el Diablillo de Dios

God's imp stations himself by the cave entrance and watches as pilgrims make the climb. A shame, he thinks, they all waste their time so. You'd think they'd confer with earlier trekkers and learn that no one - no one - gets in.

Back on Mount Olympus, they were too high for mortals to reach. (That was where the cloud legend originated; as if God, weighing in at 310, could walk on water vapor.) Before you knew it, a couple of million years went by, the mountains folded in on themselves and God became a cave dweller. Word got around. The place was besieged by spelunkers and the need arose for a concierge.

That Heaven had to go to Hell for a doorman shows how effective the underworld army is at defending the underworld. They make good agents and lobbyists, too.

The little devil God adopted was more than up to the task. He kept his teeth and claws sharpened. He learned to crack his tail like a whip. And should the do-gooders slip by him, they were no match for him once inside the cave. El Diablillo could see clear as day in near total darkness and he could scamper like no one's business, up walls, off rocks, you name it. He was in his element.

The pilgrims approach. The imp eyes ankles, salivating.