City Weekly had a hard time tracking down a local Satanist, so we contacted a local black metal musician on MySpace. Then it occurred to us that MySpace is so 2007; everyone’s on Facebook now. I’ll be damned. It took all of ten seconds to find “The Real Dark Lord’s” page. Not only did he instantly approve our friend request, he granted an interview.*
[*The following is a stereotypical misrepresentation of Satanists. We know you’re as legit as any other faith, and that quote-unquote “Satanism” is, like Christianity, a denominational section plate. Theist Satanists (encompassing Luciferianists and Palladists) actually worship Satan as their God. On the other hand, Atheistic Satanists (LaVeyans, Symbolics) worship themselves and simply adhere to Satanic ideas. Finally, there are the dreaded “self-styled” Satanists, the loners that actually do sacrifice goats after weekly viewings of Metalocalypse and may, at some point, move on to babies—but those guys are fake as leprechauns and as real as Keyser Soze. That is to say, “self-styled” just means a crazy kid with no friends who’s pissed off because he has the entire Slayer discography, but only on cassette. There will be no iPod—not even a cheap Sansa player—in his Christmas stocking this year.
So where were we? Oh, yeah. A tete-a-tete with Satan. Surely we’ll offend one or more of the aforementioned demonominabominations (I just trademarked that—who’s your Trickster now?) but that’s what you get for being so elusive, lurking in the dark and not even having the decency to be on Craigslist as the Redeemer Church of Satan (RedeemerChurchOfSatan.com/find-a-local-satanist) indicates. We dare you to complain like “simpering Christians.” Ha! Burrrrrrrn!]
City Weekly: Thanks for talking with me today. This is for City Weekly’s “Alternative Guide to Xmas.” We’re asking representatives of non-Christian faiths to tell us about… I’m sorry, but what is that smell? Did you eat at Beto’s today?
Satan: It’s brimstone. If you liberal alt-weekly newspapers really are so sensitive, you’d understand it’s simply my natural musk. And, one reasons, you’d be decent enough not to comment. Incidentally, I did visit a Rancherito’s drive-thru—they’re all the same, aren’t they?—this afternoon. Have you tried the breakfast burrito? Outstanding.
CW: In fact, I have, and I agree. Shall we get down to brass tacks? How do your minions observe Christmas?
Leviathan: Randy, do you still dream of pitching alongside Fernando Valenzuela with the 1981 Los Angeles Dodgers? It’s not too late; as a Master of the Universe, I can bend time and space and blubber at my whim. You need only prick your right index finger with this sterile lancet and sign—
CW: Please just answer the question. Ol’ Scratch: How about 1980s porn star Racquel Darrian? Do you still ache to grope her deliciously firm, artisan-crafted derriere? She can be yours… for three easy payments of (((((YOUR SOUL)))))!
CW: Aren’t you supposed to be omniscient? Wouldn’t you know the contents of my heart and my hard drive? Even the hidden folders? Black Donald: Of course.
CW: Well, then you’d know I regard those photos and videos as better than being her suitcase pimp, which would involve handling her personal baggage and, potentially, pissing razors. Hush—don’t say anything; it’s unnecessary. There’s always a catch with Ol’ Scratch.
Apollyon: Clearly you believe yourself craftier than I, the Trickster, the Lord of the Flies, Thee James Dobson, Asmodeus, Belial, Morbid Angel guitarist Trey Azagthoth, Sammael, Leviathan—
CW: Come on, man. I’m on deadline… Shaitan: —Mephistopheles! Old Hob! Aldormanndiobla! Three 6 Mafia! Clootie! Old Gooseberry! Glenn Bec—uh, Danzig! Ordog! Rodger! Son of the Morning! The Megan Mullally butter commercial!
CW: I don’t really need this interview. It’s late enough now that it’ll probably be “exclusive online” content. Either tell me what you and your acolytes do to mark the holiday season or let me get back to work. Ba‘al Zebub: Oh, for Christ’s—eh, you know, we celebrate just like everybody else. We play D&D, enjoy the music of Ronnie James Dio, order pizza, sync the Left Behind movie with Marduk’s Fuck Me Jesus EP… Quid pro quo, Randy: Let’s haggle.
CW: Nah. I’m just not that into you.
Father of Lies: You know your mom faked that Fernando autograph she gave you for Christmas in ‘82, right? She had a Mexican from work write on a stock promotional photo. Ha-ha! “Hope to see you in 10 years...” Fat chance, Randy. FAT chance.