IT’S ALL MY FAULT
Interview With the Antichrist
By Duane Scott Cerny
Our meeting is scheduled at a famously obscure East Village restaurant where patrons arrive via the exit door of One Touch of Glamour ─ an equally hidden sweatshop known for its manufacture of irregular drag wigs. Sitting at the bar is the Antichrist or “AC” as I am instructed to call His Evilness.
“Not great to finally meet you,” I nervously mumble.
AC smugly grins and says, “Then let the pleasure be someone else’s!”
Now, after months of convoluted emails, texts, and an uneven evening with a warped Ouija board, all these communications have materialized into the smart-suited figure at my side.
The bartender places a single napkin before me. “Screwdriver,” I say, and he turns to prepare my drink, oblivious to my new friend. Then it hits me: the bartender can’t see him, so I slowly turn to speak. Here’s our interview.
Does this happen to you often, not being served?
Oh, all the time. That’s the real reason it’s called “the Last Supper.” The service was terrible. Empty goblets everywhere. Dividing a check 13 ways. And I never got my cappuccino.
You were at the Last Supper?
I had my regular red booth. You don’t see it in DaVinci’s painting as he was cheap with the coin. Sure, he could paint a ceiling, but could he touch up scuffed crown molding? Such a diva!
Let’s start with your origin story. Seriously, you’re the best of the worst. I can’t imagine the underworld accolades you’ve received. The lifetime achievement award from FIFA, plus all those free FIFA products: FIFA body spray, FIFA under spritz, and FIFA loofahs, which are easier to use than pronounce. With all that FIFA swag, you should have gotten a poodle named FIFA Forward Fifi.
Well, an unnamed nobody got his damp diapers in a twist over that one. And I’ve seen some tantrums in my time: Napoleon at Waterloo, Hitler in the bunker, Will Smith at the Oscars. But this guy? Embarrassing. Did you see me lose my shit when my spoken word recording of Rosemary’s Baby didn’t get a Grammy nod? No. Did I force people to listen to me drool into a verbal cup of lost, stupid gibberish for endless hours? No. Say what you want about me, but I know when to leave the stage.
It’s good to know that even a horribly evil person such as yourself has standards. So how did you get your start? Was it your fall from grace?
Ugh, that question exhausts me. I thought the Jerry Springer musical killed the topic. Listen, I’d no more fallen from grace than from shoddy balcony railing construction at better Russian hotels. But I get it. Someone must be the ultimate bad guy, the embodiment of all evil, and I got the demotion. It’s hilarious, really. I mean, somehow, I’m the greatest villain of all time, yet even I can’t make people’s love of comic books less creepy.
We’ve all heard God banished you from heaven but how do you describe your Genesis story?
That’s what you want to hear? The underworld backstory from the Real Housewives of Hell? That “banished from heaven” nonsense was just loose Lucifer talk. It’s ironic I was even in that celestial burn book. But truth be told, God was downsizing, cutting left and far right. AI was coming in, and angelic consonants like me were as useless as stuck typewriter keys
But how did you go from God’s favorite to opening the great dark ride of purgatory? You almost fell harder than Prince Andrew.
You know what I received in my exit package? A half-empty tin of horn polish and a free pass to the Melania documentary. Now, this was thousands of years before the birth of Melania, so I had no idea how truly worthless this ticket would become. God has one wicked sense of humor.
I don’t mean to be so Hellzapoppin’, but I’ve so many questions, like how you acquired your great wealth.
Easy. Sex, drugs, rock and roll. Some Bitcoin.
You’re making yourself sound, well, cool.
I am cool. It’s the pictures of me that got hot.
Nearly every image of you seems to have flames enveloping your very presence. You’ve made spontaneous combustion flashy again.
Hey, I was heavy metal before there were scales or incendiary devices. Often, I could light up a stage just by passing wind. Walking on water, water into wine? Nearly anyone can part the Red Sea with a small earthquake and a passable Charlton Heston impression. I once parted the red carpet with trumpeting flatulence — and at Grauman’s Chinese!
What do you think about the current affairs of the world? How much of it is your fault?
I’ll take the blame for almost anything, but I cannot stay silent about those who take credit for my good misdeeds. Honestly, it’s annoying. What you have in these end times are false deceivers. They appear good at being bad, but they aren’t. It’s a global amateur hour. It’s like you have game show hosts running things.
Do you have any financial advice you can afford our readers?
Invest in lawyers ─ law firms that have shown consistent profitability. Today’s chaos will trigger an unprecedented legal boom. People suing the government, and vice versa. Civil suits in voluminous uncivility.
Seriously now, if I had represented Adam and Eve it would have been an equitable division with the apple being split in half, and Eve getting a lien on the tree. Maybe a snakeskin purse. In the end, it’s always about real estate ─ and fashion.
Follow on Substack! Duane Scott Cerny takes the blame for most everything in his monthly satirical column, It’s All My Fault. Best-selling author of “Selling Dead People’s Things” and “Vintage Confidential,” he is the co-owner of Chicago’s Broadway Antique Market. Send podcast invites, interview requests to ThanklessGreetings@yahoo.com
