamed “retired rock star!” or “Vegas casino host!”
He waited until everyone had found a seat and then stood up. With that simple action, the room went silent and he had everyone’s attention. He spoke.
“Ladies and Gentleman, I’d like to congratulate you all on enrolling in ‘Archaic Religions in a Modern Context’, which I understand is a difficult task seeing as I’m such a hot commodity.” Wagner paused as the chuckles subsided. Cocky bastard. He had a sexy British accent to boot.
“If you’re in the wrong room, you might consider staying here, because you’ll get more out of this class than wherever you’re supposed to be.” More snickering. He was amusing, at least.
“There is one serious point I’d like to bring up before I begin the course. I consider myself to be a religious historian. What we will do in this room is analyze the impact of major world religions on the progression of human history and development, dealing with the concept of ‘faith’ only on an academic level. You will see religion as a fabricated emotional crutch for the helpless and hopeless, as greedy institutions in search of political power, and you will see why in contemporary society it is obsolete and declining. I will teach this class under the assumption that there is no God and no one true faith. If you have a problem with this concept, or if you can’t temporarily suspend the bias of your personal beliefs, you may want to consider leaving, because you’ll be wasting your time and mine.”
The class was largely stunned. A few students shook their heads in disbelief. Some exchanged wry, knowing smiles. Some stared blankly at their notebooks. The girl next to me suddenly noticed that her Star of David necklace was exposed and tucked it into her shirt, winking at me. I noticed one young man in the back of the room who was almost vibrating with fury. He was young, blond, and unsophisticated looking, probably a freshman. He stewed for about a half a minute, then picked up his things and left. He was the only one to actually leave.
Wagner watched him go in silence. His eyes softened a bit as he turned to face the rest of the class.
“I’m really sorry to have to make a first impression like that,” he explained, “but I take my work very seriously.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and paced the front of the lecture hall. “And while my approach may seem unconventional, I believe it’s the best way to study religion and many others seem to agree. I’d rather give you the opportunity to become offended and leave now while you can still switch your schedule. To those of you who stayed, I thank you, and I hope you all learn something.”
He started off the course talking about the origins of Judaism, Christianity, Islam, and Buddhism. He talked about the evolution of organized religions in conjunction with the evolution of government as stability structures. Renowned psychiatrists were brought in to discuss the psychological need to believe in a God. We examined recent examples of the science-religion debate. It was all fascinating stuff.
* * * *
Sammy Menglert, a lone guitarist, stood at the crossroads in the Mississippi Delta. The windblown brown dust had formed a coating on his long dark hair, fashion jeans, and leather jacket. He was a pale New Yorker, obviously out of place. After a sparsely attended show with his rock band at CBGB in the village, an A&R rep had approached him with a pile of cash in hand, and a map.
“Listen baby,” he said, “you’re too good for these saps and you knooooow it!” He was ridiculously dramatic, like a game show host. “In you, I see the potential to be a supah-star, you got the talent, the look! You just need the opportunity and I’m gonna give it you!” He handed him the generous wad of dough, and indicated a place on the map. At the designated spot in the middle of nowhere, he was to meet Belia Mastema, the most powerful music producer in the country. “He’s uh, Iranian,” the game show host was sure to point out.
“Bullshit,” Sammy had thought,
“but money talks, and this guy has a ton of it.” He bought himself a new guitar, flew first
class down to
And it was there that a bright red Lamborghini Diablo convertible blasting heavy metal guitar solos came 360 spiraling out of nowhere and skidded to a thespian halt right at Sammy’s feet, spraying even more dust on his threads. The driver had slick black hair with a black suit with black shirt and black tie and black shoes and black sunglasses, a red fedora with horns on it, and a big fat stogie. His license plate read “Obstrktr”.
“What the fuck is this shit?” thought Sammy.
“Mr. Sammy Menglert, get your
skinny
Sammy was baffled by these strange circumstances, but certainly wasn’t taking any crapola. “Dude, some asshole gave me cash and told me I was supposed to meet Belia Mastema – an Iranian.”
“Belia Mastema?” Mephistopheles suddenly cracked up. “Ha-HA! That’s a great one! What a riot! That kid has such a sense of humor, I’m glad we picked him.”
“What, you’re not Mastema?” Sammy lit up a cigarette.
“No. Well, yes. I have many names, none of which matter. What matters is I’m a servant of Satan, the Devil, Lucifer, etc. Though he thinks its funny to go by ‘Stan’ these days.”
“You’re a nutcase, and I’m outta here.” Sammy started to open the door. Mephistopheles jammed on the gas and suddenly the car was flying down the dusty road at 150 miles per hour. The door swung shut and Sammy hung on for dear life.
“Not yet kiddo – first we gotta make a deal!” The car did another 360 spin halt, and Mephisto pulled out a CD with Sammy’s face on the cover and a Rolling Stone magazine dated June 1986, one year in the future. The headline read “The Greatest New Face in Rock: Sammy Menglert”.
Mephisto was pumped. “If you sign a ‘record deal’ with me, I
guarantee that you will see both of these items for real within a year. Your first single will be written by me. By next June you will have sold 6 million
copies of your album, you’ll be on the
Sammy looked impassive. “How can you be for real dude, I don’t believe in this soul shit. And there is no God.”
“Well actually, there is,” Mephisto answered matter-o-factly, “but he’s a humorless, neglectful asshole.” The man had a point. If there was a God, he certainly never did anything for anyone Sammy knew. He must be an asshole. Sammy took the contract and signed. It immediately vanished in his hands. Mephisto was overjoyed.
“Welcome aboard my good man! You really have a fine future ahead of you!” Mephisto pushed a button on the dash and the Lamborghini leapt skyward, streaking towards the heavens.
“Holy shit, you are a demon!” realized the now-terrified Sammy.
“Why does everyone have such a hard time with that? We at the corporation pay such careful attention to Devil folklore and literature, especially the modern interpretations. We always try to live up to the expectations. You didn’t notice the car, the suit, the music, the horns, the dust storm, the plates? Hmm, maybe that obstructer thing is too obscure. Maybe ‘666 DEMON’, ‘666 4 Eva’ – ha, that’d be great! Don’t you read any books?”
Sammy looked around. They were in space. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“On a field trip. To heaven. To meet God, that nasty prick. My man David Hume hits it right on the head. Put this on.” He handed Sammy a business suit and some clip on angel wings.
There was a flash, and suddenly
they were standing in a tremendous conference room with vaulted ceilings and a
gleaming table that stretched as far as the eye could see. An exhausted choir sang in perfect, endless
harmony. Miserable looking Angels in
snazzy suits were everywhere, making copies, answering phones, and nervously
expounding on the greatness of God. “I
can’t get over how wonderful God is, and has always been!” “This coffee tastes amazing, thanks to our
lord God!” “Hello, prayer hotline. No,
I’m sorry, God is extremely busy right now and isn’t taking any prayers, but
keep us in your hearts and we’ll hook you up when you die, if we get around to
it. Praise God!” “Hello, Marketing Department! Famine and warlords
bayoneting infants? Send out the
‘He Works in
Mephisto and Sammy walked arm and arm, blending right in. Mephisto even sporadically shouted his own praises: “Thank God for erectile dysfunction! Ha! Oh, and birth defects. Woo!” The main light source in the room was a gorgeous young man wearing a bathrobe, and seated on a dais. He had headphones on, and was admiring himself in a hand mirror. Mephisto tapped Sammy on the shoulder and pointed. “There’s the man himself,” he proclaimed, “Ha! Check this out.” An Angel cautiously approached God with a coffee mug on a golden platter. God took one sip, and then spat the rest in the poor Seraph’s face.
“I fucking create you and everything, and you can’t create me a decent vanilla latte?” God boomed. There was another flash, and suddenly Mephisto and Sammy were wearing doctor’s coats, walking down the sterile corridors of what looked like a mental institution.
“Now what?” Sammy asked, “When do I get to start my rock career?”
Mephisto was legitimately surprised. “Jeez kid, you’d think meeting God would be something. We’re on part two of our little field trip. To meet Jesus Christ. Hey, you look great in that coat.” The pair stopped in front of room 777. The door had a tiny window and a slot for food. Mephisto waved his hand and opened the door. Inside was a short, unimposing man with a beard and medium length curly hair, Middle Eastern looking. He was lying on the bed, in four-point restraints.
Mephisto explained. “You see Sammy-boy, God got wind of what we were trying to do down here, converting people to our side and all, so he decided to send his son back one more time. But God didn’t really follow up on his progress. They thought he was crazy in 30 AD, and they still think he’s crazy in 1985 AD. They just handle it differently these days. How you enjoying your stay here at Cedar Creek, JC?”
Jesus Christ responded calmly. “I see what you intend, Demon, and I will not indulge thee.”
“Ha! Hey Jesus, if you’re really the Lord Savior and blah blah, why don’t you break those bonds and kick my ass?”
“Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.”
“Of course not! Hey JC, if you join my side, I’ll give you some kingdoms, cash, ladies and such.”
“Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only shalt thou serve.”
Mephisto turned to Sammy with a smile. “Ha-ha, you see why this tactic isn’t going to work out?”
“Jesus Christ,” Sammy muttered to no one in particular.
“Yes, my son?” replied Jesus Christ. A doctor stuck his head in the door.
“Dr. Shaytan, if you don’t mind, I need to see this patient,” he said.
Mephisto got up and shook the doctor’s hand. “No problem Dr. Pembrose, I was just introducing him to my colleague, Dr…”
“Faustein,” Sammy interjected.
Mephisto’s face lit up. “Dr. Faustein, yes! Carry on, good man, we’ll just step outside.” Sammy walked with him into the corridor as Pembrose closed the door. “That was hilarious! Great reference! I hope this little trip has been enlightening. Step into my office for a moment.”
Mephisto snapped his fingers and
they were comfortably lounging in a posh sitting room, with martinis on the
table and the
“Look, I just wanted to explain what we’re really about. The reason God is the most powerful is because souls, by default, go to him, unless they are directed elsewhere by means such as your contract. If my boss gets enough souls, he can take over God’s job. He’s been wanting to for an eternity, and as you can see he’s far more dedicated to humanity than our current Lord.” Mephisto sipped his drink, and continued. “Think of it as a mayoral race against an entrenched incumbent. And after your rock days expire, we’ll put you on the campaign trail. It eventually will be worth your while.”
“You mean I’ll be some kind of Satan priest?” Sammy asked.
“Ha, no, not exactly! Our Anton LaVey experiments didn’t really work out. These days we prefer more subtle methods, to soften everyone up to the idea. You’d of course have to change your identity, appearance etc. Anyway, according to Variety there’s a bidding war over your record contract. A limousine is waiting to take you to MCA to hear their offer. I suggest you take it. And remember, I write your first single.”
Sammy stood up and shook Mephisto’s hand. “Take care, my good man! And should you need anything, pick up any phone and dial (666) 666-6666! Ha ha ha!!” As Sammy rode down to meet his ride in the creaky old-fashioned elevator, he wasn’t quite sure what to think.
* * * *
That day in class, Prof. Lucas Wagner had two things written on the board:
Faith - belief that does not rest on logical proof or material evidence.
Delusion - false belief strongly held in spite of invalidating evidence, especially as a symptom of mental illness.
He called me out at random, as he had come into the habit of doing by the second month of class, especially since I had starting sleeping with him.
“Margaret – can you explain the difference between these two definitions?”
“Lets see. Well, faith is belief not proven to be true, but also not proven to be untrue. Delusion is belief ‘in spite of invalidating evidence’.”
“Very good. But couldn’t lack of proof, especially after hundreds of years of disappointment, be considered invalidating evidence?”
I saw where he was going with this, and was determined to fight his direction.
“In some cases,” I argued. “But think about early astronomers. Some of them made very accurate positions based on their insights, but they wouldn’t be proven for centuries, until the technology caught up.” Ha, got him. At least for another 5 minutes.
At that moment the doors flew open. Everyone watched Wagner take a few steps back with his mouth agape. We turned around to see who had come. It was the blond freshman that had left on the first day. He seemed somehow stronger and bolder, and because of the stadium seating in the room, he was looking down on us all. When he spoke, his voice boomed as if amplified.
“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING? HOW CAN YOU DESTROY SOMETHING THAT IS SO IMPORTANT FOR SO MANY! YOU THINK NO ONE SEES, BUT I SEE, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!” With that, he did an about face and left. The class slowly turned back to face Wagner, unsure of how to react.
Wagner was looking up at the door, clutching his stomach with a queasy expression on his face.
“You know class,” he said, “sometimes after a disruption like that, it’s hard to get back on track. Get out of here, get some lunch. We’ll pick this up on Monday.” He bolted out the side door, setting off the fire alarm, before any of us had even begun to get up. It was the last time anyone saw him.
* * * *
“I had a problem today.”
“Yeah? What happened?”
“Someone called in Angels on me.” The room was again painfully silent before the voice continued.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. They walked right in the door.”
“Damn, that’s inconvenient. How many? Large or small? Armed or not?”
“Two, both as tall as man and a half. One had a sword, but it wasn’t drawn.”
“Fuck. To whom were they visible?”
“I don’t think anyone except me. That little blond kid who left the first day came back to class and made a scene. They were standing on either side of him. I don’t even think he knew they were there. But even on his own he was terrifying.”
“That little shit. I never liked that opening speech of yours, Wagner. He must have prayed.”
“Yeah, and somebody listened this time.”
“I think we need to temporarily re-assign you. Something with a lower profile. Hell, maybe you can take my old job. Ha, ha, Belia Mastema! ‘Thank God for erectile dysfunction’! You remember that shit? Hmmm, though you seem so uptight lately.”
“God is getting wind of this shit, Mephisto. I want out.” When Mephisto replied this time, his voice had darkened.
“This is what you signed up for, Sammy Menglert. We fulfilled our end of the deal. You belong to us for now.”
“I didn’t know what I was getting into. And my career in music was artificial bullshit. It ended up being nothing to me. I’m fucking telling you, I’m out.”
There was a burst of flame, and a terrible figure appeared in the room. It was a demon in the truest sense, cloven hooves, oily black skin, horns, claws, and shark-like teeth. But the worst was its eyes, empty sockets that burned and flickered with unholy firelight. The beast snarled and drew closer to Wagner, who was backing off into the darkness. When Mephisto spoke again, his voice had lost all trace of warmth.
“All these things you have said are irrelevant, Sammy. And I am quite disappointed by your cowardice. There will be no trial, there will be no redemption, and there will be no backing out. We signed a contract. Although we have been extremely accommodating these last 18 years, I assure you that Satan can be equally ruthless as God. Maybe some time with our friend here will refresh your concept of commitment.”
“No, wait! I’m sorry! It’s just that the Angels…Hello? Hello?” But Mephisto was no longer listening. And the black room no longer had a door. It was only Sammy, the darkness, and the demon.
“Thank God for Erectile Dysfunction”
Devil’s Pact in Literature
Creative Final Project
Matt O’Dowd
GRMN – 256