Excerpt: The Gospel According to Saint Martin

The elevator lurched down, shrieking like an offended dolphin all the way to the six hundred and sixty-sixth floor. Martin stepped off at his intended destination. He no longer felt ill on these rides, but still didn’t appreciate the journey. It just wasn’t pleasant.

Martin walked to the last door at the end of the hallway and let himself in. He headed straight for the bar—then hesitated, remembering. He turned around and went to a shelf on the wall, by the door. There was a Mason jar sitting there, between an assortment of vials labeled “TEARS OF HUMAN CHILDREN (by age)” and the bleached skull of a strange animal, which Martin knew was a Mediterranean monk seal. The Mason jar’s label was written on a bit of masking tape in the Devil’s own handwriting, which was fine and artful, and read, “SWEARING JAR.”

Martin rummaged in his pocket and dropped a quarter into the jar.

“Thank you,” said the Devil, who was sitting on one of the two barstools, sipping at a bright pink drink.

“Welcome,” said Martin.

There was an identical pink drink sitting on the bar in the other spot—except this one still had the cherry intact. Martin swung himself onto the other stool, swirled the drink around with the straw, and took a long slurp.

He had to admit that, if there was one thing he had learned in all his afterlife, it was that Satan made a damn fine Shirley Temple.

“You ought to oil up your elevator,” he said. “It sounds like a dying walrus.”

“How would you know?” said the Devil. “Ever heard a walrus die?”

“I didn’t mean literally,” said Martin.

“Let me tell you, speaking as somebody who’s killed a lot of pinnipeds,” said the Devil. “The sound is pretty unmistakable."

“I’m just saying,” said Martin, “you want to scare away your damned?”

“What are they gonna do, jump off?”