The Devil Smokes Marlboros

The devil smokes Marlboros. I know because he offered me one.

“Cigarette?” A smile curled the corners of his lips—confident, almost smug. He wore an Armani suit, not some crazy red getup. He carried no pitchfork, though I would not be surprised if his tongue were forked.

Now, it is never wise to converse with an ancient being who knew most all that ever happened, was created with super intelligence beyond the imagining of man, and who detested you and every creature like you since the very idea of your race came into the mind of God. Long ago, an ancestor of mine had made that mistake and broke the world. I ignored him and returned to reading my book.

“Of course not,” he said with a chuckle, pocketing his smokes. “It’s not an apple, you know. It’s not a sin to smoke.”

No, it wasn’t a sin. It was just a stupid thing to do. That didn’t stop me from trying it once. But it only took once. I recalled explaining that to a friend who smoked—the violent coughing and hacking from a single puff. He had had the same reaction but claimed the virtue of persistence had led him to the joys of nicotine addiction. I focused on this memory, avoiding interacting with the fallen angel, amidst the curling smoke of his cancer stick.

“You can’t avoid me forever, you know. Come on! Give the devil his due”

I chuckled, and that was a mistake. I refocused on my reading.

“Ah, a reaction. A little respect.” He bowed and swung his arm in a gesture of mockery, the cigarette between his fingers.

I tightened my lips and glanced down at my book. I read aloud, “And I saw an angel coming down from heaven, having the key to the bottomless pit and a great chain in his hand.”

“Skipping ahead, I see. We’re not quite there yet. Go back a little: ‘And it was given to him to make war with the saints and to overcome them.’ I like that part better.”

I continued reading. “And he laid hold of the dragon, the old serpent, which is the devil and Satan, and bound him for a thousand years.”

“And all that dwell upon the earth adored him…”

He dared not finish the rest of the verse, whose names were not written in the book of life of the Lamb which was slain from the beginning of the world. Quite an exception. He deliberately left out the He was goading me to finish it, to correct him, to engage with him.

“St. Michael the archangel,” I began the prayer composed by Blessed Pope Leo XIII.

“Oh, not him, again.”

“Defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.”

He feigned astonishment. “Wickedness? Oh really.”

“May God rebuke him, we humbly pray…”

“Are you really so humble?”

“And do thou, oh prince of the heavenly host…”

“Prince? Have you seen how they depict him? More like princess.’

“By the power of God, thrust into hell Satan…”

“Enough!” he shouted. His eyes lit with flame. “That time is not now!”

My book, the Holy Bible, flew from my hands across the room. I walked over and picked it up, taking no notice of him. That attack on his pride seemed to enrage him, but it was all show. The devil is a loser, and he knows he is a loser. He knows the end of the story. His time is short, but his time at the top has just begun—his war with the saints, whom he will overcome.

I finished my prayer. “Thrust into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls.”

Like a snake, slithering to find a better angle of attack, he calmed himself and took a new approach. He chuckled again. “Well, look at that. No St. Michael thrusting anyone into hell. Have you evidence that your prayers have any effect?”

Questions, questions, questions! How they begged for answers. But that was the trap. You could not out-argue the Father of Lies, the King of Lawyers. It was like playing chess against the devil. Once you began to play, you began to lose. I knew from experience. That game, I could not win.

“You pray all the time. How many Masses? How many rosaries? How many novenas? And what has it gotten you? Your family? Your brothers and sisters? Your nieces and nephews? Which of them do you believe are not under my sway?”

I opened my bible, once more and read aloud, just two verses from his last, incomplete quote. “He that shall lead into captivity shall go into captivity: he that shall kill by the sword must be killed by the sword. Here is the patience and the faith of the saints.”

“Patience and faith? Wait and hope, while those you love are lost. What of your bishop? He, too, is mine. And your pope. Patience and faith? How will it save them?”

More questions, more goading. Patience and faith my only defense. I found the place in the bible where I had left off and read on. “And he cast him into the bottomless pit and shut him up and set a seal upon him, that he should no more seduce the nations till the thousand years be finished.”

The devil laughed, flinging the book from my hands, again. “Once more, skipping ahead, I see. Will you wait and hope through it all? Or will you act to save those you love? Has love so little meaning for you?”

The door to my cell opened. An orderly stepped in. “Father Michael? If you insist on throwing your bible at the wall, we will have to take it from you.”

“I’m sorry, lad, you know I am not well. Have patience with me.”

The orderly picked up the bible and set it on my nightstand. “It’s time for your appointment with Dr. Simons. Please come with me.”

“Oh, is Dr. Schmidt no longer here? I had come to enjoy our talks.”

The orderly shuffled his feet. “Dr. Schmidt is no longer with us. Dr. Simons has taken over his cases.”

Psychiatrists could not possibly help my condition, but it did no good to protest. We walked down a long corridor and turned left into Dr. Simons’ office. Dr. Simons glanced up from reading a file on his desk. He was a young man, likely not yet thirty—the age of arrogance for many, when confidence exceeds ability.

“Ah, yes, Father Michael. Please have a seat.”

I took a seat across the desk from him. “It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Simons. But I had been looking forward to seeing Dr. Schmidt.”

The devil’s lips curled into a sinister smile. “Ah, yes, Dr. Schmidt. He never would have let us out, you know.”

As if there was an us.

“Dr. Schmidt is no longer with us,” Dr. Simons said.

“Oh, I hope he is okay?” I asked.

“Nothing for you to worry about. Just an employment dispute. He had recommended some unorthodox therapies that did not fit with our protocols.”

The devil chuckled. “He means, Dr. Schmidt recommended an exorcist be consulted. Now, that would never do. That’s the kind of thing that got us into this mess.”

I sighed.

Dr. Simons glanced at my file. “So, it says here that you see the devil. Is that right?”

The devil mocked me now, appearing with the red suit, horns and pitchfork. “Go ahead, Father Michael. Tell him you see me.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure you can rely on Father Schmidt’s notes. Must I really repeat it all, again.”

Dr. Simons glared at me. “Father Michael, if you won’t be candid with me, I can’t help you.”

I shook my head. “You cannot help me with psychotherapy, because I don’t have a psychological condition.”

“Come now, Father! Are you saying you actually believe that you see the devil? The devil isn’t real.”

“Well, now, that’s a matter of faith, isn’t it doctor? Don’t I have a right to believe what my religion teaches?”

“You may believe, Father, but to see things that aren’t there, that is a different matter.”

“And how do you know he isn’t there? How do you know he isn’t there right now, all in red, horns on his head, and waiving a pitchfork.”

And of course, he was.

The devil snickered. “Good luck getting him to believe that one.”

The doctor shook his head. “Your case is indeed serious…”

“Yes, doctor,” I interrupted. “It is serious. Please allow me to consult an exorcist. You can observe the whole thing.”

The devil laughed. “Sure, I’ll put on a grand show for him.”

The doctor tilted his head. “You’re a priest. Why don’t you just say your mumbo-jumbo and banish him, or whatever you do.”

I leaned back in my chair. “It’s gone too far for that. I have walked in his darkness. I allowed him in. I made a mistake.”

The devil raised his eyebrows. “Will you tell it to the doctor? What you did? He cannot absolve you.”

“Father Michael, the circumstances of your involuntary commitment are quite serious. A fellow priest and a young girl are dead. You are lucky not to be on death row.”

I put my head in my hands. I didn’t want to review the details. I had explained it all to Dr. Schmidt and it had taken a year to get him even to consider consulting an exorcist. Wait and hope. Patience and faith. “It is better for you, and for the world, that I am here, and he is with me.”

“I don’t think it likely you will ever get out,” the doctor said, sternly, “if you don’t trust me. Tell me what happened.”

“You won’t believe me, and you will use my account as evidence of psychosis. Will that really help my case? It would be dangerous to leave without consulting an exorcist, anyway. Here, he has little influence. Especially because I have gotten used to ignoring him.”

“So, you have these visions, but you know they are not real, so you ignore them?”

“No, I ignore him, because I know he is real.”

The devil was back in his Armani suit. He took a puff on his cigarette. “If you play ball with this guy, he will let us out of here.”

“But if he is real,” the doctor said, “why can’t you demand that he leave?”

“Do you think I haven’t tried that? I have gone through the entire exorcism rite, at least as much as I can remember. I’ve done all I can with prayer and fasting. I’ve gotten him this far out, that I control myself. But he’s always itching, prodding, cajoling for a way back in. If I interact with him, I open a door that must stay shut. I need the assistance of an exorcist with faculties from the bishop to go further.”

“Ah, the bishop,” the devil said, “he’ll never grant faculties. He’s one of my useful idiots. He doesn’t believe I exist. Our only chance is to work with this guy. Just deny I exist. He’ll let us out, if he thinks you’re better.”

“So, you know your mumbo-jumbo doesn’t work,” the doctor said. “Let us try to help you with psychotherapy. I’m sure we can help. You just need to stop feeding this delusion.”

“You see!” said the devil. “He is ready to help us. To get us out of this prison! Just go along with him, and he’ll let us out.”

“It would be too dangerous to let us out!” I blurted.

“Us, who is us?” the doctor asked.

“Tell him,” the devil said. “Then, he can think he is helping us, and get us out. Tell him about us.”

“There is no us!” I exclaimed, glaring at the devil in exasperation.

“There is now,” The devil replied.

My soul veiled itself behind his possession. I had slipped up again. With the girl, it had been the thought of helping others, my family. To walk through the darkness to save their souls. I had come to with the bloody crucifix in my hand, having beaten my fellow priest and the girl to death. I don’t know what the devil said to Dr. Simons through me, but I became aware of him. Doctor Simons, not believing the devil existed, had no defenses in prayer to turn to. What had been the reason for his consent? What promises? What pomp and empty show? I would never know. But now, not a vision, but in Dr. Simons, I saw him, puffing a Marlboro cigarette.

“Thanks, for the ride, priest. I have much to do before the angel comes with the chain to bind me.”