Letters to Satan

Dear Tyler,

I believe you meant to reach a colleague of mine. Common mistake — one transposed letter, an entire theological error. I’ve forwarded your request to the North Pole, though frankly his operation has gone downhill since he unionized the elves.

A few notes, since you wrote: “only hit my brother when he deserved it” is precisely the kind of self-issued moral licensing we look for in promising candidates. Keep that up and you won’t need to write to either of us — you’ll find your way here on your own merits.

Regarding the dog: that wasn’t me. I want to be very clear about that. I get blamed for a lot of things, but pet mortality is entirely your parents’ god’s department. Take it up with Him.

Regards,
S.
cc: North Pole Fulfillment Center

Dear Derek,

Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, I must decline. The soul market is not what it was. In 1595 I could get a full soul for a violin lesson. Today I am offered forty a week, mostly in exchange for engagement metrics, and the resale value is nil. Legal has advised me to stop acquiring souls attached to personal brands entirely — the paperwork outlives the brand by centuries.

Also, and I say this with genuine professional admiration: you don’t need me. You have already monetized your personality, optimized your authenticity, and scheduled your spontaneity. My department has studied your industry closely. We’ve stopped innovating. We just take notes.

Sincerely,
S.
Enclosure: one violin lesson voucher, in memory of better markets

Dear Homeowner,

I am not at liberty to confirm the employment status of any individual. What I can tell you is that Hell maintains no formal HOA outreach program, because we have never needed one. Some institutions arrive at our standards independently. It would be vanity to take credit.

I will say that “aggressively non-regulation beige” is a phrase of such exquisite pettiness that I have had it framed. It hangs in our onboarding center as an example of what unassisted human initiative can achieve.

My advice: pay the $75. Janet is playing a longer game than you are, and unlike me, she has jurisdiction.

Yours in shared suffering,
S.

Dear K.,

I receive more mail about ex-partners than about war, famine, and pestilence combined. You should find that comforting: it means your priorities are exactly average.

I regret to inform you that the Department of Personalized Retribution has a backlog of approximately 4,000 years and processes requests in the order received. Ahead of Brandon in the queue: several Roman emperors, everyone who has ever designed an airline seat, and a man from Ohio with an eleven-page single-spaced grievance about his brother-in-law.

However — and I offer this rarely — the file suggests Brandon is now living with a woman who knew you well enough to know better, in an apartment furnished with a stolen air fryer and a guilty conscience. K., my entire business model is built on people constructing their own consequences. Brandon is ahead of schedule.

Patiently,
S.

Dear Marcus,

Your résumé was reviewed with great interest, by which I mean it was printed and passed around the office. “Technically present” produced an actual round of applause in the Department of Minor Inconveniences — the division responsible for printers that jam only when you’re late, autoplay video ads, and the phrase “per my last email.”

I regret that we cannot hire you at this time. Not for lack of qualifications — you are, if anything, overqualified — but because our legal structure requires all personnel to be acquired, never recruited. It’s a damnation thing. HR can explain.

I encourage you to simply continue your current career. Eight years in middle management suggests you will reach us through normal channels.

With professional respect,
S.
P.S. — We kept the résumé on file. We keep everything on file. Forever. That’s rather the point of this place.

Dear Diane,

I must, with some sadness, decline credit for your week.

The truth is that the Temptations Division was largely wound down years ago. It was a beautiful operation in its day — whispers, serpents, apples, real craftsmanship. But the field changed. You now carry a device engineered by the finest minds of your generation to do everything my staff once did, and it does it better, at scale, with push notifications. I couldn’t compete. I didn’t try. I bought stock.

The sheet cake was you. The text was you. The juicer, Diane — the juicer was you at your most unassisted. I have not personally tempted anyone since 2007, and I miss it terribly.

Nostalgically,
S.