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Chapter One
Human Issues
When the Anti-Christ and Satan entered the bar, nobody took notice.The sparse few taking refuge in the porous light of the small, dank pubseemed absolved of their sobriety and committed to drowning out allremaining awareness through the rattling, pitchy vocals of Steven Tyler. Hadthey taken the time or, for that matter, managed the desire to glance at theirnew companions, they would have seen nothing of particular interest: amiddle-aged man in a cheap black suit and excessively plaid tie and a youngwoman in jeans, a nondescript t-shirt and sandals stood surveying the bar.There was nothing odd in their appearance, nothing unusual in the way they scanned the squared-off surroundings, and nothing particularly strange intheir quick shuffle to the rear of the pub. They were, ostensibly, just like any other people showing up at a bar just shy of midnight with nothing better todo than kill some time and brain cells.Only they weren’t like any other people at all.And for Rob Cohen, eighteen years of age and on the brink of self-destruction, they were two people he would not soon forget.“So,” said the Anti-Christ, with a quick adjustment of his tie, “shall we makea game of it? First to corrupt wins?”Satan sighed and rolled her eyes. “I don’t even
want 
you here. And thisboy’s life is not a game.” She tugged absently at her t-shirt. “I have enough onmy plate already, dealing with the world’s improper view of me. I don’t want tocorrupt anybody with anything that does not lead them to God. You offer nohelp in that regard.”“Dearie me. I’d say I was sorry if I genuinely meant it.”Rob was seated at a small table in the rear of the bar, his forehead in one
 
14 Anointed 
hand, a perspiring glass of Coke in the other, when they stepped into whatlight prevailed upon him.“That’s him,” said Satan.Rob lifted his head and looked at them with blood-shot eyes. He was in aragged state: hair tousled, shirt wrinkled and misshapen, cheeks red and puffy.“Of course that’s him. I knew that,” said the Anti-Christ, with a forced air of certainty that fell upon him like an infant’s Easter bunny outfit. “I knew that,”he said to Rob.“Rob Cohen,” Satan said, blue eyes locked upon him, her voice calm andeven, “may we sit?”“What?”The Anti-Christ pulled up a chair and sat to Rob’s left, pressed the wrinklesfrom his jacket with a hand and offered a victorious grin. “She said we weregoing to sit. You should be elated. I know I am.”Satan rolled her eyes and slid into the seat opposite Rob. “I
asked 
if wecould sit. There’s a discernable difference. I wouldn’t expect somebody of yourdegenerative caliber to understand.”“Who are you? How do you know—”“Excuse me—” The Anti-Christ waved down the bartender, a stout, burly man with a mountainous chin, two beady eyes, and a tattoo of a Harley emblazoned upon his shimmering bald scalp. “A round for my friends?Something with a little kick, if you don’t mind.”“You can’t buy him a drink,” said Satan. “He’s only eighteen.”“I beg your pardon, look at his identification. You will clearly see that itsays he is a twenty-three year old blue-blooded pure-bred American by thename of Pancho Rivera. And who said I was buying?”“How did you know about that?” Rob dug a hand quickly into his pantspocket and seemed to lose his breath until he withdrew an ID, which he turnedin the dim light as he inspected it thoroughly. “Oh, I thought you took it.” Hestuffed it back into his pocket.Satan shook her head and looked at the Anti-Christ. “If this is your idea of corruption, it’s petty and weak. Shouldn’t you be off bringing about theApocalypse or something?”The Anti-Christ shrugged. “I am the product of involuntary limitations,my dear Princess of Virtue. I have very little yang with which to work. My yinover at The Christ Corporation is not quite up to par, I’m afraid. I would likenothing more than to have more power than I have been given, but I take whatI can get. If I had more, I would take more.”“Who are you people?” shouted Rob, then quickly cowered behind hisCoke, obviously shocked by the quick rise in his voice.Satan offered her companion a raised eyebrow, took a moment to collectherself and produced a thin smile. “Who we are isn’t really relevant. In fact,who he is is even less relevant. I am here to help get you back on the rightpath.”
 
 Anointed 15
This brought about a snicker from the Anti-Christ, which he quickly covered with a hand. “So sorry, but really, is that a pickup line or are yousincerely trying? Look, my little brow-beaten sexually-frustrated friend, pay no mind to my comrade here. She has far too delicate tact for my taste. I’llmake this simple for you. My name, in this body that is to say, is Leon—whichI will allow you to call me for the sake of propriety—but I am more commonly known as the Anti-Christ.” He offered a dramatic and ultimately useless pause,waiting for a reaction that was not forthcoming. Rob just stared at him. Finally,he sighed and continued. “This charming little lady to my side is the Devil.”Rob squinted at the pair, passing a glance between them, then leaned intohis chair and chuckled. “Right. The Anti-Christ and the Devil. Nice to meetyou both. Is this the beginning of a joke?”The barman sidled up to the table, three shot glasses between thick fingers,and dropped them heavily to the wooden surface. Like all good and obedientglasses of alcohol, they slid about six inches and stopped in a resounding clink of glass.“I need to see his ID.” He was tall, much broader up close than he seemedbehind the bar, and hovered over the rotund mound of his protrudingwaistline. He came across as the type of bartender whose bouncers sought
his
 protection.“You don’t need to see his identification,” the Anti-Christ said, waving ahand before the meaty bartender. “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.”The bartender stared somewhat vacantly at Leon the Anti-Christ. “If I don’tsee his ID in five seconds, I’m going to force that hand up the darkened alley of your ass.”“Pancho, your ID if you would.” The Anti-Christ offered a weak smile.The bartender snatched the ID from Rob, inspected it, squinted at the kidand grunted.“Enjoy your drink, Pancho,” he said after a pause. “But I’m going to hangonto this, if you don’t mind.”Rob shook his head and compressed in the seat. “Not at all,” he muttered.When the bartender walked off, he relaxed and dropped his face into hispalms.“Thanks. That was my only fake ID.”“Really? You ever think ahead or are you always this dim?”Without further thought, Rob grabbed the shot glass and downed thedrink. He immediately broke into a fit of coughing and blinked against watery eyes.“Well, that answers that question, doesn’t it? Kid’s a cracked tombstone in aplot of shallow graves, isn’t he?”“Would you knock it off?” She reached for Rob’s arm. “Are you all right?”Rob swatted her hand away and slid his chair back from the table. For amoment he seemed ready to break into a run, but then his shoulders relaxed,his face eased and he almost smiled.
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