Doomed

^{DECEMBER 21, 12:47 P.M. HAST} Satan Phones to Bait Our Hero

Gentle Tweeter,

Aboard the Pangaea Crusader my borrowed PDA begins to play “Barbie Girl,” and on the device’s backlit screen the name of the caller appears as “Your Author.” I cautiously put the phone to my ghost ear.

“‘…Madison knew she would not be able to hide her true nature for much longer,’” a voice says. A guttural, robust voice, it says, “‘Soon Maddy would have to embrace the fact that she personified chaos, and that her reason for being was to bring misery and conflict to everyone whose life she touched!’”

It’s Satan. Of course it’s Satan. Gentle Tweeter, the dark lord claims to have authored the story of my life—to have written me into being, if you will—and he insists that I’m no more real than Jane Eyre or Huckleberry Finn. Periodically he telephones to read me portions of his so-called novel as proof that he’s dictated my every continuing thought and action. In the Devil’s version of my life every sentence ends with an audible exclamation mark. At least one. I wish I shared Satan’s enthusiasm about me.

“‘…Already,’” he continues reading, “‘Madison had lured multitudes of souls to eternity in the fiery pit!’” The telephone voice says, “‘And Madison knew that if she didn’t strive to complete her infernal mission of total damnation, soon the Devil’s hellhounds would locate her helpless kitty cat and utilize it for conducting skin patch toxicity tests of a new feminine hygiene spray!’”

On her divan my unconscious mother stirs, moaning softly. Gradually the noise of helicopter blades begins to subside. Footsteps bound across the helipad overhead, thudding the deck that is this salon’s ceiling. Every step brings some hideous revelation a moment closer.

“‘…Madison knew that, even now, her Papadaddy Ben was coming aboard her parents’ ostentatious yacht! He would expose her! The world would comprehend the penis-lacerating, man-hating murderess she was!’”