Hmmm, well, here is one I worked on recently in collaboration with another writer (he's the roustabout type, more given to Kerouac overtones, I'm a mystery writer with pretentions toward a literary voice). We giggled over this long-distance for a few evenings, and produced the following gender-bender. We wanted to see how many twisteroos we could come up with, within one essay.
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I found myself in the company of a devil the other day. Oh, he showed no horns or cloven hooves or pointed tail, but he was a devil nonetheless.
He had disguised those stereotypical accoutrements and considered himself quite clever, but I saw through his facade, his glossy veneer, in a moment. It takes only a glance or the sound of the first few syllables they utter and with a little experience, you just know. They're amazingly transparent, not nearly as devilishly cunning as they like to flatter themselves as being.
It seems you just can't get any good quality demons these days. It's like they're just going through the motions, like they're not even trying anymore.
Sunday morning I was sitting in a coffee shop, about as deep into the Seattle Times as anyone could be, when he sidled up to me and, quite uninvited, plopped himself down just next to me. Annoyed at this invasion of my space and privacy, I tried to remain aloof and detached, but he would have none of it. Much to my dismay, I was about to be butt deep in yet another tedious social exchange.
He forced a smile, made some lackluster, predictable, cliched opening volley and the dance had begun. He ignored my noncommittal demeanor and without missing a beat or taking a breath, clawed at my attention with urgent insistence.
(I am so tired of wasting time having to deal with their negativity. That's all they are, you know, one big bundle of bad vibe, bring down, negative energy. They are obnoxious and depressing, but even worse than that, they are boring. They are heavy, deadly dull. They drain any delight, any charm, any positiveness right out of any situation. Therein lies their true evil, the tiresome little freaks.)
This one presented himself well, I must admit. He wore a short, black, pleated skirt that swirled around firm thighs in black nylons as he walked. His red satin blouse clung to and exposed a luscious set of full and succulent breasts that swayed gently and freely under the fabric.
His clear eyes flashed in the pale light of that rainy morning, but they were a steely blue and revealed a hardness that could not be disguised. They were embraced and enhanced by a shoulder length fall of copper colored hair.
He ordered a beer and a shot of well tequila and offered some weak excuse that it had been a hard night and he had to take his father somewhere for some kind of treatment.
He, of course, was an out of work professional and, of course, on medical leave for some sort of vague ailment. He paid for his drinks with a fist full of Susan B. Anthony dollars that he said he had gotten in change at the Post Office, of all places. Once again, just not even trying here. He told me and repeated several times what a private person he was as I was subjected to the uncondensed version of his autobiography right down to the peccadilloes of his surfer dude son in San Diego and the details of his hysterectomy at which point he assured me that he didn't have to worry about getting pregnant.
All the moves were there, opening his legs and resting his knee up against me, brushing his breasts along my arm as he took it and held it to punctuate a laugh to a feeble joke.
He had the patter down as well, but the guise of a slightly aging, neurotic, alcoholic tart still trolling and trading on her charms was wearing thin and old to the point of being insulting. This demon just didn't care anymore.
How are you going to walk on my soul? How are you going to suck me dry? How are you going to even sucker me out of a few drinks if you don't at least make a reasonable effort? Where's the imagination? Has hell become nothing more than a mill churning out hacks? Even good, down-home evil can be respected and appreciated when it's done with a little flair and style.
He went on and on. There was nothing new or fun or exciting or, in any fashion, entertaining and I hate being diverted from the Sunday Times. Resigned, I easily anticipated his every word. It's all been said a million times.
I used to smell the air, hungry, and actively hunt down such occasions, never really knowing who was the hunter and who the quarry. But, like everything else, after a while, it just becomes pointless.
Well, even a devil has to make a living and has someone or something to answer to. I sprung for a few rounds and listened politely to his ramble. I even graciously asked for his phone number. Maybe I'll give him a call sometime. He was a snappy dresser and had nice tits.
