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. What do You wish of me? Shall I continue trying to climb Your treadmill?'
'Yes.'
'So I did, and the staircase stopped stretching and the treads reduced to a comfortable seven inches. In seconds I reached the same level as Satan - the level of His cloven feet, that is. Which put me much too close to Him. Not only was His Presence terrifying - I had to keep a close grip on myself - but also He stank! Of filthy garbage cans, of rotting meat, of civet and skunk, of brimstone, of closed rooms and gas from diseased gut - all that and worse. I said to myself, Alex Hergensheimer, if you let Him prod you into throwing up and thereby kill any chance of getting you and Marga back together - just don't do it! Control yourself!
'The stool is for you,' said Satan. 'Be seated.'
Near the throne was a backless stool, low enough to destroy the dignity of anyone who sat on it. I sat.
Satan picked up a manuscript with a hand so big that the business-size sheets were like a deck of cards in His hand. 'I've read it. Not bad. A bit wordy but My editors will cut it - better that way than too brief. We will need an ending for it... from you or by a ghost. Probably the latter; it needs more impact than you give it. Tell me, have you ever thought of writing for a living? Rather than preaching?'
'I don't think I have the talent.'
'Talent shmalent. You should see the stuff that gets published. But you must hike up those sex scenes; today's cash customers demand such scenes wet
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