Mary Sue’s Page

I had a page here once, but that was 4 or 6 computer crashes ago.  I hope I can find this page again:)  I don’t even know how this works…  Here’s what I’ve been doing lately…

Job interview with the Devil…

Satan held my resume in one hand, while he coiled his wild red hair around a horn with the other. When he finished reading, he turned his hot, red eyes on me. Gold flecks, like sparks, danced around in his orange pupils.  Heavy beads of sweat formed on my forehead.  I wondered if my deodorant would hold up under Satan’s scrutiny.

“So tell me, why do you want to work in our company?” asked the Prince of Darkness, in a voice somewhere between a gravel truck and a lawn mower.

I gulped. “I h-heard that you were hiring…”

His eyebrows rose, and several thick creases rippled across his forehead. The fire in his eyes intensified. Sweat rolled down my face into my mouth and my hands began to shake.  I wondered if I should have addressed him as “Your Highness” or maybe “Your Lowness”.

Then Satan smiled and two dimples bracketed his lips. Who would have thought the devil would have dimples?

“Tell me more,” he said, encouragingly.

I cleared the lump out of my throat before answering, “I—ah–heard that you paid well, that—ah– you were a company with a team spirit and I like working in a steam.   Ah..I mean ‘team’.   I like teams.  I used to play hockey….on a team. ”

I spoke too fast, conscious of the spreading wetness under my armpits, wishing I’d used heavy duty Arrid spray deodorant instead of Soft ‘n’ Dri roll-on. Worse, gas was building in my bowels and I was afraid to fart, especially with all that flame about.

“Well, well!” Satan leaned back in his throne, and the heat from his eyes dissipated. He rubbed his chin with a long corkscrewed fingernail.

I held my breath.  I needed this job to pay my mortgage, or I would lose my condo.   So far, I had been turned down by 665 employers, been denied Unemployment Insurance or Employment Insurance (or whatever it’s called in today’s governmental doublespeak)—and had even been refused Welfare.   Satan was my last hope for a source of income.

Several minutes passed before Satan said, “It just so happens we DO have a position for a team-spirited applicant, such as yourself!”

“You do?” I gasped.  Oh joy, I thought.  I wouldn’t lose my condo, after all!

Satan deftly folded his hands and screwy fingernails in his lap.

“You can start at once,” he said. “You will be a CEO in one of our companies, Mal Satano. It’s a world-wide operation. We are everywhere—even in the smallest villages in Canada and Cambodia. Your job will be to stop people from collecting their own seeds and planting their own food, so people will be forced to buy Mal Satano’s one-year seeds or have to buy their food from other global companies we own.”

He smiled and his dimples deepened.

“Thank you, so much, Prince of Darkness!” I said, hoping he wouldn’t see my uncertainty. Seed and food control didn’t sound like anything other than market-controlling. It’s what Milton Friedman preached and what economists and professors have taught in all universities and colleges since 1973. So, it couldn’t be a bad thing, could it?

Then I wondered if I should ask Satan what my salary would be?

As if he heard my thoughts, Lucifer said, “Would $500,000 a year suit you?”

“F-f-f-five hundred…”

Satan held up a forefinger with a corkscrew nail. “And there’s a 2 million dollar stock option and perks with a million and a 7 million dollar severance package.

“Good God Almighty!”   The words were out of my mouth before I knew it!   The hellfires sputtered and went out.  Water dripped from the cave stalactites and gold sparks flew from Satan’s eyes and joined to form one intense fire ball.  That fire ball struck my head with such a force, I fell hard on my back, hitting my head.

And that, Doctor House, is how I got the burn on my forehead.

“You should sue,” Dr. House growled, his eyes big as bread plates, his four day-stubble grazing my nose as he examined me. “Your frontal lobe is fried. Your occipital is fractured. We could install a fake brain from Macrohard, but Medicare won’t cover it, so you’ll need lots and lots of money for that. So my advice is: sue the hell out of the devil! My colleague Dr. Wilson will give you the name of a good lawyer — his ex-wife’s lawyer.”

“A lawyer?” I whined.   Now I knew I was truly screwed.  Everyone knows who’s got all the good lawyers.

Mary Susanne Shaw  North American rights


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