Conversations with the Light Bearer (Religious Satire)

CHAPTER III - The Bloody Sexist Bible

CHAPTER III

THE BLOODY SEXIST BIBLE

It was Thursday night—drinking night. Central always had a promo during weekdays: three cocktail pitchers and two choices of sizzling side dishes. And as the years passed, Thursday sort of became our preferred arrangement to dabble incoherently on despised politics, hidden charges, exasperating bosses, and loathed timesheets. It was indeed a night to look forward to; an evening of fun and the occasional visits to massage parlors and houses without kitchens. A few more minutes and lover boy arrived.

"Hey there, Vincy!" howled the young man with shoulder-length hair. "Been here long?"

"Yes, for an hour now." I turned to inspect his rugged ensemble, a walking mannequin of leather and bling. "If I may ask—what the heavens are you wearing, Beelzebub?"

"Asks the man who looks like a funeral attendant," Beelzebub retorted, brushing his slick black hair with his fingers, his eyes wheeling about. "And don't call me by that ugly name. You don't hear me calling you Loki or Hades or Sata—"

"It's called a suit. You should try it sometimes, Ritcher."

That's good old Beelzebu—er... I mean, Ritcher for you. Of all the things in Heaven, Hell and the mortal realm, what he despised the most was his name—which was pretty much reasonable. And of all the exiled entities, he was the one who took pleasure in it the most. He savored every bit of it, really. The fame, the glamour; the girls and the gadgets—he wanted it all, he wanted to be human, which was pretty much what he got.

As for his fortunate host, well... he wasn't anywhere near as appealing as mine, especially before Beelzebub took over his body. The young man was basically a bore—complete with a large belly, round spectacles, and a kimpi haircut—which was even more stressed due to his lack of wit and confidence. Poor lad.

And just like me, the demon didn't really had any say on which body he would be exiled to, but good old Beelzebub made the most of it: ditching the glasses, going to the gym, taking on a strict diet, eventually losing weight and updating his overall wardrobe. In a nutshell, Ritcher turned the dull pig to a six-abed, cologne-reeking, ass-grabbing ladies' man.

Not bad for the Lord of Flies.

"No, thanks. Never liked the tie. Makes me feel old." Ritcher winked at the girl across the table as he took a seat. "So how are you, man? What have you been up to lately?"

"Between surviving the boss and the landlady, I'd say nothing much, really. Nothing you'd be interested in anyway."

"Wait—what boss? Are you talking about Nancy?" He wondered, placing a hand on his jaw. "She's hot, man. Tightly curved in all the right places. I'd do her every day. I'd do her every day if I were you. "

That's Beelzebub for you—a true gentlemen.

"Well... Despite her perfectly enticing figure, I just find her so horribly strict and unreasonable. There's just something about her I can't stand."

"So the girl's got a stick up her ass. What gives?" Lover boy continued his profound lecture. "Usually it's the nerdy, librarian types that get you going, if you know what I mean."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Ritcher. You're the satyr around here."

The music grew a little louder. He leaned forward. "No idea? I'm pretty sure Perse would disagree." He grinned, like a man who knew a past long buried and forgotten, and should be kept long buried and forgotten. "Bringing her down and all."