The Godkillers, Episode 3

When devilish medics reign supreme, who will then save inhuman humanity from itself? Just when you thought it was safe to take your mask off, things take a turn for the worse…

“How DAAAARE you suggest that my GRRRREEEAAAT adversary is merely imaginary!” the ghastly apparition boomed.

Actually, he didn’t so much boom as scream. And wave his hands about. Then he pouted.

It had never occurred to Colin Poledancer that the Devil might be gay. Not once, ever: he had always assumed – given the relentless New York Times glorification of the condition – that only the goody two-shoes folks were gay. Just as only the bad guys voted for Brexit.

Hillarity seemed unimpressed.

“Can we turn down the drama queen volume a little, Beel?” she asked, “that was only Colin trying too hard to be loyal. Wasn’t it Colin? Colin?”

But the Pentagon liaison officer sat there, his jaw going further and further south in relation to his flat nose.

On the far side of the conference table, Terry Asgelt too was witnessing the Devil incarnate for the first time. This undoubtedly explained why he had wet his pants as the Wicked One materialised.

“I cannot believe it,” Poledancer muttered at last, “The King of Hell is a Goddamn pansy”

Beelzebub swung around, his crimson green-flecked eyes fixing Colin in a baleful stare.

“I’m not queer you fucking moron!” he piped, “How can the Prince of Darkness be gay for fuck’s sake? I just use this persona for the sympathy vote”.

“Er, your majesty,” said the CIA’s director, “that’s strictly classified infor….”

Without turning round, the Devil grabbed Mal Sextant by the collar and yanked him across the table.

“Shut up you dissembling little worm, I and I alone decide what the facts are….your job is to sow confusion, period. I am not a fairy. Fairies live in the other place”.

“Thank God for that,” said Colin Poledancer.

“Correct,” the Devil agreed, “It was his stupid idea. Do not smear me with such a repulsive sexuality accusation”.

“Then what the Hell are you?” Asgelt heard himself asking. Beelzebub switched instantly to a broad smile as he cackled. The noise always reminded Hillarity Clitoris of Kissinger having a coughing fit.

“A serial killing paedophile of course!” he yelled, “for a true sadist, there is no other way to be….and believe me, I taught de Sade everything he knew…”

All this time, the Herr Doktor Armande Böse – World Health Organisation Tiny Hobgoblin Enabler For Undercover Cull Killings, known in dystopian circles as WHOTHEFUCK – had been sitting unremarked at Hillarity’s side, leering at her in silent lust. He had an uncanny feeling that he knew what was coming next.

The Unholy Father was standing to his full height in the table now, camping it up even more as his Little Helpers gaped at the display:

“The very idea! The very conceit…..that there is no God. I mean welllll, I ask you? Didn’t you doooo history at school you bunch of bumpkins? Who do you think it was slipped little Dolfie a mickey finn so he overslept on D-Day, huh? Eva fucking Braun? Who do you think was on Wellington’s side during Waterloo? Napoleon was my general – a genius. Old Wellington wasn’t fit to lick his boots. But every time we’re about score some points, in steps bloody God. Not exist? Are you kidding? The nosey bugger’s…..”

“In everything,” muttered Böse.

At the sound of the Little Doctor’s gravelly voice, Lucifer stopped, nodded quietly and raised his arms towards Armande Böse.

“Behold,” he whispered, “my son made Man”.

Hillarity Clitoris put two hands over her eyes, shaking her head.

“Oh shit,” she mumbled. Böse dribbled quietly, licking his lips.

“Almighty father,” he giggled, “as always I am your humble servant. This time, we outnumber the Dogooders. This time, I am here on this Earth. Your Earth, father Mestopheles”.

“Oh shit,” repeated Hillarity.

The doctor touched her arm. “Don’t worry mom…everything will be just fine”.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Terry Asgelt announced.