I said, said Satan, I got a fever.
Oh, me too. I just can’t stop shaking it, but what’s this about mayonnaise? Wasn’t that your idea?
Malaise! shouted Satan.
I guess the treatments are working, said the sofa. You’ve reverted to playing with toys.
I’m using them to jog my failing literary powers. This one is Satan, and this one—
The sofa regarded me wryly, but fondly, as my wife had in the early days when I would joke about gradually turning her into a sofa.
Oh malaise, said God. I notice you’ve stopped playing with our toys, and gotten awfully lyrical. What’s this about the borealis?
Laborious! said Satan. All this transforming, I’ve lost the feeling for it.
Life is transformation.
I think I’m being drugged, sighed Satan.
I do think the treatments are working though, I said.
What? said the sofa.
Will you turn that down?
David, it’s Little Richard.
She kept shaking. I got up from the floor and joined her.
For the time being anyway, Satan was a twist shy of pterodactyl, and God was a sports car.
love the dialogue.