Malthus my boy,
I know what you are thinking, will you ever reach the level of excellence I displayed during my recent visit? It is unlikely, given that you are a fool. However, you no doubt witnessed an effective display of dynamic temptation and organization. The reason I instructed you not to take notes during my demonstration is because it was better for you to watch the event transpire without having to analyze. Knowing your demonological acumen—I still cannot believe you are the best and brightest from the Academy—you would have just confused yourself and the glorious effect of my endeavours would have been missed. Am I boasting you wonder? Yes. Yes I am. There is no place for humility in Hell. That vice the Enemy expects of his guardians and followers is nothing more than a limp excuse to revel in one’s limits and failings. I am the best, the brightest and most competent devil in all the layers of our Infernal Kingdom! And you should consider yourself lucky to have witnessed such greatness in spirit.
Now, let us go through the sequence of events so that your puny mind can synthesize the importance of what happened. You will recall how I arrived; I walked right in through the front door. We are intruders to be sure, but we needn’t enter into homes such as these in a clandestine fashion. When mortals commit sumptuous sins like these specimens have been doing for years, they have extended to us an invitation into their lives. Unfortunately, we still need permission to afflict the humans, but their offenses against the Enemy may as well be a welcoming-mat for our entry into their minds. We have had free reign in this home for years, especially since the father neutered himself right after the birth of the girl. The sins against the Natural Law are some of our most powerful invitations.
I did not oversee this family at that time, but in reading the reports from the previous tempters charged with their care, I was elated to read about the mother’s misery from that event. She never wanted to “be done” having children, as none of the females ever really do; but she internalized the lies we have shoved down their throats like a duck being groomed for foie gras. She was in her early thirties when her husband castrated himself, and believed she was “doing the right thing.” They had never officially agreed on a specific number of offspring, but the present culture, so galvanized by our motivations, has sold the majority of the sitting ducks in the middle class that children can only be properly raised with an enormous financial burden. This is an ahistorical fact of course, as the majority of their ancestors raised large families with little money, but it is the party line all the same. Just before the daughter was born they had committed themselves to a hefty mortgage, taking on decades of debt only surmountable by a two-income marriage. The playful irony is not lost on me that so many of these brainless twits will limit their family size in order to accrue a larger amount of wealth—in truth it is not wealth they acquire, but credit loaned from the bank—only to purchase large homes and automobiles that are empty due to their small amount of children. The power of usury never ceases crying out to Heaven and beckoning to the Gates of Hell.
Furthermore, the mother has long worshipped the actresses who somehow “get their bodies back” after producing infants. The combination of greed and vanity was too strong and she even encouraged her husband to visit the clinic for the same procedure as a house-pet. “One, two, snip!” as they say. Perhaps she did get her body back, the same body that will one day rot and putrefy with a fetid smell like a dead animal. Her story is the same as many other women, which is why our Female Vexation department inspires advertising executives to flood their television programs with commercials promoting useful messages. Have you ever noticed how during a female-oriented television programme the interruptions are filled with surgically enhanced figurines, promoting a combination of lingerie, vitality products, and diapers? In a span of three minutes we can remind the women of their internal contradictions and guilty hatred of their own decisions.
Now, back to my superior skills: what did I do when your woman was experiencing this exact situation upon my arrival? I turned her gaze towards her husband as he stood staring at his phone in the kitchen, still wearing sweat clothes from last night’s sleep. Her subconscious resentment sprang into her cortex with a fever pitch. “It is really his fault I am so depressed,” she thought to herself; I didn’t even need to implant that thought in her mind as she has been suppressing it for years. You may recall that I immediately prompted him to raise his head and make excruciating eye-contact with her at this very moment. Both exchanged a momentary glimpse of vengeful guilt. She believed he could hear her thoughts, and his stomach dropped through the floor as he suspected she was somehow aware of his new perverted habit. Both unconsciously blaming each other for their self-disgust, both hating their very existence all the same.
You may have noticed his heart rate began to rise presently. Yes it was partly from the realization that he may eventually be caught for his new pastime, but more importantly I gave him a slight bit of prompting. I reassured him that his wife of course had no idea what he is up to, and that his wonderful little device could allow him to access his virtual harem at any moment of the day. His wife and children could be in the same room, but he can be all alone with his decomposing soul and brigade of anonymous internet prostitutes. The thrill of pornographic images for the humans is only partly about the sexual instinct; it is as much or more about the devilish desire to revel in their own filth. A man who commits to such activity becomes nothing more than a swine, rolling about in his own pathetic excrement-laden slime. Our goal is to encourage a steeper descent into the pit of self-abusive barbarism. If all goes as it should, he will come to see himself for what he truly is: our property.
His conscience is still not completely dead, which is why I reminded him of how thirsty he was and how satiating it would be for his throat and his vomitous guilt if he just grabbed that bottle of whiskey off the shelf. A generous gulp and he was right as rain, filled with enough liquid courage to descend into the basement bedroom he now occupies to avoid his spouse. The door was promptly locked from the inside; he has succeeded in creating his own Hell.
This man is ours, the wife is soon to be. We must now consider the next step and for how long we should keep his little hobby a secret. I think it is best to let the wounds fester, hopefully enough to cause a fatal infection. Keep the flow of shame pouring over the man, and make sure to remind him that any resistance is futile. His intellect will continue to darken to the point where he will rationalize his perversion under any circumstance. Once his intellect is in a state of full rationalization…well, then he will be as far from the Enemy as possible.
Until next time,
Editor’s note: this serialization is from the novella Lockdown with the Devil.