Mammon

He hovered in the late evening air, surveyed the countryside below and headed north on outstretched wings towards the city. Throughout time he had gone by many names, but his favourite was Zepar, Great Duke of Hell. It had a nice ring to it and the job came with perks, not the least of which was the ability to temporarily adopt a human countenance in pursuit of the ladies. Reality was such a thin veneer, simultaneously pathetic and irresistable.

Below him now the urban sprawl fringing the edges of the modern city came into view. The architecturally controlled suburbs, with fake fountained lakes, planned parks, and boulevards lined with skinny trees propped into place with guidewires. He landed in a quiet glen, folded his wings and quietly slipped through deserted streets until he arrived at the sprawling overstatement of a home that was his destination.

Inside the faux French patio doors a woman in her mid-forties sipped designer vodka and thumbed through an edition of Vogue. The open bottle, barely touched, sat on a silver serving tray.

She was unaware of the pending birth.

The demon entered the room through the French doors, brushed the vodka aside, threw the startled woman into a corner and extracted that which was his. Its old, yellowed eyes stared back in instant comprehension.

I will rename you, Mammon, thought the demon as it wrapped the newborn in the guise of culture, deposited it onto the front seat of the family’s immaculate sport sedan, and vanished, laughing, into the night.