Earlier today, the Devil admitted that he was in the wrong. He hadn’t been evil. He hadn’t been a monster. He’d just been sick, he said. It was a disorder.
“We should have known.” That was his best friend, Christopher Walken. His other best friends, Gabriel and Metatron, nodded.
“We should have known,” said Mr. Walken. “But it was so easy to believe that he’d just gone bad. That he was causing all the evil in the world out of malice.”
“We spent years inventing philosophical justifications for it,” noted famed playwright Christopher Marlowe. “I guess that was pretty dumb.”
“I’m going to have to be on medication for the rest of my life,” admitted the Devil. “If I go off of it, it’s back to my God-defying people-torturing ways. There’ll be a Hell again. There’ll be evil. I’ll be back on your shoulder, tempting you to do wrong.”
That’s when they shot him.
One wouldn’t have imagined that he’d have a brain, but he did. It got into everything. It Sataned the tuxes and dresses of the rich. It Scratched the records. It Deviled the eggs.
The only break in the silence was the clatter of his pitchfork hitting the ground.