A work of fiction, based in disturbing truth, where The Prince of Darkness celebrates the dastardly “work” the automobile and fossil fuel industry does for him…
by: Frederick Foote
I walked into the Crossroad Club the other night, and Scratch (AKA, Satan, Lucifer, the Serpent, Beelzebub, Abaddon, and Belial) saw me as I came in the door. He yelled out, “Hey, bartender, give Cleon (that’s me) whatever he wants, and a round for the house, and you too, barkeep. That’s all on me. Drink up, you all. Happy fucking holidays.”
I grabbed my drink and went to sit with Scratch at his corner table. He had his computer open and file folders littering his table. I cleared a spot for my drink.
“Okay, man, thanks for the drink. So, why all the good cheer? This is Christmas time. I thought you would be deep in depression and despair.”
“No, not at all, Cleon. Christmas is an afterthought for me. It is a period of intense commercial consumption and limited spiritual reflection. In that light, it is more of a vindication of me than a worship of Him.”
“Hmm, yeah, I can see that. But that’s been going on for decades, you just seemed especially jovial tonight.”
“I am. I am. Do you know that from 1899 to 2023, there have been nearly four million automobile accident deaths in this country?”
“I haven’t thought about that issue, but four million — that’s a lot of deaths. But that is over, what, 124 years?”
“On average, over 35,000 deaths a year. More deaths than the combined deaths of all your soldiers from all your wars. Twenty-two of your states have populations of fewer than four million. You’re doing my alleged work for me. You’re selling your souls for a death trap transportation scam.”
“Shit! That is a bunch of folks. I. Hear you. Four million dead is an attention-getter, but these are accidents, not murders.”
“Cleon, many of your people have chosen the automobile over safer, more economical, more environmentally friendly public transportation, where there would be maybe two percent of these deaths. You have valued profit, individuality, and convenience over human well-being and life. Hell, you don’t even care how many people die to maintain your profitable convenience and egotistical individualism.”
“Scratch, it’s not like these are intentional deaths. They are fucking accidents, man.”
“Avoidable accidents if you choose a different approach to transportation that you have mastered a long time ago.”
“Are you saying that we are evil because we chose the automobile over mass transit? That doesn’t calculate for me.”
“I’m not your conscience, Cleon, that is a decision for you and your theologians, politicians, and philosophers, but it doesn’t seem to be an issue of much concern if you, a well-educated person, are not even aware of the four million fatalities.”
“I don’t have an excuse for not knowing more about the astonishing number of automobile deaths. That’s my bad. However, there is no evil intent in choosing automobiles as our dominant mode of transportation. And we do have some mass transit.”
“If you say so. But you may also not be aware that, on average, over 6,000 injury accidents occur every single day. That is 2,190,000 injuries a year. What kind of morality would promote this kind of avoidable death and mayhem?”
I signaled the waitress for two more drinks.
“Cleon, it wasn’t me. I didn’t create or encourage the development of this self-destructive scheme. This is all on you, as are your atomic, chemical, and biological weapons of mass destruction.”
“Why are you so delighted at these deaths and injuries? I think that’s evil in and of itself. I think it’s despicable.”
“It is joyful to me because I can inform you about things you should know, and because you might use this knowledge to reduce the harms created by the automobile. Plus, I point out that you are the source of most of the evil in your world. And the problem is not just the United States. Traffic accidents kill between 1.19 and 1.35 million people and injure between 20 and 50 million people worldwide every year. Cleon, I’m delighted to share my end-of-the-year reports on auto deaths and injury, death by firearms, and drug overdose deaths with all of you, perhaps as Christmas cards that touch on the true meaning of Christmas, your supposed common humanity.”
“I’m out. Scratch, please don’t send me a fucking four-million-are-dead Christmas card.”
“Cleon, your automobiles are poisoning the land, water, and air, and killing life on this planet, and they are violently killing and injuring you. The automobile may be your most successful and ingenious weapon of mass destruction. Victims pay for the means of their death and injury, and the auto industry profits. And you don’t see even a hint of evil in this scenario?”
“I see people struggling every day to make ends meet. I see people desperate to maintain their homes and their lives. I see people who don’t have the luxury you have of sitting around, looking down from some high moralistic throne at statistics. I don’t see evil in trying to live the best you can.”
A waitress delivered our drinks and scurried off.
“Cleon, you are the only creature ever to call me moralistic. Putting aside morals, do you think it makes a practical difference if you destroy the world through negligence, indifference, incompetence, greed, or good intentions gone awry?”
I tossed back my drink, stood, threw a twenty on the table, and shook my head in disgust.
“Scratch, you know it’s complicated. We have individual intentions that may be frustrated by tradition, business, government, and other institutions. We are overwhelmed with information, misinformation, and conflicting opinions; it’s hard to take a stand sometimes.”
I turned to leave.
“Cleon, making your way in the world without an understanding of the impact of your actions on your planet, yourselves, and others may be perceived as irresponsible by some of your kind. But I could never create the instruments of mass destruction that you have and the elaborate justifications for your actions. That is way beyond irresponsible. Good night, Cleon, drive safe.”
“Fuck you, Scratch. I don’t need your bad news Christmas blues.”
As I stormed out of the bar, past a homeless couple, the boarded-up storefronts, and the underage hookers, I slowed down. I reminded myself how dangerous an angry person under the influence can be behind the wheel.
I sat in my car, breathing deep. I looked up the four million deaths, and the actual number is 3,996,709. That sobered me up. I will not be one of Scratches’ highway massacre statistics tonight. Not tonight. Not if I can help it.
I could walk home, but there have been several late-night hit-and-runs in this neighborhood.
I could take the bus, but I won’t give Scratch that satisfaction.
I started my car and drove home without incident.
Fuck, Scratch and his four million deaths bullshit, and happy holidays to you all and safe travels.
Frederick K. Foote, Jr. was born in Sacramento, California, and educated in Vienna, Virginia, and northern California. Since 2014 Frederick has published over three hundred stories, poems, and essays, including literary, science fiction, fables, and horror genres. Frederick has published three short story collections, For the Sake of Soul (2015), Crossroads Encounters (2016), and The Maroon Fables and Revelations (2020).
