Sympathy for the Devil

Wegman Stu is a man whose clear vision became suddenly impaired. Ironically enough, he worked in television.

It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when he saw things for what they were. In fact, until just recently, his pupils were dilated 24/7. Good things always seemed better. People were always stronger and more capable. And the world was always another opportunity for massive communion. Then he met the devil. And the devil changed Wegman’s life forever.

Now, contrary to popular opinion, the devil loves the feel of the earth beneath her feet. She likes to roam freely. Maybe you’ve seen her. (You’re probably asking yourself –based on my choice of pronouns – whether the devil really is a woman. Well…for Wegman she was. And that should be enough to scare the hell out of you. At least for the sake of this story.) So, the devil didn’t meet our soon-to-be optically impaired hero in some dank, dirty bar, or on the gnarly fringes of evil doing. In fact, the two had their first official encounter just beyond the starting line of the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer; although, the devil had been trying to dig her nails into Wegman’s psyche for years, unbeknownst to him.

Wegman was there producing a segment for an upcoming show. The devil crouched ready, in a pair of black Champion running shorts and bright white Nikes. Though Wegman was still wearing glasses at the time and was surrounded by a crew of cameramen, when the devil made her way towards him, a #6 taped to her custom enhanced bosoms, her intentions were anything but clear.

Did I mention Wegman worked in television? I’ll say it again. It was his job – his life even – to discern the truest vision for the people. Now we all know that television is likely the shittiest medium with which to convey the truth. The limitations are obvious. But Wegman believed in the potential of people. He wanted to see a change for the good in the general populace. So he tried his best – in all endeavors – to show humanity what they needed to see. To prescribe the not-too-apparent. And to change the world by overcoming evil. Digitally. Whatever the cost. Wegman was a beautiful, selfless prophet of the airwaves, but he was about to meet his match. And the showdown would be less than epic.

Channel 7 had no particular interest in contestant #6, but the devil had other plans. Wegman was giving directions, in his usually kind way, to the men with the Sony MPEG IMXs. The devil moved in and parted their lenses like the red sea. Wegman’s four eyes focused. Even before she opened her lips, he knew the devil was something special.

“I have a story to tell to the nations.” She stood in front of Wegman like the answer.

Now Wegman was not what anyone would call religious. It was apparent he believed in God, but that was pretty much the extent of things. His sincere and pure heart he chalked up to good genes rather then good God. Once, when he was interviewing a woman whose missing child had been returned to her miraculously unharmed after 7 long days, he was asked by the woman if he prayed on a regular basis. Implying his position as moderator of broadcasted content might benefit from talking to God. The thought never really crossed his mind. He found himself saying, “Well… it’s really irrelevant.” But for some strange reason, staring at this boldly attractive woman before him now, he was compelled to pray. Perhaps to compensate for the feeling of wanton lust that washed over him like greasy sex.

Fucking. That’s what he was thinking about. Fucking and praying. A combination that was driving him to his knees in embittered conflict. And the devil was taking off Wegman’s glasses. And the cameramen were scattering like ants under a magnifying glass. And the devil kept whispering, “Can you see me? Are you sure? Can you see me?” And the devil was leading Wegman around by his striped tie. And the devil had Neilson ratings. And devil wanted to talk about studio changes and content management and the savior of the world.

Some time passed and Wegman realized that the devil had no intention of raising money for breast cancer. She was there for him and him alone. The event was soon over and Wegman was in some dank, dirty bar, on the fringes of evil doing. He was soused with gimlets and the devil was feeding him programming ideas on the tips of olives. She packed his mouth with so much derision; he thought he would burst with emptiness.

Wegman couldn’t see straight. His glasses were somewhere on the finish line, smashed by the weight of a million women in pink. But his mind was lucid. A dream for the future was being birthed under a black velvet picture of a cat with a suitcase. A cat named JoJo. Lies were now truth. War was now peace. Shit was precious. The devil had given Wegman the burden of revelation. The future would come in beautiful, brilliant white lights. Processed information. The people could no longer be trusted as discerners of goodness and truth and justice. It had to be spelled out for them. Force fed 24/7 on giant silver screens. Talking heads. Quantity. Not quality. And they would eat it. And they would love it.

The pupils in Wegman’s eyes shrunk. He thought the dark of the bar had done the damage, but he would discover later that he was forever changed. There was no fucking that night. Nor was there any praying. The devil left Wegman full and contemplative. But then she was gone. There was a Habitat for Humanity event in the morning and she had to attend.

His head was dulled with the numbness of alcohol when he returned to channel 7 the next morning, but it was also brimming with ideas. If Wegman was ever going to make a difference in this world, he had a whole lot of changes to make. And time was no longer on his side.