Satan, Nicholas Kalmakoff, 1923.

Michael would have her or he would train the dry earth and wet sea to suffer. An unholy sinister prowler, he haunted boneyards and wastelands until he found all the ingedients. On the appointed night he undertook the ritual, chanting and feeding to the bonfire everything it desired: the blood of a virgin, a crooked boy’s stunted skull, three hits of ecstasy, the collar of a defrocked priest, a spool of copper wire stolen from an abandoned mini-mansion, a tube of zit cream, two packs of cigarettes, a vial of inhalable oxytocin, and a pair of her soiled panties burgled from the backseat of his archenemy’s car.

At last, clearly within the unsayable light he saw a tiny figure.

– Klaatu barada nikto!

Billowing up in a cloud of monstrous shapes and sorceries, it grew until its stature reached the sky, and on its crest sat horror plumed.

– Lament your good fortune that at last subsides. What is your wish, mortal?

– The love of Desiree Johnson.

– Really? Desiree Johnson?

– Yes, my lord.

– Not to amass rapaciously gold and silver?

– No, my lord.

– Not expert search engine optimization?

– No, my lord.

Michael had a parchment scroll prepared as a tribute, but the demon waved it aside.

– Fool. We only accept electronic payment.

It handed him a retina iPad.

– Enter your Facebook username and password.

– I…

– I said give me your soul, boy!

Michael did as he was told.

This entry is part of my journal, published January 23, 2013, in New York.