Read by Lois Tucker
Inspired by the painting Saint Michael Triumphs over the Devil by Bartoleme Bartejo, right
The Devil’s name is Gavin. He’s this weird, monstrous thing – half-snake, half-toad, half-dragon, half-insect, half-bird, half-bat, half-moth, half-lots of other stuff too – a wriggly, odious green lump, a kind of amphibian, dragon-like worm. His eyes – all four of them, two in his head and two in his manboobs where his nipples should be – are hard red jewels with black, soulless pits at their centres; his reptilian scales each oozes green slime at its edges; vicious, hedgehoggy spikes run all down his spine, poking out through his office shirt, right to the tip of his pulsing, prehensile tail. Like, gross.
They say the Devil was once as beautiful as he now is foul – Michaela finds that hard to believe, though if it’s true he must’ve been pretty fucking beautiful. His name is Gavin, it says so on his ID card, pinned to his shirt pocket, beside his tasteless tie – but to Michaela, he’s simply the Devil. That’s what she always called him, in her head. She knew, right from her first day working here. Because just look at him.