What a treat! My good friend, Flavio Pauduro, whom I met some years ago in my travels on The Costa de Prata, has invited me to post his latest literary trifle (or did he say "truffle"?—well, no matter): "Beelzebub in Boston."

Flavio conceived of his idea for the tale on his own recent visit to The Hub.

I have worked as Flavio's English-language editor for at least a decade, and am proud to be a footnote in what is sure to become literary history.

I will be posting a titbit of the tale around midweek for as long as need be, with diagrams, illustrations, and footnotes as necessary.


“You had me at ‘Go to Hell,’” she'd said. And that's when all the sudden something snapped. Yes, she'd been My Queen for millennia, but the truth is there were things that had grated from the start. The way she licked her teeth, and that thing she did with her hair. And—she'll deny this—she snores.

I realized soon after we were wed that I’d been impulsive in snatching her away. But I was young and used to taking what I wanted. If you believe in karma—as I do (I'm actually quite a spiritual guy)—she got me back, and then some, in the divorce settlement.

Yes, she got the house, the car, and the three-headed dog. And I got the door. No one gets kicked out of Hell. I managed to. Pretty ironic. The first place I went—I’m almost embarrassed to say—was back to God. God, the "career bachelor," if you know what I mean. I figured I’d crash at his place, we’d tie a few on, reminisce about old times. I wasn’t planning on staying long.

But, get this: after hitchhiking from the train station, and then walking up that interminable drive, I ring the doorbell.

No one’s home.

Then I notice a little sticky on the door: “Gone Fishin’”.

Well, that’s God for you.

I tried his cell.  No answer.  Left him a voicemail: "Hey, God, It's me, Beelzebub.  I know it's been awhile.  Sorry I didn't return your calls, but I was busy with the Spanish Inquisition, and then, you know, I just have had a lot going on.  Anyway, was in the neighborhood, thought I'd, you know, drop by, see if you wanted to see a movie, or whatever.  Give me a call when you get a chance.  Later."

Walking down that driveway, and back through the pearly gates—it always reminds me of Graceland—I must admit I was feeling pretty down. I felt like, for the first time in forever, practically, I was utterly alone.

It’s true what they say: I’ve become an old bore.  A legend in my own mind. A cliché. No new tricks up my sleeve.  Why should I deny or prevaricate? The Devil doesn’t lie.  Remember, I tempted Eve with truth. God says he doesn't lie, either.  We had it out after the whole thing in the Garden.

I was like, "why lie to them?"

And he came back with a load of mumbo jumbo he'd picked up at some seminar about "trust negotiation" and "selective disclosure."

What. Ever.

Philosophical differences.  Doesn't mean we can't still be friends.  God knows if he needed something, he could pop in any time and I would be all too happy to help.

So there I was at the train station, with nowhere in particular to be, and nothing in particular to do.  I went to the ticket window and asked when the next train was leaving.

"Let's see," said the clerk, squinting into his computer screen, and then craning his neck to check an oversized clock on the wall. "That would be the 3:33 to Boston."

"Boston it is," I said.

"One-way or round-trip," he asked.

"One-way," I said.