A Pseudo-Screwtape Epistle: Poetic-Autobiographic Fragment #3

My dearest Wormwood,

Nothing tickles my gut more than to hear that the patient is wandering and searching for distinct meaning in his life. Your last letter is a promising cry to help the needy one. Alas, hope has sprung for us, where the grass is greener on this side of the fence. Truly, this is a tremendous opportunity to stray him from the Way he has aimlessly followed during yesterdays’ tense. Your patient is weak and frail. Bitterness betrays him.

You said in your last letter that the patient has turned his back on his so-called Shepherd. It is now time to deliver the goods to your man, so we will finally begin yielding the fruits of your labor. It will be good for him to finally see his former Life, his former Way, and his previous Truth as we see it–the Enemy.

Your patient’s hands are greased with delightful greed, patiently yet reluctantly waiting for the fasted hands to fill it. Though it will be breezy for you to caress his heart with confidence he is doing just as well on his own, the Enemy will be sure to seek him from every cornered angle, all-knowing precisely what it will take to return him home.

It pains my jagged jaws to number the times the Enemy has warned your patient with exclamatory inclusiveness, concerning the specificity of situations such as this. Be that as it may, you must take numerous disguises upon yourself, yet none of the ones the Enemy has forewarned your patient about.

Your Infectionate Uncle,


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