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LUDIC LOG

"Hey!"

"Hello."

"So, uh, do you like this band?"

"Their amateurish clanging is slightly preferable to the ceaseless shriekings of the grafters of the Malebolge, wailing their regrets as they bathe in pitch."

"Yeah! They rock. Excellent. You know who they remind me of, a little?"

"I know all."

"The Germs. You know, totally retro-punk. Old school."

"Darby Crash lies with the drunkards and gluttons, besieged by snow. His mud-choked weeping sounds nothing like this."

"Oh, wow! So you met him? That's awesome. You don't...I mean, uh...so, where are you from? If you don't mind my asking? Are you, like, Indian? I mean East Indian, or whatever?"

"I am a succubus."

"Um...I never did it! But, you know...um...what? What did you say? I didn't bring earplugs."

"I said, I am a succubus."

"Wow. Very cool."

"Yes."

"Is that, like, Persian?"

"No."

"Great. Me too."

"Let me ask you something, weakling."

"Harold."

"Whatever you say. If I were to ask you to come home with me, you would do it, wouldn't you?"

"Huh? Uh...yeah! Sure! Do you wanna, you know, get out of here or something? I have this new Weakerthans CD, and..."

"Pathetic."

"I dunno. I think it's pretty good."

"You. You are pathetic. Mortals. This used to be so much more of a challenge."

"What?"

"There used to be something to this. I would assume human form, you know, and come to the devout or steadfast as if a dream. The pinnacle of his desire is how I would appear to him: hair like spun lava, breasts full and aching for touch, slender as a reed or full as soft stone, skin ranging from a pellucid clarity to a blue-black nightshade. Whatever he desired, such would I be."

"You look totally hot."

"Now, do you know what I do? I just show up. I don't even know what I look like anymore. I got these clothes off a dead hooker. I haven't even had my hair done in six years."

"I like your hair."

"Of course you do. That's the point. Back then it was a struggle. A man of virtue, or even a young fellow like yourself, slaved to his desires but with the future looming, would battle me and what I represented. He had to choose between what lay before him: his prospects, or me. The perilous fight brought heat to the blood and conflict to the spirit. That is what made the conquest all the greater, when it was won."

"Um."

"Nowadays, it hardly seems worthwhile. I could probably have every man in this club by sunrise. Maybe I'd have to turn Chinese for one or two of them. It's no challenge anymore. Man of virtue, my ass. Try finding one of those these days. And it gets easier when you go to the priesthood."

"My mom wanted me to become a priest. But I'm not really into religion, you know? Although I do talk a lot about them in my poetry."

"Do you know what I blame this on?"

"Because, you know, I'm a poet. Do you want to see some of my stuff?"

"Postmodernism. Liberalism. The dowfall of religion. Oh, I could tell you stories. Moral relativism, sure. It's just an excuse to get my panties off. Or it would be if I was wearing any."

"Man. You come on kind of strong."

"All my trickery, deciet and cunning is for naught. I mean, if I told you that in exchange for one night of torrential passion with this beggar's rag of a body I have thrown on, your soul would be eternally forfeit, and you would be blown forever by stormy winds in the Second Circle of Hell, you wouldn't even ask a follow-up question, would you? You'd probably make some lame double-entendre on 'blown forever'."

"One night of passion?"

"Yes. In exchange for the perpetual torture of your immortal soul."

"With you?"

"Yes. That is your reward. For sacrificing the throne of your spirit to sin and Satan."

"And you'd leave the next day? Because, you know, I mean, I don't know. I'm not really, I can't...I have this thing with commitment. I'm not really...I mean, I'm not 'seeing someone' seeing someone, but there's this one girl..."

"Let's go. I'd prefer for the rest of the night's disappointment to be over swiftly."

"Did you drive? My car, uh, my car's in the shop."

"I flew."