See you on Tuesnight! – It’s bound to happen
See you on Tuesnight!
«See you on Tuesnight!» –sometimes I exclaim, when talking with my friends– «Otherwise on Saturnight, if you like it better».
Why am I not used to utter the word “day”? Well, to tell the tooth… Oh bloody hell, I’ve made a pronunciation mistake! So I think I’m going to repeat from the beginning: well, to tell the truth I’m Dracula, the Transylvanian Earl. A few years ago I lived in New York and had, as my home, that famous skyscraper called the Vampire State Building. But now that I’ve settled in England, I want to become a very British Nosferatu and therefore to be respectful of all the local traditions, including the most important: drinking a cup of tea, with just a drop of blood, every morning at five o’clock.
It’s bound to happen
For many a long year Hell has been only a barren and dusty landscape. Satan has gone from there and set up on Earth, abandoning the old haunts.
Hell is empty, quite snuffed out, the revelry of sins and punishment is no more. Now, the perfection of Evil resides on Earth.
The photofit of wickedness is characterised by a pair of hooked horns, sunglasses and a glad sneer.
The devils love fire as much as they loved Hell and seek to recreate their fire-raising and roasting natural habitat: having liberally scattered petrol on trees, buildings, cars, men, news-stands, stalls, neckties, lasagne, countrymen, psychologists and socks, they fling lighted matches and ignite violent explosions. But mainly bleeding burns. And immense, glittering, white-hot blazes!
«How beautiful!», exclaim the excited demons. And meanwhile the world burns away, covered by sores of flames.
«Hurrah!», they rejoice. And, so as not to be dazzled, they watch the flames through dark lenses whilst exchanging smug smiles and cheerfully shaking their horns.
«Ah, magnificent: what a wonderful blaze!», and they kiss each other’s faces as a viscous sweat caused by the huge pyre that the Earth is fast becoming rolls slowly down their cheeks.
The versatile perversion of these callous monsters knows no bounds. It is cynical and pitiless. Not knowing quite where to put the lost souls, for instance, they crucify them with big, rusty nails on the mountain rocks. Which they use as convenient footholds when they go on little “keep fit” climbing excursions in the Alps. And thus the athletic, rock-climbing demons hoist themselves up the peaks, clinging tightly (if need be) to the arms, legs and heads of the poor pierced and hanging spirits.
As for the cities and villages, now inhabited by the few survivors fleeing from the global beacon which the world is gradually turning into, they are invaded by singular demons equipped with driving licences. They can be seen, sprightly and self-assured, at the wheel of curious small vans towing uncovered and cramped trailers crammed with sinning souls who resemble nothing so much as fragmented storm clouds. They groan with unending pain in the confined space that crushes them unrelentingly. They are so squashed and squeezed that some of them burst. And forthwith all the evil they have done before dying spills out from their torn and tattered ethereal bodies. We’re talking about (oh, horrendous thing) a treacherous liquid that gushes and spurts, in the guise of slimy blood, with the same epileptic violence of lightning and which, in spite its drab colour and malformation, diffuses a fragrant aroma: temptation.
The licensed demons drive around the villages and cities, wafting this perfidious perfume on the breeze simply to upset the nostrils of the still-living. All the while creating an unforeseen but inevitable jam of heavy traffic. Sometimes Satan himself remains imprisoned within the unmoving queues. At the wheel of his private truck (as the king of devils he has claimed for himself a bigger van in which to take the souls for a spin), he looks out of the window and rejoices in the triumph of Evil: as far as the eye can see are demons igniting fires and wreaking havoc and men succumbing to temptation. Jovial and content he gives vent to his enthusiasm by honking the horn and, when the traffic starts moving, he doesn’t neglect to run over a pedestrian, just to round things off with a cruel and self-satisfying conclusion.
Thus, for centuries, Hell has been an empty landscape, where the term “empty” means “barren and dusty”.
From out of the ashes of the eternal flames, forever extinguished, now rise up the monasteries of migrant monks. These days the peace required for spiritual exercises is to be found only in Hell, hence the brothers have decided to move their liturgical household effects there, into the abandoned bedlams. Where they pass their days clothed in the monastic habit, clinging on to the hope in their hearts… and to sweet, ineffectual prayer.
(Translated from Italian by Victoria Gay Blanchard)