And a Voice said “Go forth — well, sit down in your underwear and write a Devil Movie; be sure to include a choir singing gibberish Latin and take freely from the Revelation of my servant John, for there is plenty of material the heavy metal groups have not appropriated.”
And the scribe did as instructed, for the Voice was terrible and he was sore afraid, and also he was hung over and had not the energy to argue.
He wrote for forty and two nights and on the 43rd night the Voice asked him “Have you written my Devil Movie?”
The scribe held the script above his head, and it vanished.
The Voice did not speak, and the scribe got sore afraid again. Then the Voice said “Lose the zombies, they clutter it up, and nix on the sex scene between the padre and the nun, nobody’s shocked by this kinda stuff anymore and we won’t get the PG-13. Nice job otherwise, kiddo.”
With his advance the scribe, who was middle-aged, fat, bald and not too bright, and was thus scorned by the young women of the city, bought a fine new robe, an even finer pair of sandals, a sleek racing chariot and an even sleeker horse to pull it, and took to spending long hours in the cafes, calling strangers “baby” and buying lavish meals for the women.
It didn’t help.