“I’m tired of not getting credit for evil,” the Prince of Darkness declares.

The publicity firm of Udall, DiBla and Howe, a newly formed company conveniently located next to a parking garage in Burbank, California, has just landed one of the most sought after clients in entertainment history…Satan!

“It was sheer serendipity,” confessed Tony DiBla, “the three of us were attending an exorcism in Culver City, as part of a social group we belong to. It was a teenaged girl. She was doing the usual stuff, levitating and screeching, when suddenly she just collapsed. The room shook and Satan appeared.

“He asked for our cards,” Bobby Udall added, his partner Fred Howe nodding in agreement.

“It’s as if he knew who we were,” Fred recounted. “This was on a Friday. The next Monday? He calls. We knew it was him when the phones began to broil and the coffee maker and microwave exploded.”

“So, very carefully, we negotiated terms. I have to say, for the personification of Evil in the Western World, he was quite affable,” DiBla continued. “He even cracked a joke or two! What was that one about the family…The Aristocrats?”

“How about ‘Rectum, damned near killed him?’” Fred gasped as he collapsed in a giggling heap. Not a pretty sight.

What does Satan want? “Justice,” proffered Bobby, “he feels he’s being maligned by not being maligned enough. He’s agreed to speak with you.”

This WWN reporter was then led to an elevator, accompanied by Udall, DiBla, and Howe and descended to the lowest parking level. The doors opened and, there, was Hell. People screaming, people burning, people staggering around with their entrails leaking from gaping wounds. People binge-watching Joe Piscopo films. It was horrible.


Sitting behind a huge desk was Satan himself. A huge muscular figure, with gigantic bats’ wings, his bald head made distinctive by large rams’ horns. His eyes were like charcoal. His face seemed like a dozen downward angles. He wore a mustache and a pointed goatee. He stared directly at this reporter.

This reporter spoke. “Nice goatee!”

He reared back, stroking it. “J’a think?”

He flashed a proud smile.

That prompted this reporter to smile in response, scratching at my front tooth. Eventually, Satan caught on, turned and scratched a few shards of lettuce from his teeth. He returned his gaze to us. “Sorry. I just had a salad.”


He puffed himself up. “I’d like to announce that I, Satan, have hired the firm known as Udall, DiBla and Howe to represent me in all matters Evil. I feel that, over the past twenty years or so, I’ve been ignored. When something evil happens, I’m never blamed. It’s liberals. Conservatives. Whatever.

“When there are violent acts, you try to analyze them, make sense of them. There’s no sense. It’s all on me. Don’t you see that? I’m the one who creeps into your dreams, who leads you astray, who puts horrific ideas in your head. Me!”

The screaming behind him grew louder. He turned around and bellowed “Shaddup!”

He returned his gaze to us. “Sorry. We have everyone down here: mass murderers, serial killers, politicians…but it’s the accountants who make the worst noise; accountants and lawyers. Anyhow, go back up into your realm and spread the news: Satan is back! And let all the would-be psychopaths know that, from now on, just do your deed and declare: ‘The Devil Made Me Do It!’”

Udall, DiBla and Howe

The three publicists and this reporter hurried to the elevator and quickly ascended, our shoes smoldering. “’The Devil Made Me Do It,’ Fred said. “That’s a good slogan. That would look great on a baseball cap, a red baseball cap.”

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