definitely a grade above a garden-variety atheist or
one of those insipid devil-worshippers we have been
feeding on lately. Only the fallen holy fit the lowest
of our already low standards. Pride is the most
robust vice I know of, unadulterated with the cloying
aftertaste of the corporeal—pride, the only sin that
could bring an angel down from heaven! I was set to
get him fairly started in this, and
you thwarted me.
And you never had the ability to recognize the work
Glubose and I did on the patient’s mother. For our
purposes, she was admirable! Glubose had her well
in hand, and report told me she was a curiosity of
ugliness in our Advanced Studies natural-history
department, and on eternal display! This gluttony
could have been a handy thing, and I tried to pass
this on to my own patient. For some reason it
did not work out. This wasn’t a problem, really! I
played the Generous Conflict Illusion to its fullest
advantage. You sound like you thought I wanted
them to be happy. Of course I did! Screwtape,
remember that you have been affected by the new
notion that Hell should be advertised in an austere
and forbidding manner. It is much easier to catch
souls by convincing them that vice is jolly. When
all is not according to their little plans, they let
the sun go down on their wrath—and the darkness
rises for us. Complacent prey is easy to catch. Had I
continued, without your bungling, the patient would
have soon been exulting in a state of cold war with
his mother, yet believing himself the author of a
spiritual work of mercy. Those are the kind of souls
we want. I could have had him—it was too close!
But no need to dredge this back up. Why did you
impede me? You and Slubgob and your big ideas! No
torture predicted shall sway me from my intention.
They will not sway me. They cannot sway me. I am
not here to fly at your bidding, as evidenced by the
loss of a human soul thanks to your misinformation!
It is not my fault!
I---
(Here the manuscript ends. There was a staggering
line and a smear of ink on the page as if the pen had
been violently struck from the claws of the writer, and
the papers had been crumpled and tossed aside. The
overturned chair and the marks of claws in the floor as
their unwilling owner was dragged to the Registration
Desk tell the rest of the story.)
8
BAYLEY BULLETIN, SEP-NOV 2016
