[ WP ] Thanks to a bureaucratic error , you are now Satan .

`` Honey, take a look at this!'' 
 
 Stan gawked at the richly appointed vellum-like paper grasped between his hands. He was trembling. 
 
 `` Sweetie, what is it? You look sick.'' 
 
 He shook the paper under her nose, then held it up close for her to read. 
 
 As Stan's wife scrunched her face up to read, it continued to become more and more pinched in expression. Stan was, however... excited. 
 
 `` Do n't you see? I've got the power to make our lives as enjoyable as we want.'' 
 
 `` It's a joke, sweetie. Relax. I think this is a joke.'' 
 
 Her voice warbled slightly at the end, giving away her trepidation. 
 
 `` Besides, how would you even know how to perform the beastly duties?'' 
 
 Stan shrugged his shoulders. He took the official envelope and the thick document paper into the living room of their house. Their house; maybe they could get a new house. 
 
 It was n't a bad home, he thought. Plus they'd managed to get it under market value too. Marsha had always wanted to move into a house like this to have kids, but Stan had never been terribly keen on the idea. In fact, he had even considered secretly getting a vasectomy to eliminate the chance and just play it off as his inability to have children. In the end, he'd never followed through for a variety of reasons, but mostly because Stan loved Marsha and did n't want to ruin their relationship. Still, he envied the bachelors with fancy high-rise apartments and decked-out pads. 
 
 He paused, wondering why he'd taken that trip down memory lane. He was n't prone to critical thinking when it came to internalized thoughts. 
 
 He was tapping the official document to his cheek, tongue pressed against his teeth as he just stood there. Marsha was watching from the kitchen doorway, and she had to clear her throat several times to get his attention. 
 
 `` Hey, I asked what you wanted for dinner. Any ideas?'' 
 
 He turned to face her, looking at her. He could tell she disliked his indecisiveness. He could never make up his mind and was always chasing some idea or dream that never worked out and only wasted their resources. 
 
 Marsha smiled at him patiently. 
 
 `` Hey, earth to Sta-'' 
 
 `` You know, Marsha, if you do n't like waiting on me to make up my mind you can just make a damn decision and fill me in on the details later.'' 
 
 He seethed. And a moment after, he caught up with himself and stood in the shocked silence as husband and wife stared at one another. One confused by the other's sharp remark, the other confused by how he knew. 
 
 Marsha tried to make her mouth work, to claim her voice again and speak. Instead she just pursed her lips and turned back into the kitchen. To cook... 
 
 `` Spaghetti. Gross. Come on, Marsha. You know I hate that... and that's why you're making it.'' 
 
 Stan could n't stop himself. He was smirking now, but he did n't understand why. Something had sidled right up into his soul and taken the reins. He could peer right into Marsha, see her intent and her thoughts and all her vices. Strangely, he could n't see the love, the compassion that she felt. For him, it may as well not have existed. 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - 
 
 Marsha cried over the kitchen sink quietly. Her husband had gone crazy. Some prank had flipped his switch and he was spouting nonsense. 
 
 Except a little voice whispered to her that he was n't ever as perceptive as he was today. How had he known? And if he had known those things, he should of course know how much Marsha had done for him out of her love for her man, her partner for eight years. Sure, she had decided to make spaghetti out of spite, but only to get him to see that his opinions did matter to her, even if they took a really fucking long time to come to. 
 
 She dropped the wet noodles into the pot with a dash of olive oil and set to adding the sauce, stirring with vigor. 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - 
 
 Stan laid in bed that night, sitting next to the woman he had once loved. The more it built up in him, the more he could n't stand to be near her. All the vile thoughts, the slights, the betrayals. The little things and the big. It added up to something that was greater than the sum; his passenger, the beast that now clung to his soul, was feeding on it. Dinner had been silent, intolerable. He could n't stay here anymore. 
 
 He needed to travel, to get away. Stan needed to see if everyone was as bad as Marsha. 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - 
 
 Several weeks later, Stan was walking down a crowded street in New York, where lots of people crossed his path and also kept pace with him. His face was a mask. His soul was cleansed by all the vile things he could tell they were thinking, feeling. A rapist walked out in broad daylight, uncaught. A small-time thief had another man's wallet in his jacket. A thug. A liar. A cheater. An egotist. Lots of those. 
 
 He bathed in their thoughts, and came out clean on the other side. A small complex began to build into a larger one in Stan; everyone was terrible, but he was n't so great either. Why should he hate them for it? Everyone, every single one. Terrible. 
 
 Stan began to use his powers. 
 
 He had many of them, but his favorite was to coax people into a deeper, darker line of their faults and flaws. Not only did it amuse him, he found that their stronger, darker, deeper thoughts and feelings were like a drug to him. Stan needed them, and they apparently needed him to push them. Just a little nudge here or there. Make a coffee cup spill at the register. A customer curses and refuses to pay, making the young woman at the register cry. Wrath. 
 
 Convince an old friend to spend a little *too much* time with an old fling, her boyfriend at work that day. Lust. 
 
 The more he did these things, the less people seemed to notice him. It was like a reflexive response; people pushed by him either through thought or action, could definitely see him. But those who were less inclined toward his attempts seemed to walk right past him with barely a nod or a wave. Sure, everyone was susceptible but damn... 
 
 He convinced an overweight, ailing man to buy just one more bottle of booze to chase down more of that greasy, nasty food he liked to snarf down. Gluttony and Sloth, double-whammy. 
 
 A business man in a shop, Stan sees through the window. A little nudge in the brain, might as well buy that fine looking suit, and it looks so nice on him too. Yes, what a fine looking man. Stan laughed as he watched the man's ego inflate. Pride. 
 
 A young boy was walking down the street with his sister and mother. She hands the boy a couple of candy sticks. Stan smirks and steps up behind them, whispering in little Tommy's ear. *Keep that candy for yourself. Your sister does n't deserve it. You do! * Ah, Greed. 
 
 Stan mastered them all, even Envy. That one was easy, just get two twenty-something girls to think the other is better than the other. Over and over. 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - 
 
 Marsha spent her days knitting. Stan had been gone for five or six years now, just walked out one day. She had never heard from him again, after the strange letter and the blow up. Sometimes she had caught herself wondering if that letter had all been a joke and an excuse for him to run off with another woman. But she kept on remembering the things he had said. He *had* known about her own sometimes-not-great thoughts. 
 
 Marsha loved Stan. She would wait for him to come back, or die waiting. 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - 
 
 Stan spent a long while travelling the world. Anywhere, everywhere. He could be there in a moment, or he could stroll across countries for a year or three. It seemed anything was in his power, thanks to that strange letter. Whatever it was that had crawled up into him and set to roost, he did n't mind. Stan was Satan, and Satan was Stan.
