The Devil and His Armies

Satan looked down upon the battlefield, his face split by malicious grin. Below him, his army marched proudly towards certain victory. And what an army it was. His foot soldiers tore through the enemy ranks with unmatched ferocity, their brutal weapons cleaving metal and flesh with equal ease. Amongst them strode gigantic beasts, a sight so terrifying as to send many fleeing in blind panic. The defending army was already on the brink of utter collapse when Satan’s champion emerged from the fray, wielding their general’s head in his claws. It was all over. Satan let out a roar of triumph that shook almost seemed to shake the earth itself. It also served to make the nine year old boy stood opposite him burst into tears, eliciting looks of concern and outrage from the other Games Workshop patrons.

‘Listen sir, I’ve been very lenient about this before’ huffed the manager, waddling over from behind the counter. ‘I appreciate your custom, I really do, but you can’t keep coming in here and scaring the kids like this’. The Devil opened his mouth as if to protest, but the manager was not to be interrupted. ‘As I’ve tried to make clear to you time and time again, Saturday morning games are for beginners only. It’s bad enough you insist on coming in here and notching up easy wins, but shouting in youngster’s faces like that is just plain unacceptable. I really must insist you leave immediately, before young Kevin’s mother turns up to collect him’. Satan looked defiant for a second, but then clearly thought better of arguing. A sullen look on his face, he began clearing his miniature army from the tabletop and dumping them in their special carrying case. Normally this was a process so contrived and precise it bordered on the obsessive, but today he practically threw the tiny metal warriors into their compartments, showing no regard to the paintwork he’d spent so long on. I couldn’t help but pity him from my vantage point over by the paintbrushes, but when I wandered over to help him tidy up he slapped my hand away in an altogether petulant manner. Kevin shot us a look of snot nosed vindication as we tramped out of the store.

As we wandered aimlessly around the shopping mall, I knew it was best to stay silent for a few moments. He was always like this after things went badly in what he referred to as his ‘practice sessions’. As far as he was concerned, miniature tabletop wargames were the best if not only way to practice for the day he’d lead his armies from the pit to swarm across the earth. I sometimes felt it’d be kindest to point out the differences between real warfare and his rather nerdy hobby, but I didn’t want to shatter his illusions too harshly. After all, his real army back in hell was a pitiful affair. Hell was certainly brimming with warlike potential, but Satan lacked the organisational skills, leadership and commitment necessary to muster any kind of cohesive fighting force. Remember the closing sequence from the show “Dad’s Army”? Y’know, where the cast were filmed out on exercises but they looked a bit daunted and shambolic? Well, Satan’s army made that lot look like the dirty fucking dozen by comparison. So now he just stuck to beating infants in tabletop wargames. I sometimes wondered how he retained his throne in hell at all.