I once brought a Satanist home with me. First and only time I've interacted with one...it went a little like this:
A Memory--
"You are different," the Icelandic boy said to me.
"I am," I said.
"I worship Satan," he said. "You should fear me."
He showed me some hideous spider ring on his finger with ruby eyes. I thought it was gaudy, over dramatic, but all I said was, "Well, ain't that somethin'?"
I smiled and held up my little finger. "I have enough power in my pinky-finger to cast Satan in the pits of hell. I have the surge of the Almighty flowing through me. I know what I am," I said. "Why should I fear you?"
"I can destroy your body," he said.
"It's only a body," I replied. "It's not permanent anyway. You can't do anything to me unless I let you."
"I'm nervous," he said. "I need a smoke."
"Let's go outside then," I said.
"All right," he said, so we did. Then we played basketball. He got winded, so we had to quit.
"What is it about you? How can you not fear me? Don't you think I'm weird? Doesn't my appearance bug you?"
I looked at him. Seventeen, tattooed like a billboard for bad boys, rings in his ears, his nose, his eyebrows, his tongue, pale skin, black hair, tired eyes, dreadlocks that hadn't been washed in...maybe forever, tough face...terrified interior.
I tossed the ball in the goal and caught it as it sprang up off the pavement. "Why should I care what you look like?"
I pitched the ball to him. He caught it and breathed heavily. The heavy smoking and lack of physical exercise made him weak, even though he was foot taller than I. "Well," he said. "Just stay over there, because...you scare me."
"Wanna watch Lion King?" I asked.
"Yeah, but you stay on the other side of the room," he said.
So we walked back to the house and watched Lion King. He never came back to my house.
Some part of me pitied him because he tried so hard to get a reaction out of people. I think he owned a Satanic Bible.