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„I have to say,” Lucifer guffaws, “the kit suits you.” His pristine whites, the soft-soft cotton smooth as skin, caressing Jeshua’s limbs like a breeze. As for Jeshua’s rags, presently giving him sores... he’s feeling martyred already.
“And what now, walk a mile in your shoes?”, he groans. “I bet your sandals will give me athlete’s foot. Besides, it has snowed.”
Jeshua draws himself up, imperious. Then he breaks into a glittering smile. “You were right, these are nice. Can I keep them, for the holidays?”
“Ab-so-lu-tely.” The things he does, to distract Jeshua from this time of year.
Jeshua watches Lucifer chafe in his homespun. It amuses him to no end that the Adversary should be such a sucker for luxury; you would think in his abode on the far side of crazy he’d been dipped in alkali and sulphur, hardened to all touch.
“Come, let’s take a walk,” he suggests. “Silent Night, Holy Night, all that stuff. We’ll have the town to ourselves.” And they do. The empty streets twinkle with too many lights, store windows burst with goods no-one needs. Christmas under late Capitalism, how it angers him.
So, gospel or not - he’ll be the devil tonight.
***
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