“Julia Roberts is among thousands of SoCal residents forced to evacuate their homes due to Woolsey Fire.” So reads one of the headlines geared toward stoking the public interest in California’s usual plight: the fact that Satan wants to personify what that place actually represents behind its veneer of the paradisiacal, yet people–firefighters–keep attempting to thwart his plan, which, of late, seems to be uncircumventable. He’s decided to come at full-force this time, making a grander point than ever before about his contempt for such a self-satisfied state–the type that thinks it’s more important than all the others for housing so many celebrities, for alluring them with its “heavenly” charms.
It’s precisely for this reason that Satan wanted to target the “famous,” which he likened to redder, more pus-filled pimples on a face filled with the blackheads that represented plebeian “non-famous” people. Yes, he wanted to throw a Malibu beach house burning party with all guests summarily uninvited through evacuation. What finally tipped him over the edge, he decided, was how utterly gay–for there was no other word for it–Lana Del Rey had gotten about the state. For fuck’s sake, it was enough that she had turned her back on her home state of New York by constantly referencing West Coastian motifs in her work, but then she went and called her last tour L.A. to the Moon. It was too much for Satan, who was born and raised in Manhattan, to bear. Which is why Satan got particularly hard when, on November 9th, just when he was getting warmed up with the Woolsey Fire (after beginning his flaming revelry in the northern part of the state), Del Rey posted a “so sad” type photo of the air quality in her posh section of the city as a means to alert her psychotically devoted fan base to the increasingly worsening situation. As if those broke asses could do anything about it, or would spend money on any form of relief funding.
He laughed diabolically to himself as another headline announcing, “The most destructive wildfire in California history is nowhere near done with its catastrophic rampage” cropped up on his iPhone. “I’ll destroy them–I’ll destroy them all! Then where will their power over humanity be without multimillion dollar homes to prove they’re superior to everyone else be?”
Destruction, destruction, destruction. Chaos, chaos, chaos. It’s what Satan fed off of. That and the fear he could feel from the abandoning masses, all made equal in their quest for survival whether they were famous or not. Well, not quite equal. Celebrities could helicopter out of the tumult with ease–more ease than their continuously smug asses deserved. But Satan would have to settle for the fact that they were at least rattled. Forced to come to terms with the idea that money does not necessarily make you as immune to death and annihilation via the elements as you might have previously believed. He was positively giddy from the ravaging, at times even out of his own hot little hands. It was even better than he imagined it would be, watching these Californians–these Angelenos–squirm. Die, die, die–and leave me to my hellfires in peace, he thought. You’ve been invading my space long enough with your vegan tofu bowls and your wheatgrass shots. Get the fuck out! Get the fuck out now!
And they did. In droves. The fire would not, could not stop. It was so far out of control, that Satan couldn’t have calmed it down even if he wanted to. Which, of course, he didn’t. He was having way too many orgasms watching them all writhe in terror over their beloved property. The little “pieces of paradise” they had carved out for themselves here on Earth, as though they could really attempt to mask that hell was existence. Hell was other people. Watching his flame children–his splooges of decimation–wreak insurmountable havoc upon the land, it suddenly occurred to Satan that even though he had scorched the celebrities’ former terra firma, they would only be able to move to another overpriced, self-made hub of isolated luxury elsewhere. Maybe they would follow George Clooney to Italy. Or Madonna to Portugal. So long as they had unlimited funds, they would always be able to escape any permanent form of comeuppance.
So Satan had to think bigger. More mercilessly. He would have to burn all locations laying claim to fame for its beauty. Its golden sunshine, clear blue skies and breathtaking ocean views. He would have to work day and night to spread the hellfires to places like Kauai, Bora Bora, Bali, Seychelles, Tahiti–it all had to fucking burn. If these celebrities were ever truly going to learn their lesson, to comprehend that money affords no one solace when the reckoning comes, it was simply what he had to do.
He sighed to himself as he took a shot of Fireball whiskey and set about his work (after he enjoyed a few cooling swims in each of the best luxury resorts each milieu had to offer–he was Satan, after all, it wasn’t as though he was going to be turned away). This was going to be a grueling task, one that might exhaust him of all his energy for quite some time. And after what felt like weeks had passed in a blackout state of debauched focus, Satan came to, realizing that he had been entrapped in some sort of enclosure. How had this happened? When had this happened? Where were the glorious orange and red fruits of his labor? He saw no ceaseless reign of fire, no blackened and blistered macrocosm.
He blinks his eyes in dismay and disbelief, seeing that somehow, some way, all of his fires have been quelled. Above him, he can see Julia Roberts’ shit-eating grin–her fucking “megawatt smile” practically blinding him with its whiteness–and hear Lana Del Rey crooning an acapella version of “West Coast.” This is his own private version of hell. If only they had known sooner that all it took to contain the fire was to contain Satan in a jar. A bell jar, naturally. He had been foiled, outwitted–lured into the jar in his weakened condition. His own pride perhaps even greater than their own had been before the fire.