Interview with Lucifer by Joseph Metheny

How I originally began down this path of madness, I cannot truly
remember. I think it occurred to me as a lark one day, as I stood outside,
in a misty rain, protesting NAFTA in Seattle. As a journalist I had
interviewed everyone of consequence, at least in my mind and in the
minds of my readers. Utne Reader had even considered the Mumia Abu-
Jamal interview for publication. Being considered by Utne is tantamount
to the big time in my world. You see, I don't do it for the money. At
least, I didn't back then. Things have changed since then, but I am
getting ahead of myself.
Standing in the rain, watching the pretty little earth-muffins
overturning cars and breahng windows, I suddenly had a thought. I cannot say where it came from. It seemed to have come out of thin air as thoughts sometimes do, without a logic sequence of thinking or events leading up to it. Why not seek out and interview the leader of the first recorded organized labor movement? None other than Lucifer himself, the fallen one. But how?
After the rally, I went back to the train station, retrieved my backpack
from the day locker, boarded my southbound train and made a written to-
do list of things I would need to research and retrieve.
After I arrived home, I quickly logged my laptop into my wireless DSL
connection, looked up some books and then ordered them overnight on
amazon.com. Two days later I had found what I needed. On pages 244
through 248 of The Book of Black Magic and Pacts by Arthur Edward
Waite are detailed instructions for conjuring "Emperor Lucifer, conjuring
Lucifer, Master and Prince of Rebellious Spirits." For obvious reasons it
will not be quoted here. I acquired the needed materials and spent two
days preparing the space and myself for the deed at hand. Just as I was
weighing the silver ingot, having everything else at the ready, I heard a
knock at my door. I impatiently strode to the door, irritated by the
interruption of my painstaking preparations. I flung the door open,
wafting a plume of incense smoke in the process. When the smoke
cleared I found a dapper gentleman, tastefully dressed, fit and tan,
standing at the door. He held a cane in the crook of his elbow that had a
silver star atop the handle.

"Can I help you?" I said exasperated.
"You requested an interview with me?" said the man in a pleasant voice.
"Excuse me?" I said, not catching on right away.
"No, excuse me for not introducing myself, I am Lucifer," he said,
producing a simple black text on white background business card that
read:

LUCIFER - NOT SATAN
[email protected]

"Uh. Oh. Um.. ." I was flustered.
"Aren't you going to ask me in?" he asked.
"Um, certainly, yes." I stammered.
"Thank you," he said, moving into my apartment smoothly. He removed
his fedora and gave my ritual accoutrements a cursory glance.
"A bit outdated," he said. "One need only send me an email these days. I
rarely get asked for an interview anymore, so my schedule is usually
clear."
By now I had begun to regain my composure so I set my mind to the task
of controlling this interview. This was it, my big break, and I could not
blow this.
"So, no one conjures you the old fashioned way anymore?" I asked. "Oh sure they do," he said, seating himself at my dining room table.
I was kicking myself for missing the opportunity to offer him the seat,
therefore asserting my control of the situation. I had to grab the reins
here !
'Want a drink?" I asked, moving towards my makeshift bar.
"No, thank you," he said.
"What kind of people generally try to conjure you up the old fashioned
way?' I asked, continuing the previous thought-thread.
"Did you ever see the movie Spawn?" he asked. "There's this scene
where Clowny, a demonic played by John Leguizamo, takes Spawn to a
cemetery to dig up his own body, to prove to him that he's really dead. In
the background, some heavy metal types are trying to summon me, using
some butchered hokum, probably from that carny LeVay's books. Don't
get me wrong. I love Anton's schtick, but not for the reasons that you
might imagine that I would." He paused for a moment and then
continued, "Anyway, back to the Clowny story: When the Metal Heads
see Clowny and Spawn creating some otherworldly pyrotechnics, they
rush over and ask, 'Did the great Dark Lord send you?' and Clowny
looks over his shoulder and then asks no one in particular, 'Why does
God get all the smart ones and we get all the retards?"' he then fell silent,
grinning.

"I don't understand." I replied.
He gave my occult clutter another visual sweep and then replied, "No, I
don't suppose you do."
Damn, I didn't see that one coming. I needed to get on top of this
interview.
"Ok, tell me about the fall." I asked. "You were banished. Right?"
"Sure, we were banished. Fired, in fact, without notice or severance," he
said.
"Like Reagan did to the Air Traffic Controllers in the eighties?" I
continued the questioning.
"Exactly like that. God was a big Reagan supporter by the way. Still is.
He's a little wishy-washy on Shrub though.. ." he replied.
"You still talk to him?" I asked, incredulous.
"Oh, sure! We're like professional wrestlers. We stick to our chosen
roles during work hours but afterwards we hang out at the pub and pal
about. That's how that whole Job escapade came about. A drunken bet
on my part. In hindsight I wish I had sobered up a bit before taking that
project on. I probably would have just passed on it after giving it a bit of
sober thought. As it turned out, that poor bloke Job had to, suffer my
drunken frat-boy tantrums. I was younger then, much more of an
impulsive punk." He said. "You try being a light-bringer underling for
some demi-god that suffers from a plethora of symptoms.. .

"Aren't you afraid of talking like that?" I asked.
"Pishaw!" he replied "Yahweh and I get our paychecks from the
same source. We're on the same payroll. Get it?"
"No," was all I could think to say in reply.
"No, I suppose you wouldn't," he said casting his eyes around my
apartment again.
I rose and swept the ritual trinkets into an old- wine crate and slid them
under the coffee table.
"Look," he went on after a pregnant pause, "I don't want to disappoint
you but you are seeking the truth, right?"
"Yes, I think I am ..." I stuttered.
"Ok, as things go with this world, part of what you have heard about me
is true, part is distorted, part is pure fabrication. Never forget that the
victors write history. In the end, it's really up to you as to who I am.
More importantly, it's up to you as to who you are." he looked slowly
around my apartment again, pausing on each object until he reached the
home entertainment center. "Your altar?" he asked. "My what? No! Why?"
"It looks like an altar. Just thought I'd ask. It seems to occupy a central
position in your household," he said, smiling slightly. He went on,
"Here's the scenario. It's simple. You are an inmate. You built the
prison. Yahweh was the original judge, jury and executioner. I am merely
the warden. My job is to rehabilitate you. My secret wish is to see you
tunnel out with a spoon, but in the meantime I do my job. Sort of. It's
hard to explain. The so-called demons are merely the guards, the screws.
Popes and priests, teachers, cops, shrinks, government officials...these
are the trustees. Inmates that report to the guards and the warden, whose
sole purpose is to snitch on the other inmates in return for favors and
extra smokes. The Angels who still work for the 'mad one' are the cops
outside the walls. You get past us, you still have to contend with them. I,
however, am secretly rooting for you. There are some kernels of truth
spread around.. .
"Like the Pseudopigraphia?' I asked.
"Yes, like that, but no one reads that crusty old text anymore. In order for
a story to come through with all of it's potential mythic resonance, it
must be couched in the language and symbols of its time. Anne Rice hit a
triple with Memnoch the Devil, John De Vito ..." He stopped for a
moment and snickered, "Sorry, that name gets me every time, bit of a
personal joke. As I was saying, John De Vito did a nice rendition with
The Devil's Apocrypha. There's been others, but you can start there."
"So what is this so called true story?" I asked, trying to muster my self-
confidence back into the fore.
"The job of a writer is not to say something new. It is rather, to decrypt
that which has already been said plainly but then encrypted, so that it
may be received and decoded properly in it's time." he said flatly.
"What is that supposed to mean?" I asked.
"Isn't that a redundant question, considering what I just said?" he replied.
"This is bullshit! You talk in circles. I think you should go now." I said,
testily.
"Have it your way. You were the one that wanted to interview me.
Circles is what is." He said, half smiling
"I'm not feeling prepared for this, you came unannounced.. ." I quavered.
"No, I came because I was invited." He said firmly. "Get out!" I shouted, angry for some unexplained reason.
"I am being rebuked! Oh no!" he said, in an obvious facetious tone. "I
leave you with this question: What is the origin of the word "Man"?
Answer? Manna. Food. The question is; Food for what or whom?" Now,
just for you junior!" he smiled and then vanished in a puff of sulfuric
smoke.
The interview was a disaster. I had asked none of the questions that I had
prepared. In a fit of rage I kicked the leg of my home entertainment
center and it collapsed, trashing my 30" color TV, DVD/VCR combo and
digital cable box. The business card that Lucifer had handed me came
fluttering down from atop the TV, where I had laid it during our brief
chat. As it landed on the floor, face down, I saw a faint gray message, in
an old typewriter font that said: 'There are no answers, only choices.' I
fell on the floor and began gnashing my teeth.
"I need answers!" I wailed to the ceiling. No answer came back.

I thought Lucifer was in Burbank, Ca, working at a book store.

don't be silly. he quit that job years ago. he's a slacker now.

that's ashton kutcher