Honey, I Think I’m the Devil

By Robbie Cole

Honey, I Think I'm The Devil is engaging, funny, thoughtful, and one of the goofiest books I've read (that's a good thing!) — J. Lloyd Morgan, author of The Night the Port-A-Potty Burned Down

 

If you have ever found yourself secured to a bedpost with pink fuzzy handcuffs and getting exorcised by a priest reading an instruction manual while smoking marijuana, you can probably relate to what Jack Spencer was going through.

 

Jack has haplessly fallen into Lucifer's dastardly scheme to overtake heaven.

 

Now he's the devil's apprentice, and as he unwittingly learns to trade favors for souls, not even an inept exorcist or a voodoo priest can stop Jack's transforming into the devil.

 

When Jack's wife gets abducted, Jack and his merry band of hallucinated misfits begin a humorous quest to rescue the girl, defeat Lucifer, and save heaven from a hostile takeover while spinning this comic fantasy on its head.

 

Honey, I Think I'm The Devil is a wickedly hilarious, laugh-out-loud, heartwarming comedy that explores the ups and downs of the dating scene, serving as a user's guide for loving the supernaturally challenged.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robbie Cole
• Release date: Sep 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798201072582

Robbie Cole

Before writing his first novel, The Book of Jack, Robbie worked as a musician, golf professional, and a manager for Walmart, Petsmart, and Motorola. When he is not lost in a fictional world, Robbie enjoys camping, fishing, and playing with his granddaughters. The most important thing to know about him is that he grew up a social outcast where he had a backseat advantage in witnessing the absurdities life offered, which shaped his warped worldview into the self-proclaimed comedic super genius, laugh influencer, and emotional roller coaster engineer he is today. So, if you were to seek him as a mentor or just want to hang, you might find him sleeping in the corner of a social event, family gathering, or lounging somewhere on a riverbank, seeking total relaxation, with The Dolly Momma, his faithful German shepherd Dachshund (the 5th reincarnation of the Doggie Lama).

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Jack vs. It’s A Wonderful Life

If you have ever found yourself secured to a bedpost with pink fuzzy handcuffs and getting exorcised by a priest reading an instruction manual while smoking marijuana, you can probably relate to what Jack Spencer was going through. If you have ever entered your home to find it transformed into an evil lair with a magma-heated indoor pool, you can probably relate to what Jack was going through. And if you have ever been so hot you had to wear a silver fire protection suit to protect the world from your smoldering essence, you can probably relate to what Jack was going through.

Jack never wanted to be the devil. He never asked for it. Nor had he aspired to be it. In fact, he had never aspired to be anything. As Jack grew and failed to mature, he believed that if he never tried at anything, he could never fail. I’m sure for some wayward souls, becoming the devil would be an honor. But Jack knew that having any responsibility would result in failure.

Keep the bar low, son, his father often told him, so Jack practiced the ancient art of limbo—the forbidden dance—to see just how low he could go. As a result, his simple desires manifested a life as a happy-go-lucky schizophrenic waste management engineer on the path to Nowheresville.

Learning he had gained employment—even if it was a low-paying sanitation job—had surpassed his parent’s expectations. It elated them when they received the news that he was to marry a wonderful girl—barring Jill was not a hallucination—because he would finally be someone else’s problem, I mean responsibility. But her pregnancy alarmed them. Not because he had risen above keeping it simple. No, their concern was that one Jack was more than anyone could handle.

Yes, Jack was okay with his less-than-normal life. And God had smiled upon him for his lack of material desires. Jack would have been just as happy being a sponge on the ocean floor as he was sound asleep in his bed, which is why the devil could not simply walk up to Jack and say, I want to retire. Will you be my successor?

Though we are very early in our tale, I’m quite sure you’ve probably induced that Jack would most likely think the devil was nothing more than a hallucination and dismiss him as a nuisance. So for his plan to work, Lucifer would have to develop a stealthier approach. A workaround, of sorts.

Lucifer knew most people never concern themselves with ever-present evil walking beside and behind or sleeping beside them. He had built a long career on that fact. And his studies of Jack suggested he did not differ from his fellow man. For he also ignored all evil influences. So, having employed all methods of logical argumentation—including categorical, propositional, and predicate logic, while avoiding all fallacies—Lucifer deduced only one approach could exploit Jack’s happy-go-lucky personality, access his subconscious, and bring him success: to corrupt Jack, he would employ evil-doing entities, aka spooks, skilled, demonic stalkers that lie in wait for an opportunity to tempt one’s spirit and test their faith.

I’m sure you’ll agree it’s pretty scary knowing such things exist. And the annals of history say nothing about these dishonesty ninjas, these secret agents of the dark arts on soul-assassinating missions. All I know is the soul-corrupting fiends I’m warning about could be anyone. Therefore, you must trust no one. I’ve also heard there are but two ways to avoid becoming a victim yourself: (1) exercise caution at every turn and (2) lock your spiritual essence in a safe place—but don’t let anybody see you do it, or you could end up like Jack—ensnared in one of the devil’s evil traps. However, if you do fall victim to such a dastardly scheme, your experience will surely be less comical than Jack’s.

There was one simple reason that Lucifer’s plan could succeed. Okay, it’s not that simple. See, Jack’s failure to thrive among his fellow humans was in part because of his schizophrenia—probably about two-thirds. The third part comprised his taking sleep for granted, seeing it as nothing more than a pause between shitty workdays. And that, my fine featherless friends, opened a portal for the devil’s minions. In a Picasso-skilled evil practitioner’s tool belt, dreams are blank canvases where the seeds of temptation get planted in one’s subconscious to make the demon’s workday easier. Much like hypnosis, it’s mind control. But on a grander scale.

You may, or may not know this, but contrary to history’s reports of past civilizations, people aren’t born assholes. No, they’re shaped over a lifetime by these integrity-corrupting agents of the evil arts. These beings became coveted operatives for the devil after a failed experiment, a bet between Lucifer and God to test a wealthy man’s faith. You may be familiar with his name, for it gets dropped here and there—Job. But we will learn about him later.

Jack’s journey, as you will witness, is much like Job’s. But fares much worse. It burdens me to say that to see how this happy-go-lucky schizophrenic waste management engineer on the path to nowheresville fell from grace, we must first glimpse our hero’s life before he stumbled so blindly into this predicament.

SOUND ASLEEP IN HIS comfy bed, Jack was nothing like Job. He didn’t possess seven thousand sheep, three thousand camels, five hundred yokes of oxen, or five hundred she asses because that would not only raise his expectation bar but was just too darn much responsibility and his parent’s residential home’s code enforcement officer would strongly object to having that many animals and fine the bejeesus out of them. To be fair, a comparison of Jack and Job wouldn’t be complete unless we considered the fact that Job’s faith never wavered. But I fear a test of Jack’s faith might land him more in the neutral zone.

No, Jack didn’t need all the above-mentioned things. After all, he had one thing he cherished more than anything: his wonderful wife named Jill, because he promised to in their wedding vows. Plus to love and honor her. Oh, and obey—which fell out of favor many years ago after someone said, and I quote, YOU DON’T OWN ME!!! But, having considered whether she would own him—I mean, it’s not like she was adopting him from a groom shelter—Jill decided to add obey to Jack’s vows for moments like this:

Jill, the ever-devoted wife, dressed in a fast-food manager’s uniform—a blue long-sleeved dress shirt and black pants—stood over Jack in what had become a daily ritual of shaking and bouncing the mattress to wake her less-ambitious mate. He opened his right eye and peeked at her, then fell asleep seconds before his eyelids met. Not that they didn’t know each other. I mean, they were together before Jack’s birth.

There was another factor for Jack’s waking difficulties which might fall under a sleep condition: Jill hadn’t seen the translucent shape that shimmered beside Jack (Oh, did I mention dishonesty ninjas are usually invisible to humans?). Caught in his work, the dishonesty ninja (aka a spook), remained as still as possible while riding the magnitude ten earthquake tremors below him. As soon as the shaking stopped, the bed-width mirror above the headboard flashed, signaling he had exited.

Wake up, sweetie. I’m going to work. Don’t forget to take your pills. There’s a list of reminders on the table—the psychiatrist at 2:45; and the baby doctor at four. Oh, and I put your lunch in the fridge. Jack, you better follow my instructions no matter who tells you differently—real or hallucinated. And shower when you get home. I don’t want you smelling like garbage at the doctor’s office again.

But the only words that registered in his infantile intellect were list, fridge, and blah, blah, blah. Then he grunted.

To Jill, Jack’s grunt was no assurance he had listened. So, while standing with her hands on her hips, she yelled Jack! from her perfect lips.

To which another grunt sounded.

Wake up! she screamed, hoping to startle his senses into action. And if you feel this was a bit harsh, I disagree. For I know Jack far better than you.

Finally, he stirred, again. But his eyelids didn’t open. So, as affectionately as possible, the loving wife lost more of her patience and punched his shoulder, startling him awake. Get your lazy ass out of bed and go to work! We can’t afford for you to get fired.

Now that was necessary. I hope you’ll agree and not report her to the authorities for spousal or child abuse. Or whatever else applies here.

Alright, alright. I’m up, he proclaimed, as his covers moved back, and he raised slowly like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon.

She sighed heavily and waited until he sat with his feet planted on the floor before kissing his forehead. Slapping his pawing hands from her breasts, she said, Not now, and hurried away. She stopped and turned in the doorway, placing her right hand on the door frame while flashing a playful grin. Maybe later. Then she pushed off the wood and entered the hallway, feeling quite proud of her work.

Jack lingered, listening, and upon hearing the rattling of keys and the front door closing, he smiled a large cartoon-cat-like smile and crawled back into bed.

Jill’s throat cleared in the hallway, forcing his right eye to open wide. You’re such a child! she exclaimed, as she went from his sight, massaging her baby bump while releasing a sigh. Soon I’ll have two to care for. Then she envisioned herself wiping poop from her baby’s butt and doing the same for an elderly Jack. Nope, that’s not happening!

The front door closed. Then, with a mischievous smile, the future devil stood and stretched one arm high while the other did some manly scratching over his tighty-whities.

He strode toward the bathroom as Silent Troy, his twelve-year-old imaginary friend, appeared before him, dressed in 1980s blue tough skin jeans with iron-on knee patches, a red t-shirt, and a blue Texas Rangers baseball cap turned backward. His white sneakers tracked imaginary mud across Jill’s plush, beige carpet while his hands danced in a flurry of sign language.

I know she hates it when I do that, said Jack, prompting Silent Troy to respond by signing with even more enthusiasm. Okay, okay. I won’t do it again. Sometimes I think you love her more than I do.

Silent Troy nodded, smiling wide.

Don’t you have school or something?

Silent Troy shook his head.

Jack entered the bathroom, turning to find him watching. Do I watch you pee? He said, shooing him away. Not with a shoe, of course. But rather a slightly more polite method of waving the inverted backs of his hands to nonverbally say ‘Get out of here’. And clean up that mud. Jill’s gonna kill me.

Silent Troy stuck his bottom lip out, pouting as he shuffled away like the scolded child he was as Jack closed the door, hoping to perform his business without further interruptions.

MOMENTS LATER, AS IF his morning were not hectic enough, another surprise awaited Jack as he exited the bathroom. Barry, a hallucinated, authentic 17th-century pirate, stood in the center of the room, sporting a mischievous smile between his thick, black mustache and chest-length beard.

Silent Troy lounged on the bed, a safe distance away because Barry was unpredictable, often practicing his swordsmanship for no apparent reason.

All set to plunder the high seas? Barry asked.

Jack perked up, then sulked when Silent Troy hand-signed a reminder of his responsibilities. Sorry. I gotta go to work.

As you may have surmised, Jack enjoyed his adventures with Barry—however imaginary they were—but with his job in jeopardy from excessive tardiness and a baby baking in his wife’s belly, he could use some downtime. For Jack, life was akin to riding a unicycle down a bumpy gravel road while people continuously handed him objects to balance. And he knew if he went to work that day and listened to people say Smile, Jack or You should smile more, he would need another stint in the loony bin.

The wench’s keepin’ ya busy, eh?

Jack slid on a clean green jumpsuit and zipped up. Maybe this weekend, guys. I can’t be late again. Then he pulled on his boots, tied them, and hurried away.

FINALLY, OUT THE DOOR, Jack jogged the sidewalk lined with flower beds that resembled a wildflower graveyard or a milkweed sanctuary. With his sack lunch swinging in his left hand, he headed toward a 1970s puke-green Ford Gremlin that slept in the driveway. And if you’re thinking, wow, a classic! Think again. This lazy bum’s performance was as though it had real Gremlins inside the engine.

Anyway, Tom, a hallucinated golf professional with a long red beard and mustache, 1800s Scottish-style brown knickers, chocolate argyle socks, gold vest, and black puffball hat stood on the last surviving sprig of crabgrass, smiling at his young protégé. Ready for ye lesson? he asked, then adjusted his golf bag on his shoulder.

Jack reached for the door handle, wanting to answer yes. But he knew as well as us that doing so would receive a not-so-pleasant response from his wife. Not today. Can’t be late. Those words were a mantra designed to keep him focused and out of trouble. So he silently repeated the phrase again and again and again while entering the car and slamming the door shut. A quick glance in the side mirror showed his mentor frowning while giving a slow wave.

The mighty Gremlin coughed, sputtered, backfired, then rolled back into the street, coughing once more before vomiting a cloud of smoke and strongly considering retirement, rusting out in an automobile graveyard.

Tom sat in the driveway with tread marks along his face and flattened head, waving a bent golf club while shouting obscenities at his worst student ever. Unfortunately, Jack didn’t hear him, and the exhaust cloud had not cleared enough to see him.

Paused in the road, Jack lowered the sun visor and unclipped his black Blues Brothers-styled sunglasses, and coolly slid them on with just his thumbs and index fingers. He turned on the radio to hear Born to be Wild blasting through crackling speakers while gripping the steering wheel tighter. Then, reaffirming Jill’s warning, I can’t be late, Jack stomped the accelerator to the rusty floor and sped off at a top speed of about fifteen miles per hour—ensuring he would be late.

Meanwhile, across town at Jack’s Bar & Grill, something stinky was brewing. Not the local brew, but the foul stench of an evil plan....

CHAPTER TWO

Jack vs. The Oz of Uz

Adorned with hanging lights advertising alcoholic beverages on painted glass panes, the main room in Luke’s Bar and Grill was large and smoky. The clacking of thermostatic resin balls smashing together on billiards tables like crash-test dummies through windshields covered voices shouting over the song I Got Friends in Low Places blasting from a jukebox tucked in the corner beside a pinball machine and a vintage Atari video game. Mounted 70-inch televisions circled the area, each showing a different sporting event. Females in tiny half t-shirts served drinks from round trays to soon-to-be destitute patrons, most of whom had entered the establishment to escape their nagging wives and screaming kids.

The Manager, a 40-something Italian-American man wearing a hideous, 1920s maroon zoot suit and matching hat, spread cheer as he worked the room.

The bartender, a young man in black slacks and a white Oxford shirt, wiped the counter, trying to ignore the whining barflies while stealing glances at the hostess, a voluptuous redhead with a sultry smile.

One regular, a tall, square-jawed dude, rubbernecked to match each of the bartender’s gazes as if he hadn’t seen the same servers hundreds of times.

A beyond drunk man slept slumped over the end of the counter in a drool pool. You may know the type. All gone, having no clue, he wasn’t missing anything. Probably the best sleep that bar polishers had in weeks.

At a table in the back of the room, tucked in a small hideaway, a faint ray of sunshine through open curtains clashed with thick cigar smoke that swirled under a ceiling fan, pushing exhaust onto an elderly dude in a white suit, hat, and beard who enjoyed smoking while reading a newspaper. A second hepcat, sporting a black ensemble trimmed with red satin, sat across from the man in white, who lowered his paper enough to notice him. Not amused, sensing a ruse, he continued to read. Well, well. It’s been a long time, Lucifer. You don’t call or write. So, tell me, son, to what do I owe the displeasure?

Lucifer leaned onto the table and clasped his hands, flashing a devilish grin. Remember that game we played a few years ago?

God—yes, I dare say it—the man in white was God, the all-knowing. Lounging in his chair, he lowered the newspaper and turned the page. By the term game, I assume you are referring to Job. And it wasn’t a game. It was a bet... and you lost.

A brief recap may well serve those not familiar with the Book of Job.

See, long, long, long ago, there lived a man in the land of Uz. He was perfect and upright. Neither snobbish nor rude, but in need of a prune. Owning seven thousand sheep, three thousand camels, five hundred yokes of oxen, and five hundred she asses (though he was not a pimp), he was the greatest of all men in the East—the Sheikh of the desert sands. But he was no fashionista, as you might expect of the Oz of Uz because the ancient fashion scene offered few options. A robe and sandals were enough for a simple man. Plus, he enjoyed the feel of a gentle breeze caressing his genitals. Besides, his fear of God and eschewing evil made up for any stylistic faux pas the chic brigade might impose.

As their seven sons and three daughters evidenced, he and the wife got along well. But when you have climbed the rungs of the success ladder and possess everything under the sun, rest assured, somebody will want your stuff.

And that is where we must begin this foreshadowing of future betrayal, with Job and a neighbor standing upon a hill, their long, biblical beards flapping in the breeze, surveying the aftermath of a mighty whirlwind that had flattened all Job’s possessions to the ground. All seven thousand sheep, three thousand camels, five hundred yokes of oxen, and the five hundred she asses—destroyed in an instant. His house, constructed of mud bricks and a straw roof, laid demolished, and beneath it the bodies of his sons, daughters, and his wife—all dead.

The destruction was not the work of the Big Bad Wolf, as you may have suspected. No, someone much more devious destroyed Job’s humble abode and life. The most insidious of all villains. A demon who needs no introduction. Lucifer. Aka Satan. Aka the devil. Why, you ask, would he lay such dastardly destruction at Job’s feet? Well, the answer is simple, really—because he could.

It is unfortunate that no one will ever know if it was fate or divine coincidence that the day the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, with Satan along for the ride, they planted the seeds of Job’s destruction.

And the Lord said unto Satan, his first creation, Whence comest thou?

From going back and forth in the Earth. Walking up and down in it, Satan said. You know... gone walkabout.

The Lord shrugged and pointed down the hill to where a man lay in a hammock stretched between two palm trees—perhaps the world’s first siesta. Hast thou considered my servant Job, that there is none like him in the Earth, a perfect and upright man, one that feareth me, and escheweth you? No, I didn’t sneeze. Escheweth means... sorry, I’m looking it up... okay, there it is: escheweth means to avoid. Anyway....

Satan chuckled. Doth Job fear God for naught? Hast not thou made a hedge about him, his house, and all that he hath on every side? Thou hast blessed the work of his hands and increased his substance in the land. But put forth thine hand now. Touch all that he hath, and he will curse thee to thy face.

And the Lord said unto Satan, Behold, all that he hath is in thy power; only upon himself put not forth thine hand. Translation: you can take all his shit, but Job is untouchable.

God did not shake hands with Satan, probably because it wasn’t a thing in those days. But their verbal agreement comprised a bet. So, Satan walked from the Lord, hell-bent on proving his point.

Now we will shift our attention back to the Oz of Uz, who strode with his friend, Eliphaz the Temanite (aka the Duke of Edom), their sandals squishing in the mud and cow pies through the rubble the devastating whirlwind, what we moderns call a tornado, had caused. Why has God done this to you?

The Lord giveth and taketh, said Job.

Eliphaz stopped walking, amazed by the powerful, profound words. He gazed upon the destruction, shaking his head. This is a lot of takething.

God doth not give more than we can handle.

Thunder roared in the distance. Their eyes turned to the sky to see the storm threatening to return.

Then Eliphaz, the termite, I mean Temanite (aka the Duke of Edom), gave a manly slap to his friend’s shoulder. Good luck with that. After pulling his designer sandals from the muck, he trudged away, clapping his hands to ensure the curse placed on Job could not transfer to himself.

If we were there and listened to the rumbling skies across the prairie, we might have heard Satan yelling, Nooooo! announcing his failure, for Job had not turned his faith from the Lord.

But what should a villain worth his salt do in the agony of defeat?

You guessed it—they make a better plan....

SO, NOW, MILLENNIA later, Lucifer sat before his father in a sports bar, sporting a mischievous grin. "Yes, yes, I recall that now. Torturing that poor old man was just awful. We should be ashamed. God made a not-so-kind glare as he raised the newspaper, lent it a quick pop to snap it tight, and then pretended to read. Tell me why I’m here or leave me be."

With a masterful show of theatrics, the devil fell back in his chair. A little touchy today, are we? Then he performed a climactic pause, for timing is everything, as you may very well know. I won’t take up much of your time—

Just say what you want.

He let out a hefty sigh, adding to the effect of his act. I want to go home.

God turned to the next page, popping it straight. And with a shrug, he said, So, go.

Lucifer inched closer to the table, reached across, and with the ease of Humpty Dumpty teetering on a wall, he lowered the crinkling newspaper to uncover the Creator’s face. "I want to go home with you."

God fell silent. Well, he didn’t fall. He just had nothing to say. He chuckled, then paused for thought before letting out a boisterous laugh. "You... you want back into heaven? After having all of Earth, all this open space to spread your wings, you’re telling me you want your old room back?"

Lucifer pretended to look sad. Yes, very much so. I want to go home.

The Creator realized the seriousness of what his son had implied. "But you are evil. That’s why I banished you to this planet and gave you power over everything on it."

The pitiful child sighed, focusing his gaze on the table until he had amassed all the necessary pity. "Evil, smeevil. I’m tired of being evil. I guess there are some advantages to being in my position. But I have grown up and come to my senses. I want to quit being the devil and serve you."

God looked away, his index finger over his mouth in contemplation. Then he settled his gaze on his distrustful son. It will offset Earth’s balance. The results could be disastrous. No, I cannot allow this.

Lucifer sulked like a child whose birthday cake had caught fire and turned to a sweet soupiness that spread across