"Thank you Miss Debrusey, I'm sure it will."
With a heavy sigh, Milton Berle PhD ushered the aforementioned Miss Debrusey out of his office and closed the door with relief. What a waste of time that woman was! Loaded with more neuroses than sense, it seemed a pitiful waste of his psychiatric talents to have to listen to her whine on week after week about how unpopular she was (despite being the Head Cheerleader of her high-school) and how worrying it was to have to face those Big Decisions of Life (her capitals). Milton wondered whether the airhead had ever had to worry about anything more important than what colour nail-polish to put on. Still, as great as her neuroses were, her cash flow was even greater, or rather her father's cash-flow, and a combination of the fact that Milton and Ed Debrusey had been frat buddies at college, along with the fact that he needed the money, meant that Milton endured half an hour a week of listening to Ed's air-bubble of a daughter in exchange for $400 of her father's hard earned cash. It was funny, Milton pondered as he sat down behind his desk and mentally prepared himself for his next patient, how different Ed and his daughter were to each other. Milton assumed that it was probably all her mother's fault. He tended to find it usually was.
The buzzing of his intercom cut through his thoughts and he sighed as he pressed the button on it.
"Yes?" he asked. His secretary's nasal twang answered him.
"Your next patient is here to see you, Dr Berle."
Milton sighed. "Show them in, Delores."
"Sure thing." came the reply. Milton sighed again. Why of all the blond, six foot tall, tanned women in California did he have to have as his secretary the only one who originally came from Brooklyn? Still, he shouldn't really get angry with the girl because he hated her accent. That would have merely been transferring the anger that he felt for his departed, not-at-all lamented mother, which was not the proper way for a psychiatrist to behave. He was just allowing himself a few moments delightfully fantasizing about hurling his late mother off a cliff (a fantasy which he had had since he was ten, and which his mother's timely death had prevented him from carrying out, the selfish old witch!) when the door opened and Delores clicked in, dressed in her usual too-tight sweater and stilettos which added an extra three inches to her height and you could kill a man with if you sharpened the ends properly. With her came a strange male figure in a long, rather grubby-looking raincoat.
Delores spoke. "This is Mr. B. El Zibub, your four o'clock appointment. Mr. Zibub, this is Dr Berle." She flashed her most blazing smile at the man who shivered noticeably (a not altogether unusual reaction to Delores's smile, as Milton had come to realise) and bowed rather erratically to Milton before sitting down nervously on the couch. Milton tutted inwardly at the man's lack of etiquette, but all he said was "Thank you Delores, you may go." Delores smiled again and left the room. Milton turned his attention to the patient.
"Please take a seat," he offered in what he hoped was a suitably sarcastic tone.
"I have." replied the patient.
"So I see." Oh dear, this was going to be a tricky one, Milton could tell. He leaned back thoughtfully and examined the man from top to bottom; a technique he had employed on many a new patient in order to discern what exactly he was dealing with. In this case, he didn't like what he saw. The patient sat before him seemed to be a fairly non-descript man of average height, but his face was covered in something that looked like dirt, or it could have been scar-tissue. Actually, judging from some of the larger stains on the man's mac, it could have been any one of numerous noxious substances. Milton decided not to try to work out what. The man also had a very peculiar way of looking about him and twitching his thin lips, as if about to smile but then deciding against it. Milton decided that the time for preliminaries was over, it was time to start talking.
"Now then, Mr. El-Zibub," Milton carefully added all the possible Arabic accents onto the man's name in order not to offend, but the man interrupted him.
"No - please. It's just 'Zibub' No 'El'" He gave a small shudder as he finished speaking, but then proceeded. "I'm not Arabic. Haven't been for quite some time." His voice had a curious accent which made him sound to Milton like a cross between Jack Nicholson and Woody Allen.
"Well," said Milton, picking up his pen and preparing a new page in his notebook, "maybe that is a good place to start. Tell me, when did you last believe yourself to be Arabic?"
"Somewhere around the time of the Crusades."
Milton paused in his note-taking and ever so slowly peered up at Mr. Zibub. "The Crusades?" he repeated in a hollow voice.
Mr. Zibub nodded. "Around the twelve century." he added in a helpful manner.
"I know when the Crusades were!" said Milton coldly.
"That's a relief. You'd be surprised how many people have forgotten. It's quite disappointing."
"I was going to ask," said Milton, eyeing the man before him with distain, "before I was so rudely interrupted, why you thought you were taking part in the Crusades?"
Mr. Zibub looked thoughtful. Then he answered. "Well, I'm not too sure myself. I guess I thought it would be kind of a cool idea to join in, since God and Allah were so busy fighting each other they'd never notice little old me causing even more death and destruction."
Milton made a few more notes, although mentally he was beginning to worry a little. Neurotics were his line, not sociopaths, and by the sounds of things, the man sitting before him was a textbook example of one. But he persevered regardless, willing to put off his judgment until he had more evidence. He decided to continue with the questioning.
"Why would you believe yourself to be in 12th century Europe dealing out death and destruction?" he asked, trying hard to keep his voice steady.
Mr. Zibub shrugged. "That's my job. I'm the Devil."
That was all the evidence Milton needed. He carefully removed his glasses and stared hard at the man in front of him. "Look, Mr. Zibub," he began, "I really think you need far more serious help than I can really give you. I'm a specialist in neurotics, not psychotics..."
"Which is why I came to you." interrupted Mr. Zibub. "I'm a neurotic, Doc! I've developed several crippling neuroses that I need your help with!"
"Oh really?" Milton did not bother to keep the contempt out of his voice. "And what, prey, could the Devil become neurotic about?"
"Death. Violence. Rape. The whole caboodle!"
"I'm sorry."
Mr. Zibub sighed. "I've developed neuroses about those things that make me what I am, Doc." he explained. "I've found that I can no longer indulge in what I'm good at without feeling...bad about it."
Milton stared at the man in disbelief. "Bad...about it?"
Mr. Zibub nodded. "Bad, yeah. As in guilty. Which renders me totally unable to perform the task at hand!"
"Well," began Milton. "I cannot see that as a wholly bad thing. After all, what you refer to as 'the task in hand' many would see as the epitome of ghastly acts..."
"Exactly!" cried Mr. Zibub. "And committing ghastly acts is my whole purpose in life, my raison d'etre if you will. I sin, therefore I am! And if I cannot do anything of the sort without feeling guilty, well - I'm out of a job! You've got to help me, Doc! You're my only hope! My life has become a never-ending hell! Metaphorically speaking."
Milton leaned back in his chair again. This was certainly something! To have a man walk into your office, claim to be the Devil himself and then ask for your help in restoring his ability to commit atrocities...Never mind his patient's sanity, Milton was beginning to doubt his own! He tried to think of what to say next, but all that came out was a question.
"Can you...give me an example of how this guilt is affecting your work?"
Mr. Zibub (or the Devil, as Milton realised he now should be called) looked nervous. Then he spoke.
"Well, uh...Doc. Speaking in total confidentiality here, I've been finding that I'm unable to defile virgins any more because..." Here, he leaned closer and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "it won't stay up."
Milton felt like he was losing his grip. "I'm sorry?" he asked, almost dream-like.
The Devil scowled, then spoke in a hushed voice. "When I uh..go to defile a virgin..you know..rape, torture then kill them, that kind of stuff, well...I start to think about the life ahead of them. I start to think of all the golden opportunities they will never have, the years of life ahead of them that I'm going to take just for an orgy of sex and violence that'll barely last a few minutes. And as I consider all that they're going to lose...it goes floppy."
"It?"
"You know!" The Devil pointed at his groin and whispered "My pitchfork."
Milton looked down for a second, then realization hit him. "Oh," he replied. "But uhh..surely, even if you cannot...rape them, you can still...do other things to them?"
"Believe me, I've tried Doc, I've tried!" the Devil replied bitterly. "But I find the sheer embarrassment of...my Imp not standing to attention just saps all my desire to do anything else. I'm just a mess."
"Well," Milton continued in a shaky voice, "perhaps it's just nerves originating from the task in hand..."
The Devil shook his had sadly. "It ain't Doc, it ain't. I'm a pro! Been doing this stuff for millennia without a hitch! Plus, I've tried it in a more relaxed environment with the succubae, and I mean they enjoy being defiled! But even then, nothing. They say it doesn't matter and they don't blame me, but I know in their hearts they feel let down. I'm letting them down, Doc. I'm letting every one down! I'm such a failure!!!" With that, he buried his face in his hands and started to sob. Huge shuddering sobs that wracked his thin frame. Sobs that graduated into a wailing moan that shook the room and seemed to tear into the roots of Milton's soul. Nervously, Milton got up and, only half conscious of what he was doing, walked over to the Devil and patted him reassuringly on the shoulder.
"There there my man," he murmured, somewhat distractedly handing him his hankie. "Have a good blow and you'll feel much better."
The Devil took Milton's hankie with a tearful "Thanks." and blew his nose noisily. The hankie combusted and burned away into nothing. The Devil spoke again.
"What am I to do, Doc? How will I ever cope!! You've got to help me!"
"Well, psychoanalysis is a long and difficult path," Milton murmured, but inwardly his mind was busy thinking. On the one hand, it was his moral duty to refuse to help. After all, if the Devil was incapacitated, then surely that would mean the evil in the world would radically decrease. Maybe a neurotic Devil might do some good. Maybe he could achieve a reconciliation with God and become one of the good guys again. That would certainly help the planet.
On the other...he couldn't think of anyone who could claim to have successfully psychoanalyzed the personification of evil incarnate, let alone cured him. It would certainly be a great achievement if he, Dr Milton Berle, were to be the first. In fact, it would be more than that! Suddenly images of the future appeared before him; of him and the Devil going on chat shows, of him giving interviews on his successful cure methods, of magazines with the Devil on the cover saying 'I owe it all to Berle!'. In fact, to cure the Devil would be nothing short of a miri...well, it would certainly be spectacular and very lucrative. No more listening to the Miss Debruseys of this world. No more crummy apartments and snide comments at psychiatric conventions. He would be rich! Famous! Respected! He might even ask the Devil if he couldn't see his way into allowing Milton's mother into Hell! It was this final thought of his mother burning in the eternal fires of damnation that decided it. He, Milton Berle, would cure the Devil!
But it had to be done carefully. Although Milton usually extended such lucrative cases such as these in order to milk the fees, he didn't think that would be a wise option in this case. He certainly didn't want to face the task of asking the Devil for payment. No, if this was to be achieved at all, it must be done in one sitting, and this sitting was it. But how to start....Thinking for a moment, Milton hit upon the perfect question. One of the oldest in the psychiatric handbook, but it never failed yet. Turning to the still-sobbing Devil, he put on his most professional expression, leaned forward seriously and asked in his gravest tones:
"Tell me about your mother."
The Devil paused in his weeping to look puzzled. "My mother? What the fuck's my mother got to do with this?" he asked.
Good question! Milton found himself mentally unbalanced and was forced to stumble to a rather weaker line of reasoning.
"I am the psychiatrist around here, you are but the Devil - I mean the patient." That's good, don't reinforce the fact that he's been alive for many more millennia than you, Milton thought, "As such, whom do you think is better qualified to diagnose what should and should not be asked?"
The Devil looked as if he might take offence, and for a horrible moment, Milton saw the whole of his life flash before his eyes. Fortunately, he only managed to get up to the part where Katy Harbinger had screamed when he had shown her his toy train before the Devil shrugged and replied.
"My mother? I don't think I ever had one. I was born out of the evil of mankind. I think. I'm not too sure, it's all so hazy. Something about a garden and an apple and later on two brothers, one of whom I really liked. Cain was his name, I think..."
"Getting back to the point," Milton interrupted, "You believe you were born out of the evil of mankind, yes?"
The Devil shrugged again. "I guess so. They certainly had an influence on me, I mean, hey, I wouldn't have ever bothered with this miserable hole of a planet if it wasn't for the chance to fuck up God's creations."
"Ah!" said Milton. "You say that it was because of mankind that you came to this planet."
"Sure. Otherwise I'd have happily sat around in Hell and formed my own kingdom there, although Moloch wanted it to be a republic, the crazy fool. But then, Moloch's a pretty crazy guy. I remember one time..."
"I think," Milton interrupted again, his voice trembling with excitement, "we have come to the root of your problem. You view man as your creator, if not of form and spirit then definitely of purpose. Thus, you associate man with the parental figures, and for many years, like many teenagers do, you hate them. You hate them for giving you this purpose in life."
"I think 'hate' is a bit strong. I mean, I enjoy what I do, Doc. Well, I did."
"And there we have it! Like many people, you do as your parents tell you because it fits with your own expectations and desires. But there then comes the day when you realise you have your own expectations and desires, which conflicts with what your parents want. This leads to hatred, which you show by suddenly becoming concerned about the good of the future since you have dealt in evil deeds for so long. BUT, what you have yet to accept is that you enjoy those evil deeds! Part of you stops you and says 'Wait, maybe I should have free will, maybe I've another option that will make me happy' and thus stops you doing what you do best."
"So, you're saying that I'm stopping myself from being evil & nasty because a part of me wants to see if there's another road to happiness, but I'm forgetting that I'm already on my optimum road to happiness and should continue without guilt or anxiety because I'll be happy?"
"Yes! Exactly that!" cried Milton.
The Devil nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah...Yeah! Thanks Doc, I think you've got something there! It all makes sense now!" He grinned at Milton. "I'm cured! You've done it! So simple, yet so brilliant! Wait a minute though." Suddenly the Devil looked serious. "How can I tell if I'm truly cured or not?"
"By performing some unspeakable act and seeing if you feel guilty."
"That simply? Do you mind if I try in here?"
"By all means."
"Thanks." The Devil flexed his fingers. "I think I'm going to enjoy this..."
Delores Brautingstein was busy filing her nails when there came the most horrific shrieking and tearing sound from Dr. Berle's office. Turning to look, she was horrified to see Mr. Zibub (who seemed such a nice harmless fellow) break through the shut door, his hands and face covered with blood and bits of what looked like pastrami, holding Dr Berle's severed head aloft in his left hand. "Thanks Doc!" he crowed. "Thanks a million! I'll see you get proper placement for this!" He kissed the Doctor's head on the lips then drop-kicked it back into the office.
"Ok, look out world! Satan is back and I'm looking for trouble!" he shouted. Then he spotted her. "Ooh," he said, "what a place to start!" Before Delores could move, he had sprung on her and was rubbing his filthy body against her in a most disturbing fashion whilst groping her at the same time.
"C'mon baby," he leered. "If you gotta be damned, why not go out in style!"
"THAT'S ENOUGH!"
The Devil turned and gaped, as did Delores, as the entrance to the waiting room exploded in a flare of brilliant light for half a minute, before fading away to reveal grizzled old man wearing a long coat and cowboy boots standing in the doorway.
"Hey, Big Guy!" cried the Devil, dropping Delores, "You were right! It worked! I'm back and ready for business! Look out world, here comes..."
"That's enough," said God firmly, holding up a hand. "I'm glad you're feeling better, which is why I brought you here to begin with, but as of now, the truce is officially over and you are to return to Hell forthwith or face the consequences."
The Devil's face dropped. "That's not fair!" he moaned. "I wanted to have some fun, cut loose, live a little. I've not felt this good since the Spanish Inquisition."
God put a kindly arm around his foe and gently lead him out of the door.
"There's always next time. You can use all this new found energy in plotting my ultimate downfall and destroying all my good work."
"Oh yeah, so I can! And you'd better watch out, 'cause this next plan is going to be a DOOZY!"
God nodded patronizingly as he and the Devil left the building. "I'm sue it will, Lucifer. Your plans were always original, if a little excessive."
As Delores passed into blissful unconsciousness, a few last words floated across her mind.
"Are you sure I can't stop off to defile a virgin? Just one, c'mon!"
"No. You can defile a succubus when you return if you like."
"They're no fun! C'mon, just one virgin!"
"No!"
"Spoilsport."
"I heard that."
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