The Devil crouched upon the tip of the boy’s ear, hidden under a lock of perfectly swooped hair, and stared out at his screaming followers. Never before had he seen such a congregation of worshippers so young and ripe for corruption. His plague, which the mortals dubbed “Bieber Fever,” had reached its pitch, and they had flocked to their cathedral, Madison Square Garden, seeking a cure. Note after note, the boy crooned the satanic proverbs of his master, sowing their minds with sin and draining their purity through their virgin tears. As the sermon continued, the fallen angel looked toward the heavens, where he was divinely sculpted, and understood how the Creator must have felt.
The boy had been the perfect candidate. He was talented, charismatic, with hair as golden as the fatted calf that he would become; but best of all, he was young. He was just young enough that the hand of the almighty banisher had yet to touch his soul, and the Devil swooped in to take the boy under his clipped wing. The young Justin Bieber listened to the Devil’s temptations as spoken by Scooter Braun (his manager) and Usher, then handed over his undeniable talent, self-respect and innocent soul in exchange for a silver record contract. After nearly two years of backbreaking singing, crushing impatience and the unwavering efforts of 30 devoted assistants, the boy transcended his flesh and bone and joined the heavenly ranks of those select few who “sold out Madison Square Garden.” His worshippers, his supporters and even the Devil himself sang his praise.
But where there are worshippers, the Devil knew, there must be scripture. The boy’s journey was to be recorded on film. This “New Testament” would describe the long and grueling path on which Bieber’s supporters would drive their will-powered vehicle while Bieber himself sat in the backseat, whining about his fans and friends. The film would be interspersed with the gospels of his prepubescent apostles, who declared their devotion to their Messiah based on the illusion of his hardship. It would also demonstrate his miraculous abilities, such as drumming fast, playing basketball and flipping his hair in a slow motion sequence. And lo, it shall be shot in 3D.
“Tell them,” cooed the Devil as he perched upon the boy’s hooded ear. “Tell them what I offer.” The boy would instruct his disciples to ignore reality, to let wake-up calls go to voicemail, to suffer as those who the Devil placed around him had suffered and to “Never Say Never.” He planted hope in their minds like a parasite would plant its eggs in a host, waiting until they hatched the larvae of shame. From behind the altar sat Bieber’s father, crying with what seemed to be pride, but the Devil knew it to be the bitter tears of his progeny lost to worship of the Dark One. The fans roared, allowing their souls to escape through their widened jaws as a sacrifice to their new idol.
As this viewer sat in the theater witnessing the historic event, his fellow audience members extended their hands toward the boy, screaming “We love Justin Bieber!” with the force of a brainwashed mob that George Orwell still has nightmares of in Hell.
Back at the Garden, the Devil beamed with satisfaction upon the boy’s shoulder. He knew, even in 3D, he would be visible only to the purest of heart who witnessed the event, and they would be too mortified to ever speak of it. As he sat confidently, his greatest creation and most terrible crime continued to wail soulless ballads that told no story other than the fall of true potential. When the spectacle had ended, he addressed his new minions directly.
“Well played, humanity,” the Devil crowed, “but that’s game, set and match.”