When I checked my blog last night the number on the hit counter caught my eye -- 66666.

It reminded me of the time, some years ago, when I stopped at the local gas station to fill up. A fellow parked on the other side of the pumps kept glancing at the front bumper of my Chevette. Finally he grinned and nodded toward the front of his own vehicle -- which wasn't a Chevette -- and gave me a thumbs up.

Looking in the direction he'd indicated, I saw that the numerical part of his license plate bore the number 666. What had caught his interest was my license plate:

K4D-666

What were the chances of two New York state licensed Satanist vehicle operators meeting like that?

These weren't vanity plates, you understand. I'm not sure what by sort of unspeakable rituals the Department of Motor Vehicles decided who qualified for the Number of the Beast or what powers and privileges might have come with them. It is true, that Chevette survived until the body rusted out at age 18 and the only repair it ever needed was a new water pump.

I hated giving up that plate when I moved out of state. For one thing it was the only license plate number I've ever been able to remember, thanks to a simple demonic mnemonic:

K4D-666 = Kill 4 the Devil 666.