weird, self-serving battle between good and evil.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if the deck hadn’t been stacked; if it had been set up as a fair fight; if he were something more than a pawn in the Lord Almighty’s ineffable f’ed up, dumbass plan. God had created Satan to fulfill a role – to rebel and then get his Satanic ass kicked on Judgment Day. It was such a stupid plan, and yet, it was a nut that Satan couldn’t crack.
He’d always assumed that an idea would come to him; that, when the time came, he’d figure out some way to emerge victorious. The minions had asked him about it constantly, the nagging, incessant shits that they were.
“Master, how will we defeat Him, when it is written that … uh … we will not … uh … defeat … Him?” Belial had asked.
And Satan always responded the same way. “I cannot speak of these things, for He is always listening, but rest assured, I have a plan.”
But he hadn’t. He had no friggin’ idea what he was going to do. And as the time drew closer; as the Day of Judgment crept up, he began to realize that a plan wasn’t going to arrive in his miraculous brain. He’d never figure it out.
And then, one day, he realized, That was the bloody point . It was God’s perfect plan. A plan in which Satan and his followers, his entire army of fallen angels, were all just pawns. It was totally, blindingly obvious, but his rebellion – the Fall – it was all planned, intended, part of His great scheme. He wasn’t the Lord of Hell. He was God’s scapegoat and, worse, a foregone conclusion. He hated that.
Even the labels sucked. “Prince of Darkness?” Whatever. He wasn’t evil. No, he preferred to group his particular combination of proclivities together under the heading “Fun.” But fun wasn’t part of The Plan.
And that, of course, was why he was now here, on Earth, wearing a human-body costume and second guessing his decision to trade everything he’d known for a cold apartment, a frumpy sweater, and this robot bitch on the phone who wouldn’t turn on his damned gas.
He thumbed his copy of the collector’s edition of the Star Wars Trilogy that had just arrived, and felt just a tiny bit better. For the past week he’d holed himself up, staying out of trouble and watching a hell of a lot of television. And in that time he’d discovered the awesome saga of Luke and Leia and Darth Vader.
Oh, Darth. Darthy, Darth, Darth, Darth.
There were a lot of things that he loved about Star Wars. The Death Star kicked ass, and seeing the fuzzy little Ewoks get killed had been highly satisfactory. And, of course, he saw Darth Vader as a kindred spirit, both in terms of general outlook and his heavy reliance on what Satan figured must be anger-management breathing. Mostly though, it was the mythology of the movies that struck him. It was, he thought, kind of an allegory for his own struggle and rebellion against God. He just wasn’t sure whether he was Luke Skywalker or Darth Vader. And the whole dark vs. light sides of the force thing was confusing. God was easy enough – He was the emperor. Satan had some ideas for where the story should go next, and had decided that he was just going to have to go to Hollywood and meet the man behind the films.
Shirley came back on the line and went straight back into her mantra: “I’m sorry, sir, but you need to call us three days in adv—” but she didn’t finish, due to the fact that, at that very instant, the entire headquarters of Washington Gas exploded in an enormous fireball.
On Satan’s end, the line went dead. There wasn’t even any hold music.
“Hello?” he said. “Are you there?” But this was just denial. He knew that Shirley was no longer on the line. And he knew it was his fault.
The phone started making that rapid beeping sound phones make when left off the hook.
He punched the OFF button and took a deep breath, letting
It wouldn’t have been so bad if the deck hadn’t been stacked; if it had been set up as a fair fight; if he were something more than a pawn in the Lord Almighty’s ineffable f’ed up, dumbass plan. God had created Satan to fulfill a role – to rebel and then get his Satanic ass kicked on Judgment Day. It was such a stupid plan, and yet, it was a nut that Satan couldn’t crack.
He’d always assumed that an idea would come to him; that, when the time came, he’d figure out some way to emerge victorious. The minions had asked him about it constantly, the nagging, incessant shits that they were.
“Master, how will we defeat Him, when it is written that … uh … we will not … uh … defeat … Him?” Belial had asked.
And Satan always responded the same way. “I cannot speak of these things, for He is always listening, but rest assured, I have a plan.”
But he hadn’t. He had no friggin’ idea what he was going to do. And as the time drew closer; as the Day of Judgment crept up, he began to realize that a plan wasn’t going to arrive in his miraculous brain. He’d never figure it out.
And then, one day, he realized, That was the bloody point . It was God’s perfect plan. A plan in which Satan and his followers, his entire army of fallen angels, were all just pawns. It was totally, blindingly obvious, but his rebellion – the Fall – it was all planned, intended, part of His great scheme. He wasn’t the Lord of Hell. He was God’s scapegoat and, worse, a foregone conclusion. He hated that.
Even the labels sucked. “Prince of Darkness?” Whatever. He wasn’t evil. No, he preferred to group his particular combination of proclivities together under the heading “Fun.” But fun wasn’t part of The Plan.
And that, of course, was why he was now here, on Earth, wearing a human-body costume and second guessing his decision to trade everything he’d known for a cold apartment, a frumpy sweater, and this robot bitch on the phone who wouldn’t turn on his damned gas.
He thumbed his copy of the collector’s edition of the Star Wars Trilogy that had just arrived, and felt just a tiny bit better. For the past week he’d holed himself up, staying out of trouble and watching a hell of a lot of television. And in that time he’d discovered the awesome saga of Luke and Leia and Darth Vader.
Oh, Darth. Darthy, Darth, Darth, Darth.
There were a lot of things that he loved about Star Wars. The Death Star kicked ass, and seeing the fuzzy little Ewoks get killed had been highly satisfactory. And, of course, he saw Darth Vader as a kindred spirit, both in terms of general outlook and his heavy reliance on what Satan figured must be anger-management breathing. Mostly though, it was the mythology of the movies that struck him. It was, he thought, kind of an allegory for his own struggle and rebellion against God. He just wasn’t sure whether he was Luke Skywalker or Darth Vader. And the whole dark vs. light sides of the force thing was confusing. God was easy enough – He was the emperor. Satan had some ideas for where the story should go next, and had decided that he was just going to have to go to Hollywood and meet the man behind the films.
Shirley came back on the line and went straight back into her mantra: “I’m sorry, sir, but you need to call us three days in adv—” but she didn’t finish, due to the fact that, at that very instant, the entire headquarters of Washington Gas exploded in an enormous fireball.
On Satan’s end, the line went dead. There wasn’t even any hold music.
“Hello?” he said. “Are you there?” But this was just denial. He knew that Shirley was no longer on the line. And he knew it was his fault.
The phone started making that rapid beeping sound phones make when left off the hook.
He punched the OFF button and took a deep breath, letting
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