Dear Shelia,

It was a dark and stormy night….

Today I learned some things I didn’t know. Actually everyday with my uncle thus far I’ve learned something I didn’t previously know—or want to know—or need to know. Ever. But today… was bizarrely interesting.

Shelia, you need to understand that Satan is obsessed with the band Journey—in particular, Steve Perry who happens to be a freakin’ Unicorn. Did you even know they existed? I sure as Hell didn’t. There are so many dang species of immortals, it makes my head spin. Not literally. Vamps can’t do that, but Linda Blair in The Exorcist can. If you haven’t seen that one, you have to. Totally freaked me out.

Wait.

I’m sorry. You’re a book. It’s incredibly rude of me to keep dangling things in front of your pages that you can’t do. My bad. I’ll try to do better.

I absolutely hate when people do things in front of me that I can’t do—like eat. It makes me feel stabby.

Food and head spinning aside, even though Steve Perry is a Unicorn—which is weird—he’s a great guy and we’ve become good friends. That happened because my cousins—The Facebook obsessed dumbass Seven Deadly Sins—kidnapped Steve Perry as a Christmas gift for Satan and I helped him escape. That was a fucking awful Christmas that ended up turning out okay. Cousin Jesus showed up as a lovely Asian woman. Totally freaked me out. I was expecting the robe and the beard, but he told me he’s every man and every woman and likes to change it up every now and then. You would love him… or her—kindest, most beautiful person I’ve ever met.

Suffice it to say, Steve Perry was so grateful to me for saving his talented ass, he sang in Ethan’s and my wedding. Our nuptials took place in Hell due to more blackmail from the Devil. Satan had to stay fifty feet away from Steve Perry the entire time. It just about killed him, but he succeeded for the most part.

So anyhoo, I give to you…today.

Read, giggle, and groan. I did.

Oh, and I’d just like to go on record that the Devil’s autobiography is going to reside in the same category as Showgirls and the movie Bigfoot starring that dude Greg from the Brady Bunch and Danny from the Partridge Family. It’s gonna be really, really, really sucky.

“Are you going to talk about it?” I asked, trying not to grin.

“I most certainly am not,” Satan snapped.

“I think you should—or I could call Mother Nature and get her version,” I said with a wide naughty smile and a laugh.

“Absolutely not,” he bellowed. “My mother is completely insane and lies like a rug.”

“Pot, kettle, black much?”

“Now that’s just rude,” Satan shot back with an impressed grin.

He loved my irreverence—and me even though he would never admit it.

“You’re welcome. Sooooo, if I’m remembering correctly and trust me, I am, you induced influenzas, created strife amongst several popular bands, twisted a couple vocal chords and encouraged some unsavory addictions…”

“Possibly,” Satan admitted with raised brows and a wide devastatingly handsome smile.

“And umm… you also gave forty-two bands the crabs so Journey had little to no competition.”

“Your point?”

“That’s kind of weird, not to mention stalkery.”

“Again, your point?” he asked, truly not seeing anything wrong with a single thing he’d done.

“Your… history with Journey is something that doesn’t involve people who’ve been dead for thousands of years—although I do feel compelled to mention it’s completely illegal. But if you want to sell your book, you have to have a little something current in it. Although, you might want to change a few names on this one… I feel a lawsuit coming on big time.”

“You don’t think the ménage with Betty Davis and Joan Crawford is current?”

“No. I think it’s gag-inducing and you shouldn’t put that in the book,” I replied with my nose wrinkled in disgust.

“What about all the times I’ve brought Elvis with me on field trips to Earth to screw with people? I’ve single handedly kept The National Enquirer in business.”

My eyes narrowed and I stared at my uncle. “Do you happen to own the Enquirer?”

“I plead the fifth on that one,” Satan shot back with a delighted laugh. “Let’s get back to Elvis or aliens or three headed babies or the witch doctor that ate six people and then washed it down with grape soda.”

“Oh my Hell,” I shouted. “That is utter bullshit.”

“Are you certain?”

“Well… no,” I admitted. “Please tell me that’s not true.”

“It’s not true, but the tiny mermaid found in a tuna sandwich is not fiction. She was incredibly pissed. It was hilarious.”

“You’re awful,” I accused, biting back my grin.

“Thank you. I try.”

“Well,” I said, considering all of the new and heinous information my uncle had just imparted. “The Elvis one is pretty good, but leave Baby Jane, Mommie Dearest, three headed babies, cannibal witch doctors, tiny mermaid and aliens out of it.”

“How about when the aliens settled in San Francisco and crowned Tom Cruise their king?” he suggested.

“Absolutely not,” I said with a giggle and then immediately wondered if that was true.

“Fine, but I must insist that we include when I ‘helped’ Steve Harvey announce the wrong name at the Miss Universe Pageant, revealed Janet Jackson’s breast during the Super Bowl Half Time Show and promised Sylvester Stallone and Kenny Rogers that getting face lifts were excellent ideas.”

“Now that’s just mean,” I said, trying not to laugh.

“Why? Janet has lovely breasts,” he informed me.

“No, not that,” I said, shaking my head. “Suggesting to the Gambler and Rambo that they should enhance their faces—that’s mean.”

“Vanity will get you nowhere fast,” Satan replied.

“That’s kind of deep coming from the vainest dude I know,” I pointed out.

“Yes, well, I’m Satan and they’re not. I will never need a facelift and I’m hung like a horse.”

“TMI,” I choked out, praying I’d be able to remove this conversation from my memory. “Let’s get back to Steve Perry.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What do you want to tell me?” I countered.

“Stephen Ray Perry or as I like to call him, Steve, is the greatest singer ever born. He’s a Unicorn—very rare. My one-horned idol is an American singer, songwriter and record producer who should be prayed to by all on a daily basis. I’m having a three hundred foot monument built in the main gardens at the Dark Palace in Hell. I’ve had massive speakers embedded in the uncanny and enormous likeness. Lights and Lovin’ Touchin’ Squeezin’ will be blasted through Hell on the hour. Clocks will no longer be necessary in the Underworld since Steve Perry’s voice will let us know what time it is.”

“Umm… seriously?”

“Yes,” Satan replied as if this was normal behavior and not that of a crazed stalker. “My Steve was born on the sacred day of January 22, 1949. I’ve made his birthday a national holiday in Hell. I’ve been trying to get Steve to come down for decades, but that pesky restraining order is a slight problem.”

“Wait. You have a Steve Perry Day in Hell?”

“Of course,” Satan confirmed—again as if this was rational behavior. “He’s five foot seven, which I can’t hold against him and is of Portuguese-American descent. His taste in clothing is appalling, but again I can overlook that due to the hit Oh Sherrie. I only dated women named Sherrie for thirteen years because of that mesmerizing tune. Of course I cheated, because I’m a randy bastard with an enormous package and voracious sexual appetite. I simply made sure all the women I bedded told me their name was Sherrie. It was an outstanding solution and then I wasn’t cheating on Steve Perry.”

I was speechless—hard to achieve, but clearly doable.

“What else would you like to know?” he asked, noticing my silence.

“Nothing.”

“You sure?”

“Definitely.”

“I could tell you about the Sherries,” he offered just to watch me gag.

He was a butthole.

“No,” I insisted in my outdoor voice.

“Your loss,” Satan replied with an evil smirk. “How about this… We’ll play a round of blackjack. If I win, you will listen to the Sherries.”

“And if I win?” I shot back.

“You won’t.”

And the jackhole was correct. I lost. I listened to the graphic story of the Sherries for two hours that I’ll never be able to get back. It was horrifying. If you want a play by play, you’re gonna have to read the book when I’m not here. Although, trust me on this one… you don’t want to read about the Sherries—it’s way worse than the ménage with Mommie Dearest and Baby Jane.

Don’t stop belivin’ till the lights go down in the city.

xoxo Astrid