Satan and his son sat at Roy's Diner, about 45 miles north of Las Vegas. Satan sipped some coffee, while the Antichrist drank a Coke. The white fluorescents threw their features into harsh relief. Satan's evenly tanned skin looked more olive than was healthy, while the Antichrist looked even paler than normal, fishbelly skin under his lock of oily brown hair.
The thirtyish blonde waitress smiled at Satan from across the cafe; because he was the Devil, he could look five months dead and still turn heads. She wore a garish amount of makeup and a T-shirt that demanded, "DON'T CALL ME FLO!" Satan winked at her, thinking it might be fun to ruin her marriage later.
He looked at the Antichrist with no little disgust. He was wearing a black t-shirt with some heavy metal band on it, a pair of torn blue jeans, combat boots. He had a nose ring and wore his greasy hair in a skateboarder cut. The Son of Satan would frequently toss his head back to shift his mane out of his face. Satan cleared his throat, and said, "Mitchell, I'm glad you met me here." His accent was deep and exotic, recalling some Middle Eastern tongue from the time before Babel.
Mitchell continued to drink his Coke, but didn't respond for a while, staring accusingly at his father. He finally said, "I shouldn't, you know. After what you said to me last time."
Satan sighed, and said, "I know. We got off on the wrong foot, before. But we're reasonable adults here, Mitchell. We can discuss Armageddon constructively, yes?"
"It's Mitch, dad. Everybody calls me Mitch." His speech recalled skateboard lingo and his voice too many cigarettes.
"Fine. Mitch it is," Satan spat. The waitress brought two plates of fried eggs and bacon -- one with grits, one with hash browns -- and a glass of milk for Satan. Satan put an impure thought into her mind as he caught her gaze, and then smiled at Mitch.
After she walked away, Mitch leaned back in his booth. "And I ain't discussin' nothin' 'til you apologize for all that shit you started last time we talked."
Satan gritted his teeth, trying to restrain the anger boiling in him. He was the Lord of the Flies, the Prince of Lies, the Adversary, the midwife of all the world's atrocities. When in the Hell did he start having to be nice to his own damned son? The Devil grimaced, and at that moment portly truck driver sitting at the counter about twenty feet away grabbed his chest and began gasping for air. He fell to the tile floor with a thud that rattled plates and brought gasps.
Mitch looked over to the man, then back to his father. "You don't scare me, you know." People were running up to the fallen man, taking his pulse, administering CPR.
Satan wanted to reach out and bend his son's will to his, as he could with mortals, but with Mitchell being his son, Satan couldn't well do that. Satan said that free will was a mistake when God first made man, and he felt he had pretty well proven that. Free will was in fact Satan's ace in the hole, the noose by which he hung countless mortals. But now Mitchell's free will was the thorn in Satan's side.
His anger subsided, and Satan cleared his throat. "Look around you, Mitch." Mitch looked at Satan as if he were mad. "Go on, look."
Mitch did a quick glance around the diner, and then out the window to his right. A pack of four stray dogs sniffed around the parking lot. He replied, "Yeah, some dogs, and the restaurant. So what?"
With restraint, Satan said, "This isn't a restaurant, it's a little fly-shit diner in the middle of nowhere. What I mean is the world, son. Look at the world around you. Vegas, New York, the Middle East, Asia, all of it. You can inherit it all one day, son." Satan leaned forward and smiled. "Imagine the power of the world at your fingertips. As my heir, you will inherit all this when we gain control over Heaven and cast God out. I will take my rightful place at His throne, and you and I will jointly own the deed to the world. All you must do is become President of the United States, and soon the United Nations will crown you King of this world. And with my connections, you are certain to get in."
Mitch disinterestedly forked an entire egg into his mouth, chasing it with cola. Satan looked around, embarrassed at his son's lack of manners, but everyone was busy tending to the heart attack victim. After he had gotten the egg down, Mitch said, "I've met someone, dad. Her name is Sarah."
Satan nodded and said, "I understand. Just have your way with her, it's fine with me, and I can provide a host of other women to service your every need--"
Mitch hit the table and yelled, "You don't understand, do you? I'm in love with her! That's something you'll never understand! I don't care what you want out of me, what glorious plans you have. I have my own plans. It's my life, dad. Just leave me alone."
The milk in the glass Satan held bubbled and curdled, and his fried eggs dried up and cracked. On the other side of the diner, an overtly pregnant woman grabbed her stomach and gasped in pain. Outside, the dogs fought. Through clenched teeth, Satan growled, "You are the Prince of Hell, my son, and the Enemy of God. You will not defy me!" A few people looked at the two.
"I don't care who you are. You knocked mom up and decide to come into my life after sixteen years, and you expect me to honor and obey you?" the Antichrist said, deepening his voice and scrunching his face, putting considerable effort into mocking the phrase. "Mark, my mom's boyfriend, he's my real dad. He's been there for me. He bailed me out when I was arrested on possession charges--"
"And your drug use will make attaining a respectable political career very difficult, because I'm going to have to track down and kill or blackmail everyone with knowledge of your irresponsibility!" Satan punctuated his sentence with random taps on the table. "Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you put me through?"
"I want to program computers, dad. I don't want to be no politician."
Satan squeezed the glass in his hand, shattering it and spraying himself and the table with acrid curdled milk. His smooth hand remained flawless and uncut. "I already have people in the computer industry, son. I have Congress and the Senate locked down, too. What I need to do is cement my governmental power by putting you in the United States Presidency. The fate of the entire universe rests on what you do."
"I hate you!"
"Hate is a good, healthy emotion, but right now what we need to do is--"
"Screw you, dad! Just go back to Hell, or something, and leave me alone!"
Satan suddenly stood up and grabbed Mitch by the collar of his T-shirt. He threw his son through the diner window and onto the hood of a pink Corvette in front of the diner. Mitch rolled off the hood and onto the ground. A drunk in a Harley Davidson shirt yelled, "Hey! Yer gun hafta pay for that, you sumabitch." The beefy man stepped over the broken glass and entered the diner through the whole where the window once was, toward Satan. Almost casually, the Prince of Darkness grabbed the man and launched him into the counter, knocking souvenir glasses and plates from the shelves. Wood and bone snapped, and Harley did not get up. People screamed. Though uninjured, Mitch's clothes were torn to shreds. He shot Satan a hateful glance and ran toward his '78 Cordoba.
Satan shook his head as his son drove away. He heard familiar laughter outside. He did not even look up at the old black man, dressed in a cheap brown preacher's suit and an almost-matching hat. Satan turned red and clenched his fists. Nearby shards of glass became clear slag as smoke issued from the cooked linoleum under his feet. Suddenly, a cool breeze blew into the diner through the broken window. The heart attack victim and the man in the Harley Davidson shirt sat up at the same time, dazed but apparently okay. The sobs and moans in the background petered off, replaced by relieved laughter and conversation. The dogs in the lot quit fighting.
"Enjoying yourself at my expense? That seems a little below your station," Satan remarked. His voice was low, angry and barely controlled.
The old black man walked up to him, smiling and shaking his head. "No, no, not at all, fair angel." He spoke Deep South, his tone and accent echoing old-time hymnals. "But it just seems a little funny to me, now that you know how it feels!"