Satan drummed his taloned nails on the back of the plush leather seats, and snapped irritably at his driver "Can't you go any faster? I'm going to be late!" In the driver's seat, the demon shrugged his massive scaly shoulders and offered
"Sorry Boss, but you know what it's like on a Monday. All the new souls gettin' here at once, the trucks takin' them up ta da relocation camps --- Route 666 is murder at this time of the morning!"
With a stony expression, the Devil pointed a long talon at the driver. There was a puff of green smoke, a blood-curdling scream and the demon disappeared from the front seat. Driverless, the limousine began to slew slowly sideways. Satan counted silently to three, then snapped his fingers. The driver's seat was suddenly occupied again.
"Sorry, what was that?" he enquired icily of the newly-reconstituted driver.
"Eh, n-nothin', yer Majesty!" stammered the demon, grabbing the wheel and turning the heavy vehicle back into lane. "I'll get ya there, don't ya worry!"
Satisfied, Satan sank back against the leather seat, and idly perused the ipad in his hand. Details of the newest VIP to arrivae in Hell scrolled across the screen, but Baelzebub did not need Jobs's latest gadget to tell him about the man he was rushing to meet. He knew all about him. Oh yes.
He thought back to the VIPs he had greeted at the Fiery Gates before. Most never saw those gates, coming in through the normal entrance, being collected in trucks by his minions and shuttled off to the relocation centre, where they would be catalogued, inspected, and finally allocated their particular section of Hades according to their sins, their sexual preferences or how much of a hangover he had from the night before. Only a very select few came through the Fiery Gates, his own personal cocking a snook at God. Hey, Heaven had the Pearly Gates...
Yes, only the truly evil were allowed to enter via those imposing arches. And he had seen them all: Hitler. Calilgula. Saddam. Rasputin. Bush. Oh, no --- he caught himself. That wasn't for a few more years yet! Sometimes he forgot how time passed on the Earth. But these people were the cream of evil, the very worst the world had to offer. He had greeted them all personally, feeling that they deserved such attention, having helped him spread misery across the world, each in their own way.
And now, here he was, on his way to greet yet another VIP. Though he had to admit, this man put all the others he had met to shame. Whereas they had had help in their quest to spread evil --- armies, warriors, political spindoctors --- this man had needed no such aid. He had nothing! Nothing except his words. And with these words he had brought down empires, had replaced hope with despair, joy with sorrow, and made strong men weep. He was universally hated, and yet totally untouchable.
"Nearly there, Boss!" The grating sound of the demonic driver , something between a high-pitched scream and a hiss, brought him back to the present, and he looked out the window of the sleek black limo, out along the turnoff from Route 666, to where the Fiery Gates were beginning to fill the horizon. Seven miles tall and built of --- well, flame! --- the Gates were an imposing sight, but somehow he knew they would not faze his newest guest.
He began to think about how he should address the VIP. In the past, he had always allowed important arrivals to retain the honorifics they enjoyed while alive, so that Hitler was greeted as "Mein Fuhrer" (although the title was purely nominal --- Satan wasn't about to let ANYONE lead down here, bar himself!), Saddam was addressed as "Mister President", Caligula was allowed the title "Your Imperial Majesty", and so on. But this man, this new arrival, his latest VIP, had not possessed any title while on Earth. True, he was one of the most powerful men on the planet, but bizzarely he held no office, commanded no armies, yet answered to no-one.
The car slid gently to a halt. The Fiery Gates towered over everything, but as his driver got out and came around to open the door for him, the Devil felt as giddy as a schoolgirl. There was of course no such thing as cold water in Hell, he knew, but mentally he splashed cold water on his face, took a grip of himself and swung his huge frame out of the door. The coals underfoot hissed as his hooves impacted them, the impossibly huge gates of fire loomed over him like mountains of flame, the screaming and crying of the damned carried to his ears on the hot desert wind of Hell, yet all he could think was that at last, he was about to meet his idol.
The demonic honour guard, lined up either side of the gates, drew them open to reveal a small human figure standing there, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, rocking back and forth slowly on his heels. Satan had seen the look on the face of every VIP who had stepped through those gates, and without exception they always showed fear, even if they tried to hide it. They knew this was the last resort, the final battle, the election they could not win. Their personal, infernal Watergate, from which there was no coming back.
But this man's face evidenced an expression Satan could honestly say he had never seen before on any denizen of Hell. It took him a moment to realise it was boredom.
"Now that's class!" he breathed to himself, and slicked down the scales on his head as he stepped forward through the gates, reaching out a leathery hand in greeting.
"Mister Cowell!" he beamed. "SO nice to finally meet you. I'm SUCH a big fan..."
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