The Satanist and the Barfly

I spent many of my younger days,
Vast quantities in fact,
At the bars.
I met many interesting people.
Most were dumb-assess.
Others displayed a mild intelligence.
Then there was the Satanist.
Who rode somewhere in between.
He sat next to me, and began to chat away.
I have no idea how we got on the subject,
Such a pointless conversation at a bar,
One of religion.
He talked seemingly for an eternity.
Yet somehow, I remember very little.
Before his arrival,
I was drinking alone
Very much content.
I pretended to listen,
Conserving my spot at the bar,
A place where a man could get a drink quickly.
He told me about how people,
At least the true believers of Satanism,
Do not worship Satan.
Or some other shit like that.
He told me all his beliefs.
Then he asked me mine.
I told him that I believed I was sitting at a bar
Drinking a beer.
We raised our glasses in cheers, and he said that he could not argue with that.
Then he shut the fuck up.
For no more words needed to be spoken.