[I’m wearing a heavily decorated denim vest, which includes a pink and orange devil pin that Dean gave me for my birthday. A customer meanders in, stares at me for a bit, then approaches the counter.]
Customer: “Are you a practitioner?”
[He points at the pin.]
Me: “Oh! Gotcha. Yes, I am.”
Customer: “Me too!”
[Inner Me: I mean, you’ve got ministerial credentials and a Pope card, but I feel like neither is the correct answer here.]
Me: “I am not.”
Customer: [disappointed] “Ah.”
Me: “Are… you card-carrying?”
Customer: “Yep! We just moved the temple into a new house downtown.”
Anyway, that’s how I found out that the Satanic Temple has a Houston chapter.
There have been several times in the past where I’ve had to explain to someone that I’m not a Satanist, but — had the customer not suddenly left to take a phone call — this would’ve marked my first time explaining to a Satanist that I’m not a Satanist. It’s been awhile since my life has felt like a B-rated horror movie, though, so I’m looking forward to spooky tomfoolery when he turns back up with the rest of the temple in tow to recruit me.