Monday, December 10, 2007

Satan’s Hollywood Fiasco - Complete

For those readers who actually eagerly waited each day for every new installment of this story, thank you. Here, one more time, is the story in one long dose.

All hell literally broke out when Felipe Santiago, the star of such action blockbusters as William Shakespeare’s Henry the Fourth: The Musical, Part II, declared, first privately, then openly, that he, once a lover of many women and occasionally men, had accepted the grace of Jesus Christ and become a born again Christian.

Satan was pissed. Big time pissed.

Satan, understand, built his postmodern empire in Hollywood. He cleared the industry of any overt Christian propaganda over the past century, and filled the highest places at production studios with questionable Jews, outcast Catholics, and self-centered spiritualist. He had long since managed to rid the industry of Biblical epics and morality tales. To have one of his highest paid and most known actors openly declare a commitment to Jesus Christ made him feel both angry and threatened.

The tragedy had been in the works for months, but it had gone completely unnoticed until it was too late. Felipe Santiago, it seemed, had fallen in love with the web master of his Internet homepage, who was a Christian and also trying to sell a screenplay, and whom he had never met in person. The two had written hundreds of long, exaggerated emails about love and life in the course of a year. In one email, his Web master directed him to a site offering a cyber look at who Jesus is. He committed his life on that site. The Website was flashy and full of several catchy Christian jingles and rhyming evangelical messages. He was most impressed by a picture of Jesus dressed like the Terminator with a caption that said, “I’ll be back.” But ultimately it was the picture of Jesus dressed like Uncle Sam with a “I want you” caption that made him commit his life to Christ. “Everyone has always wanted me because I can make their film gross fifty million in the first weekend,” he later said in his testimony, “But that picture made me feel wanted because he loved me—I saw it in his cartoonish eyes and his pointy finger.”

So now all hell had broken loose. Dark angels, who had been hard at work on scripts for HBO dramas and miniseries, had been recalled to brainstorm. And the stars of NBC’s highest rated situation comedy agreed to stay on one more year just to preserve Satan’s cause, and insure there would still be a plentiful number of films requiring tasteless stars on the lookout for good exposure. But no efforts from Satan’s elite could put him at ease, and he ended up spending the entire night pacing, complaining, and being downright confused. “He can’t be a movie star anymore, that’s for sure.” Satan told his secretary and occasional lover, Billy. “There’s no telling the damage that can do.”

“There’s already an unauthorized biography about his life as a Christian,” Billy pointed out while fixing Satan’s morning cup of tea, “And Felipe Santiago t-shirts, coffee mugs, and inspirational CDs go on sale tomorrow at Christian bookstores around the world.”

“Mugs! Already? And it’s so close to the holidays.”

Billy nodded.

“It’s worse then I thought.”

It was rare for Satan to feel so uneasy. He had led a tranquil life since the start of the Cold War had put renewed interest of carpe diem themes into pop culture. One might even say that Satan was a humble man seeking to capture the essence of the American dream. Recent examinations of Satan’s work have in fact shown that he had become very western. But he still led a simple life. In a recent interview, he had commented, “For the past twenty years I’ve been on a vacation of sorts. There doesn’t seem to be much good in getting all stressed out trying to scheme—humans, especially in recent years, have created quite lovely vices that essentially do my job for me. Post-modernism is a beautiful thing.” Living in semi-retirement, he shared a three bedroom corner track house in Garden Grove with Billy, who on top of be being Satan’s secretary and occasional lover was also his butler and driver. He enjoyed gardening and recently had put up a white picket fence to keep the high school kids from walking on his lawn. Just as a fun job, he commuted to Hollywood once a week to do a voice on two separate animated series. He frequently told friends that he had never been so happy in his entire life.

Not long ago, an actor offered to give Satan his Brentwood estate because he was moving into a larger home in Santa Monica, but Satan declined. Whenever he was in the estate of a Hollywood star, there was always a feeling of detachment. He liked the smell and sense of community he found in Garden Grove; he also made a point of not getting too personal with clients. Satan once shared a condo in Huntington Beach with Dennis Rodman. The whole time they shared the home, Rodman kept pestering Satan to produce his movie, and Satan kept saying no in the name of good taste. It left their friendship shattered, and the two hadn’t talked sinse, although Rodman did send Satan a lovely fruit basket and a fifty-dollar gift card to Ross when he heard about Felipe’s unfortunate conversion.

Meanwhile, in the mist of Satan’s crisis, Felipe Santiago was having the time of his life living the Christian life. His first Christian photo shoot was a success, and photos were available on his Web page for a small, nominal, fee. Sunday, after a meeting with the press at a Irvine mega church, he would go to Sea World for his public baptism. Tickets for the baptism sold out at Ticket Master in fifteen minutes. Later that same day he would go to Tijuana and serve as the U.S. representative for the national cock-fighting tournament. And he was feeling more spiritual and Christian-like every breath he took. He was even thinking about forming a Christian punk rock band. The only problem he had in the past week was really only a small misunderstanding. A pastor caught him dancing inappropriately in an empty park and made a fuss over the immorality in his “loose swinging hips.” But it turned out that Felipe had accidentally lit his pants on fire while trying to burn a trash can full of suggestive books that he had once collected in his personal library, and he was only trying to put out the flames. So everything ended okay, and the confusion was cleared right up.

Satan’s woes, however, did not stop with Felipe Santiago. Felipe was a busy man and learned the power of evangelism quickly and forcefully. A week after Felipe’s spectacle of a conversion, while eating lunch with George Sanderburg, the director of Santiago’s academy award winning film Do They Shoot the Gorillas In China, Santiago became very vocal about his newfound love and Satan’s newfound curse.

“I found Jesus, and I want to tell everyone how wonderful my life is.” He said as Sanderburg licked off the ranch dressing from his salad. “That’s why I asked you to have lunch with me.”

“I’m happy for you. My brother’s brother-in-law is an assistant pastor at a Christian church in Minnesota.”

Felipe crossed his arms and reclined in his chair. “And what are you?”

“I’m nothing.”

“Nothing? An atheist, then?”



“No. Nothing like that.”

“What then?”

“Nothing. I go to church and all. I’m just not a part of anything.”

“What kind of church is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a church.”

“They must believe in something.”

Sanderburg shook his head. “I’m pretty sure they don’t.”

“What do they talk about, then?”

Sanderburg shrugged. “Just stuff—how to live a better life and stuff, I guess.”

“That’s it?”

Sanderburg Nodded. “And we go to shelters and feed the homeless. This year I’m also going to Mexico with the church to build a home for a family.”

“But there’s no Bible or anything like that at the church?”

“It’s there, but we don’t use it.”

“And you’ve been going to the church for how long.”

“About twenty-five years now, I believe.”

“Well it sounds to me like a church that hasn’t come out of the closet.”

Sanderburg was alarmed and sat uncomfortable in his chair looking around the restaurant to make sure no one was listening. “Do you really think that?”

Felipe nodded. “And you’re so close to being a Christian.”

“How close.”

“A prayer away.”

Sanderburg was confused. “You mean all I’d have to do to be a Christian is say a prayer?”

“And mean what you pray.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad—and then I could say I was a Christian, too?”

“You could.”

“I’ll do it.”

Sanderburg, after being led to a prayer to accept Christ, began to weep like the 20-year-old out-of-luck lounge singer who discovered her mother is dying of terminal foot cancer in his latest dramatic tear-jerker feature Foot, Etc.

But Satan’s problems only started there. In the lobby, after his lunch with George Sanderburg, Felipe tripped over Mary Megan Metford, one of his former leading ladies and casual lovers, whom he left for not wanting to experiment in a Ménage A’trois. He turned an awkward encounter to the glory of Christ. In five minutes, he explained to Mary Megan Metford, who had heard of Felipe’s conversion but thought it was just a publicity stunt (like the time Felipe claimed he would make love to a tiger at the L.A. zoo to satisfy a director that he was the right man for the role in a movie) that she needed Christ in her life—that he came for the sins of all and he would take away hers too if she accepted him and believed.

“You’re serious about this then?”

“I am.”

Mary Megan carefully considered what Felipe had said, while scratching nail polish from her thumb.

“What do you say? Do you need Jesus?”

“If something can change you this much, then maybe I should at least try it out.”

“You can always give it up if you don’t like it.”

Mary Megan gave her best Hollywood smile, “Okay then—I’ll try it out.”

Felipe instantly grabbed Mary Megan and attacked her with a Christianly hug.

And if Satan’s problems ended with Mary Megan Metford’s conversion, it would have ticked him off but it probably wouldn’t have ruined his day. He would have done a lot of complaining, but he would have just tempted his next door neighbor to cheat on his wife, and finish the day on a good note. But it didn’t end there.

On his way to his to his car something happened that Felipe Santiago would forever call a direct act of the Holy Spirit. He found Matthew McMillan passing out rosebuds to people passing by the restaurant.

Two years ago, Matthew McMillan was the biggest movie star in the world. His last two pictures made one billion each worldwide. He was such a good actor that he once got the part of the leading lady in a romantic comedy, didn’t bother to dress up like a woman, and became the first man to ever win an Academy Award for best actress. Then McMillan discovered he wasn’t enlightened, shaved his head, converted to Theravada Buddhism, left the film industry, and became a monk. In a rare recent interview, McMillan, who went by the Buddhist name Fen Fin, claimed that he had achieved Nirvana while listening to Nirvana’s greatest hits album in Tibet over the winter but stayed on Earth because he felt called to teach. Which is how Felipe Santiago found him selling blessed rosebuds in front of the restaurant.

Santiago had worked with McMillan in the eighties on a documentary that showed the unfair treatment of dogs in Yemen. Both had been outraged when they heard about a family who had eaten their family dog because they could not afford food and were dying of malnourishment. Santiago and McMillan did everything they could to protect the rights of the dogs and had remained close after the project.

When the two reunited in front of the restaurant, McMillan offered to sell him a rosebud, and Santiago offered to sell him Christ.

“With Christ, everything is about God,” Santiago explained, “it’s no longer about you.”

“But with Buddha it is the same.” Matthew argued.

“But did Buddha die for you’re sins?”

“No—when Buddha received enlightenment, he decided he would rather stay alive and teach, then die. He believed dying would have been the selfish thing to do.”

“With Christ you can live forever.” Felipe pointed out.

“With Buddha life is a cycle.”

“With Christ life is eternal.” Felipe added with more drama in his voice, “You will never die.”

Matthew looked at BMW driving towards them, and by the time the BMW past, he had decided he needed Christ.And that’s how Satan’s afternoon finished off—with McMillan, his biggest defender of all things being about “me,” accepting a doctrine that would make him passionate about witnessing about Christ, exposing the dangers of evil, and caring for the helpless. And that’s how a famous Christian bond established and began between two of the biggest Hollywood actors in the world who could easily change the way films are made.


Like sands in an hourglass, so was Satan’s once tranquil life. Harvey Maxwell didn’t have to see Satan’s expression to know what he wanted, when Billy pulled Satan’s beat up ’92 Escort into the parking space in front of his Burbank office.

“Still driving the old Escort I see.” Harvey said greeting Satan in the parking lot, throwing the cigar he had been smoking onto the shoe of a Spanish man who was trimming the plants in front of his office.

Satan nodded, “I don’t get caught up in world pleasures.”

“Of course you don’t,” Harvey smirked. “Shall we go inside?”

Satan nodded and followed Harvey to his office.

Harvey also happened to be a Jew turned Atheist, giving him the proper blend of godless hope that Satan needed to establish the film industry as his biggest evangelical media form.

“It’s about Felipe Santiago, right?” Harvey asked taking a seat behind his desk.

“I want you to offer him a movie deal that he can’t refuse.” Satan said choosing not to sit.

“Something that will keep him distracted for six months, be a sure flop, and ruin his career.”
Harvey nodded and held a bowl towards Satan, “Want a mint?”

“Do I need one?”

“No—of course not.” Harvey lied. Satan had dog breath and always needed one. “So how much money do I have to work with?

“150 million.”


“And what about the others?”

“Felipe’s the root of our problem—get rid of him and you’ve gotten rid of the others.”

So that’s how it happened that Felipe Santiago met with Harvey Maxwell for dinner. They ate at a 11-year-old, pop-sensation, Mikey Mike’s new Rock-N-Roll style restaurant with a sixties rock theme. It went bankrupt as Felipe took a sip of sparkling water.

Harvey had produced several of Felipe’s blockbuster movies and at one time Felipe considered him a close friend. He was even the godfather of one of Harvey’s cocker spaniels. Felipe saw it as a chance to win another believer.

The two sat under a speaker that was hidden in the mouth of a portrait of Jimi Hendrix. It was cheaply blasting out non-stop bubble gum music.

“I have a movie that would be perfect for you—considering your recent conversion.” Harvey shouted over catchy bubble gum lyrics.

“I’m listening.”

Harvey pulled out a piece of paper with the title of the movie in flashy glitter letters with

“Sponsored by Pepsi” typed in boldface on the back, “It’s a remake of Left Behind: The Movie.”

“Left Behind? I heard the last screenwriter who tried to make a workable script out of the book was murdered by the books bad writing.”

A young waitress who had a chain connected to her pierced naval which connected to her pierced nose, which wrapped around her head and connected to her pierced left ear, took their order, and whispered in Harvey’s ear as she left, “I’m an actress and I have a screenplay—my boyfriend wants to be a director.”

Harvey ignored her. “It was a fluke.” Harvey promised.

“Even if someone could write a screenplay from the book and live to tell of the horrible horrors, I don’t think any actor could make that book work. My accountability partner says it was the worse piece of literature ever written—even worse than the poetry of Mehetabel Wright.”

“I’m sure it won’t be that bad.”

“They’re his words, not mine.”

“Well I’ve been authorized to give you 150 million plus options to take on the role.”

“That’s a lot of money for something that will probably not even make a tenth of that.”

“That’s why you should take it—think of all the things you could do with that much money. You could give Bibles to every hungry child in the world.”

“I can’t.”


“Because I believe that that kind of movie would be hurting the name of Christ more than promoting it.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Harvey took a swig of water then promised, “I’ll guarantee it will have nothing to do with the book if that’s what you want—I’ll give you complete creative control.”
Felipe tapped the table lightly then announced, “I just don’t believe a partnership could last between the two of us.”


Satan got Harvey Maxwell’s call while he lounged in his pool on an inflatable cushion sipping a virgin margarita reading the latest Michael Crighton novel (which, coincidently, he had just bought the movie rights to). He was suffering from heat stroke and took the bad news pleasantly.

It wasn’t until four aspirin and a bubble bath later that night when he realized he’d have to think of something else quick. But he was all out of ideas and he knew time was running out.

The truth was Satan had not had this much control over the world since before Christ. For a period of 3,000 before Christ, Satan easily controlled the thoughts and rituals of almost every single Jew in Israel through idols. Then came Christ, and suddenly there was a solid commitment to only one God and the days of idol worship seemed gone. But with the capture of Hollywood, Satan was able to bring back the glory days of idol worship. Finally Christian’s, Jew’s, Muslim’s, Hindu’s, Buddhist’s, and even Mormon’s worshiped the same god.


Matthew McMillan and Felipe Santiago had an emergency meeting the next day to discuss what they could do to save the decaying Hollywood. They met at Felipe’s hillside Hollywood estate. Each had been up all night with Hollywood on their mind, and they both knew that something had to be done.

Sitting on a balcony overlooking the smog filled city and polluted coastal line, Matthew and Felipe drank nutrition shakes feeling a genuine connection in their mutual commitment to changing things around.

Matthew was very serious about this new Christ thing he had discovered, and he wanted everyone to know. He was even dating Mary Megan Metford for the publicity of it. They went to premieres and award shows last week, and told entertainment reporters all about what it was like to be a Christian Hollywood couple. Both of their publicist were pushing for the two to wed soon, or at least say they were engaged.

“We’re both powerful movie stars.” Matthew reclined in his chair and concluded. “We need to do something.”

“Something for Christ?” Felipe wondered a loud.



“Something original.” Matthew said standing and beginning to pace.


“A movie.”

Felipe excited about seeing Matthew’s vision clearly said, “Exactly.”

“An original Christian movie.”


“But what could we do?”

“Something original.”

Matthew scratches his head, “Maybe we could copy a book?”

“But what book would we copy?”

“Something Christian, perhaps.”

“They’re too cheesy—that’s what I hear anyway.”


Felipe thinks then says, “How about something with guns—like Christians who go on a killing rampage to make peace. Christians like action.”

“That might be a little too intense.” Matthew points out.


“It should be inspiring, but also funny—like the story of a clown with terminal cancer.”

“People might laugh so hard they won’t see the message.” Felipe points out.



Matthew lifts his index finger, “I got it.”


“Yeah—we could do a Hard Days Night. Only we’d use a Christian boy band.”

“But it’s not original—unless—no it wouldn’t work. It needs to be more original to work.” Felipe concludes.


“You know what?”


“I have it.”



“Well let’s hear it.”
Felipe takes a breath then says it, “The Christian Godfather. A frame for frame remake but without the killing and language and a Christian mob boss. And a nice moral message.”

“And an all-star Christian cast?”


“I think we’ve got it.”



Felipe hugged Matthew, then turned on the Die Hard DVD to get them in the mood.


Just as Satan concluded it was all over for his Hollywood dynasty, MTV, a neutral party in the saga of good versus evil, offered to schedule a live action pay-per-view death match. Satan agreed immediately. MTV had to entice and tempt Felipe an entire afternoon before he agreed on the condition that MTV send out flyers to every Southern California conservative church to promote the event. He also wanted a free, live, webcast on his homepage as a favor to his Webmaster, whom he had broken-up with, but still remained friends with.

All the details had been arranged, but there had been one such detail overlooked. “Who will referee it?” Felipe asked at the official planning session.

“I know a Wicca witch who referees for the WWF on the weekends.” Satan’s assistant Billy said.

“That sounds a little biased.”

“Well what do you suggest?”

“Someone who doesn’t know what to believe when it comes to God.”

“How ‘bout a Hindu?”

“No, they believe God exists, they just get confused on which one of their gods he closest resembles.”

“Then who?”

“An agnostic.”

Everyone look at each other and no one disagrees.

“But where will we find one?

“Why don’t we get someone from Claremont? They’re doing a lecture on the historical Jesus there—there’s bound to be lots of agnostic there.”

“That’s perfect—and they have a big enough gym for a death match.”

So that’s how things got settled. Felipe would fight Satan in a MTV style death match at Claremont. It would be live action with all the proper lighting and glamorized to make it more real, and no one would actually die. The loser would be the one who cried first.


So thanks to MTV, the death match took place at Claremont University right after the referee, a renowned professor of Islamic history who was actively involved with the Jesus Seminars, concluded his lecture on the historical Jesus entitled “10 Reason Why Jesus Studied Buddhism With Mohammed in Northern India Before He Was Figuratively Tempted in the Desert.”

The professor, whose name was Dr. Augustine Mohammed Dali, was a frail old man who walked with a limp and admitted openly that he was thoroughly confused in all matters of faith. He also admitted that he knew nothing about wrestling, but also admitted that he knew nothing about genuine Christianity, but had made a career refuting its claims. Satan and Felipe agreed that Dali was the perfect person to fairly referee.

The campus was swarming with celebrities and faithless theologians, each quoting their various reasons for watching the fight. A hearse with monster truck tires waited for the loser, who would be driven outside the Southern California boundaries and banished from the perimeter for good.

Satan wore sweat pants because he didn’t want to be mocked for having hairy white legs. Felipe wore his newly trademarked red death match shorts with sparkling edges. Everything was done in epic Hollywood taste.

Several churches had taken a special offering to be used against Satan in Vegas, which favored them both equally.

When the fight bell finally rang, Mary Megan Metford, who had paid over $2,000 for her front row seat, shouted, “God’s with Felipe!”

Matthew McMilian, who agreed to come as a favor to Mary Megan Metford but was considering breaking their romance off, poked her rib and said, “Be quiet—let him concentrate.”

“Should we pray?”

“Just watch already! There will be plenty of time for that kind of stuff later.”

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