My government name starts with a G, but everyone just calls me Ribs. Just like you’d read it out in your head. It flows out of your mouth like a woman’s tongue, I made it that way. Or rather, the ribs made me. We grew up in the poorest of the poor. If you look at a list of the worst places in America, I’ve been to every last one of them west of Ohio. My life has consisted of hunger, pain, and most recently, cigarettes. I have a nicotine addiction now, according to my doctor.
It’s the first time I’ve had a real doctor. There’s a sweet old lady sitting in front of me giving me the most genuine smile she can muster for a homeless young man on the plastic bed of a behavioral facility. The snapping back and forth, it’s just like that for me. A switch, a slide from abstract, to reality. Then back to abstract, stay a bit, breathe, down to earth again. I want to pursue my dreams of becoming a magician in Vegas but the doctors don’t know why I want to kill myself, still. I found a good church with a great pastor with real friends and rent that’s affordable in the manageable manufacturing job I was given. But the thoughts never go away.
The Vegas training has paid off. I’ve managed to sneak a peek at the wonderfully written notes on the immaculate lawyer’s pad, appreciating the way the ball evenly distributes the ink on the gently creasing paper. I love pens, machines, rockets, guns. Coins, magic. Anything made of metal fascinates me because even the smallest penny has a story stamped into the features of every crease on Abe’s face. Metal takes work to bend and melt. It takes energy, time, focus, and skill. I want to be a blacksmith, perhaps. Wait.
I’m already a Navy Seal. My government job is killing people for metal. Coins and silver are what I like getting paid in the most. I keep the guns I find on the warm bodies and wave the gunsmoke away from the floating plaster bits that have dislodged from the wall. I’m in the Balkans again with a Menthol cigarette. Cigarettes, yeah. I’m more of a smoker than a drinker. Wait, no, I have a nicotine addiction.
“What does smoking mean to you, Gabriel?” My government name. My friends call me Ribs. Unfortunately, my best source of conversation at the moment is a therapist. I look at the seven-tile-by-nine-tile ceiling with lovely gray speckles- no, freckles… and verbally concur with the idea of pursuing an OCD diagnosis so she nods and writes down something for me to steal another glance at.
Unfortunately, magicians are making themselves disappear. Despite being in a literal locked box in a mental asylum, we- I mean I got out the next morning at ten o’ thirteen o’ clock, my favorite time. An escape artist. Wonderful bit of stage magic to incorporate as an intro.
But uhm, about Lucifer. Satan. The angel that fell from Heaven and betrayed everyone. The Judas Iscariot to Judas Iscariot himself. His folks call him Lucy when the doors are closed and only family’s around. He’s taller than you, knows a few good magic tricks, and always smokes from a black pack of cigarettes.
My name is Satan, I collect and sell silver, and my Government knows me as Death. I’m pleased to inform you that I only spent about 3 days in rehab, but I’m a lot better now. Unfortunately, though, I still have a nicotine addiction. If you ever see a fellow wearing all black that wants some money for Vegas…. tip him well and in silver. He’ll sell you a coin from Satan himself.