A hard demon to reach, Satan is also, apparently, not happy about all the assholes in the world speaking for him.
“Nope. I wouldn’t say that. Not that either. No. Never.” He says, shaking his head, his tail twitching angrily, as we read him a list of things people have said recently while speaking on his behalf. “Look, I’m no smell of fresh washed sheets on a sleep-in Sunday, that’s for sure, but I wouldn’t go around second-guessing the motives of refugees, or calling into question a woman’s right to equal pay. And I certainly wouldn’t weigh in on a person’s love life. Let me be clear: I do not care. Not about you. Not about whether John in accounts is going to screw you over like Phil from sales did. John come, or John go, I stay down here, and that’s the way I like it.” Flames have begun to form around his feet. He apologizes for the sudden smell of sulphur.
“It happens all the time, and frankly I’m sick of it. Always the same characters doing it too. Men mostly, who want to take an argument or discussion to a socially unacceptable place, but don’t want to commit their own name to it. So they use mine. And worse, say they’re advocating for me. Do I look like I need an advocate?” Here he stands up to his full height of as high as he damn well pleases, and pulls an iPhone out of his pocket (explaining the batteries on the Samsung’s he tried couldn’t handle the heat). Unlocking it using a surprisingly obvious code, he proceeds to open Twitter and casually declare:
“I can troll for myself thanks very much.”
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