Epitasis (e-pit’-a-sis): The addition of a concluding sentence that merely emphasizes what has already been stated. A kind of amplification. [The opposite of anesis.]
They told me that soon I’d be dancing with the Devil. “They” were the town full of hypocrites I had grown up with. My feet felt hot—the Sinner Maker was tuning up his violin. He handed the violin to Judas along with the usual 30 pieces of silver. Judas looked terrified. He put down the silver and tucked the violin under his chin and started to play the most popular song in Hell: The Rolling Stones “Sympathy for the Devil.” As we danced, the Devil told me there was a slim chance that I could get out of Hell. He could employ me in the Above World as a minion, and I could eventually work my way to Way Way Up (Satan never said “Heaven”).
You see, I had been sent to hell on a bum rap. My so-called friends had knocked me out, doused me with gasoline and thrown me in my flaming chicken coop. Of course, it was assumed to be an insurance scam—I had the coop insured for $100,000 and my sister stood to inherit it.. That may seem excessive, but it could barely compensate for the loss of my life-long chicken companion Cluck. The truth is, I was thrown into the burning chicken coop because I owed money to Big Mack Millione. I had borrowed $4,000 to help pay for my sister Angel’s cosmetic surgery—build up the boobs, whittle down the butt. Everything was fine until I got laid off at the Ford tail-lens factory in Linden. Somehow my “case” was misreported to the “Big G” and I ended up in Hell, dancing with the Devil. The angel who screwed things up was named Clarence, and I suspect he was the same Clarence as the one in the movie where Jimmy Stewart tries to commit suicide.
So, I’m going up, riding the Satanic Elevator to the bottom of Death Valley, and then, the Hell Train to NYC for my first assignment as a minion. There was a Millennial dickhead who was on the verge of cleaning out his employer’s assets and heading to some broken country in Africa. He had been binging on Ketamine and Pabst Blue Ribbon beer for a week. I just needed to give him a nudge and he would belong to Satan upon his death, which I was responsible for orchestrating as well. I planned on straight-up murder using my Made in Hell Satanic Handgun. His name was Jeffery.
I walked into his office tricked out in the most expensive clothing money could buy—all knock-offs made in Hell. Summoning my hypnotic voice, I said “Take the money Jeffery. Your mother will be proud. That bully Fred will kiss your ass out of envy. You will be so rich, you could run for President. And the girls! They will climb all over you like you were a set of playground monkey bars!” Jeffery sat down behind his computer, tapped in something, and yelled “Done!” He flipped over his big leather swivel chair and peed on it. His pee hit a multiple outlet extension chord on the floor and electrocuted him.
“Satan’s gonna love this!” I thought to myself as I started my return trip to hell. All elevators will take you to Hell if you have a Minion Hell Ride Card. I inserted my Hell Ride Card into the panel and plummeted straight to Hell. I had Jeffery’s soul in a pizza box—camouflaged for my trip from his office to the elevator. When I got off the elevator Jeffery re-materialized. Satan met us and sent Jeffery off immediately to the Infinite Inferno to join the other damned miscreants. Satan said, “Boy, you’re going to Way Way Up. You did a good job and Clarence told me what happened. Your name has been added to Pete’s Book of Saints. Be gone!”
I landed at the Pearly Gates and Pete smiled and said “Welcome. It’s about time.” Eternity awaited me. I wondered if they had Sudoku.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text added by Gorgias.
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