“If Job still loves you,” I said, “it’s only because he’s not in physical pain. Let me hurt him and then watch what happens.” Would the Old Man go for this? He’d already told me before not to hurt Job, why would he approve of it now? He stared at me, obviously shocked by my audacity. His supreme loftiness slipped ever-so-briefly—then he forced a smile and said, “Fine, go ahead, just don’t kill him.” In less than an hour, Job, who was already grieving over his ten dead children, was rolling around on the ground in abject misery. This was the moment of truth, I knew. If Job stayed faithful to the Old Man now I’d be proven wrong and my whole plan would fail.
At first Job did stay true. I got nervous that the Old Man might end the wager at that moment, but for whatever reason— my guess is he was too busy gloating and preening in front of his angels—he didn’t. And before long, as I’d predicted, Job began to turn on the Old Man. When he said God had “hedged him around,” I smiled, knowing this would infuriate the Old Man. “Hedged him around?” I imagined him blustering. “What does that even mean?!” But I think he probably knew what it meant: that the wager was starting to slip away from him.
FIVE
I sent Job’s friends into the story for two reasons, one small, the other large. The small reason was that I thought it would be amusing to have these three obviously awful men complimenting the Old Man and talking about how “perfect” he was; I figured the irony of that might bother the Old Man (turns out, I was right.) But the bigger reason I sent them in was that as these three jackasses kept hammering away at poor Job, he kept responding with nastier and nastier remarks about the Old Man: God was terrorizing him. He wanted to sue God, but knew he’d lose because God would cheat him. Then Job started challenging God to a fight and calling him a coward for not showing up!
A bit later, when the Old Man started screaming down from heaven … well, this was a glorious half-hour for me. To watch God making a complete fool of himself was pleasurable beyond words. Sometimes I closed my eyes and enjoyed the mad, irrational torrent of his words. Other times, I studied his face and body, relishing the rage and folly and fear I saw there. From the start, the Old Man’s bizarre mix of overblown grandiosity and pathetic insecurity had seemed volatile. Now it seemed like it might actually explode. I couldn’t destroy him, I knew that—but I might, at the very least, diminish him.
At one point, Job begged the Old Man for mercy, which I thought was grotesque. This poor man who’d had his life utterly ruined for no reason was now groveling about his own worthlessness? It seemed like what a child would say to a cruel parent to make the beating stop. The Old Man was beside himself now, clearly overcome with rage and frustration and wounded pride. Everything he said sounded either vaguely insane or incredibly stupid. He was breathing too fast, sucking in huge mouthfuls of air, appearing to hyperventilate. He looked like he’d lost his mind and gone over some sort of edge from which I honestly couldn’t imagine him ever returning. I felt the sweetness of imminent victory. Where would the Old Man go after this spectacular failure? I had no idea, nor did I much care. He could wander around the moon for all I cared, babbling to himself about unicorns (which, yes, he seemed to actually believe in). Or hey, maybe he could die; gods did do that, I had now learned. Zeus died, for instance. He’d had enough, apparently, and so he allowed himself to essentially “not exist.” Maybe the Old Man would do that.
I had gotten so caught up in the Old Man’s meltdown that I stepped partially out from behind a tree to get a better view. The Old Man, looking paranoid, whipped his head around. He saw me standing there and suddenly he stopped yelling.
We looked at each other for a long moment and as we did, something became clear: the Old Man had made a complete fool of himself. My plan had worked better than I could have possibly imagined. But as we continued to stare at each other, it suddenly became clear that I had won nothing. That the Old Man would never give in, and that our battle—and yes, it obviously was that—would continue.
SIX
Hundreds of years later, after the fall of Jerusalem (“Great judgment there with Nebuchadnezzar, God” I remember thinking to myself), I started hearing rumblings about his big new plan: the Old Man was apparently creating a son to “help him.” Not to brag, but I knew as soon as I heard this plan that it’d never, ever work. The Old Man was a complete narcissist. The idea that he could play a supporting role in his own story? It was laughable.
What was Jesus like? Well, he was both similar to and different from his father. He was similar in the sense that he was strange and muddled in his thinking and sometimes mean as hell. He was different, however, in the sense that he was actually clever. I grasped that as soon as we started talking. “Are you really the son of God?” I asked him, partially wanting to tweak the Old Man, sure, but also honestly not sure who this young man was. I mean, okay, the Old Man said he was his son—but what did that even mean? “If you are the son of God,” I asked Jesus, “why don’t you turn those rocks into bread?” Jesus looked back at me with those inscrutable eyes of his. For a moment, I wasn’t sure he’d heard me, and I was about to repeat myself when he said in a soft voice: “Man does not live on bread alone.” I looked back at him, unsure what that even meant, but I won’t lie—weirdly taken aback and, yes, impressed. The son wasn’t a blockhead like the father. There was something subtle, even witty about his retort. The Old Man, asked the very same question, would have undoubtedly shouted out something like, “How DARE you ask me that, I will DESTROY you, Satan!!”
Jesus and I walked around Jerusalem for a little while, and then I tested him again. “If you really are the son of God,” I repeated, “why don’t you fly around a little?” His response this time was not as good. “Don’t test me,” he said, which sounded, quite honestly, like something the old idiot would have said. Jesus and I spent the next several days together hiking up a mountain. We brought a tent and food and water.
He didn’t eat, even though I could tell he wanted to. It was an interesting few days. There was a lot of silence and some of it was quite tense. He knew who I was, obviously—knew that I was his “enemy.” (Or thought he knew that anyway. The truth was, it was his Old Man who would soon be plotting his death, not me.) But there were other moments, when we stopped to admire the view or sat near a crackling fire at night, when we actually talked. The first night he wanted to hear about his father; he’d never met him, of course. When I told him what I knew, he got angry at me and said I was a liar. “It’s all written down,” I said.
The next night was different. We talked about the future. Neither of us was certain what was going to happen; we might very well have to fight each other—we knew that.
But at least for that one night, we hoped we wouldn’t have to. We didn’t hate each other, in my opinion; I won’t say we liked each other, but we did not hate each other. We had a lot in common, really. I mean, if the Old Man did create me, as he’s always claimed, then Jesus and I were sort of half-brothers. When I suggested this possibility, Jesus fell silent.
The next day, we reached the top of the mountain and looked out over the world. It was a beautiful day, cool and clear and bright. After a long moment, I spoke. “Work with me,” I said quietly. “Work with me and rule the world.” Jesus turned and looked straight at me. I think he knew what was coming. Although it hadn’t been made clear yet, I think he knew that tremendous pain and suffering and an early death awaited him. He felt it—and he didn’t want it. Why wouldn’t he at least consider the possibility of avoiding all that, of being able to live and yes, to rule the world too? Notice that I didn’t say: “You must rule in this or that way, Jesus.” He could have ruled the world however he wished, I didn’t care.
Something flickered in his eyes. He took a slow, deep breath … then turned and gazed out at the world. He was tempted, I could see it. (And remember: I have a talent for temptation. I know it when I see it.) He closed his eyes. He was going to open them and say yes and together we would defeat the Old Man and rule th
e world.
“Get out of my sight,” Jesus said.
SEVEN
At that point, there was nothing for me to do but ready myself for the final battle that I knew was coming. By the year 2020, I had hundreds of thousands of well-trained demons, not to mention the majority of mankind, working for me. I also had something new: my own son, “the Beast.” (I’d found a woman and impregnated her. The old-fashioned way, if you must know, and yes, I enjoyed it very much. I’m with Baal, sex is great.) My boy grew up and he was a natural leader, the greatest natural leader I’d ever seen; people wanted to follow him, they loved him.
The Old Man had become a queeny dictator by this time, a sort of depraved blend of Hitler and Liberace. It was time for me to take him on once and for all. The odds favored me, I thought. The Old Man had 144,000 followers, many of whom were male virgins. (Of course male virgins would be the Old Man’s favorite people; of course he would think they were “pure.” “Stunted losers,” Baal called them, and I was inclined to agree with him.) Some of the Old Man’s angels, however, had become fairly scary by this time. They were idiots, they always had been, but they had huge swords and they were good with them. They would be my biggest obstacle.
Or so I thought. Then came all those other Jesuses. Lamb Jesus wasn’t especially impressive; no matter how many eyes it had, it was still a lamb, you know what I mean? Nor was Baby Jesus, when he showed up, very worrisome either. But that Jesus with the sword that he shot out of his mouth?
Okay, now that guy was bad news. I can’t tell you how many of my demons he killed with that sword-tongue of his. Imagine Jesus (because Swordmouth did look quite gentle and compassionate and “Jesus-y”) suddenly shooting his tongue out like a frog and then having that tongue be a sword. It was terrifying.
The Old Man proceeded to fucking hammer earth. First, he sent bloody rain. Where he got all that blood I have no idea; I heard rumors of mass blood-drainings in heaven. After that, he burned half the earth. (He left Asia alone because it wasn’t “his,” apparently.) Then he caused mountains to crash into the ocean and, rather unbelievably, at least to me, turned the entire Atlantic Ocean into a giant pool of blood. (This was the Old Man’s blood phase. He was obsessed with the stuff. “I want a literal—and I mean LITERAL—bloodbath!” he reportedly screamed to his angels on numerous occasions.)
This wasn’t a “war” the Old Man was waging; it wasn’t “justice” he was administering. No, this was pure, unadulterated hatred. He wanted to hurt humans, that was all. Like a sadist finally giving into his darkest desires, the Old Man kept topping himself in the cruelty department.
The little stinging insects with the crowns and long hair were frankly unnerving. They bothered people in part, I think, because they looked vaguely like the Old Man: angry little assholes with crowns yelling up at you before they stung you. I think they were supposed to be a bunch of little “hims” in a way—I think that was the meaning of their crowns, but I can’t say for sure. (I can say that squashing them was exceedingly enjoyable.) The Old Man sent his half-crazed angels flying down to earth on horses to murder as many people as possible. Now why angels needed flying horses I have no idea. And why those flying horses had lion-heads—well, same thing. The lion-heads apparently kept attacking the horse bodies, many of which ended up plummeting to the ground and dying. The Old Man always wanted to impress too much, in my opinion. He was always less interested in what worked than in what he thought looked cool.
But here’s something I had come to appreciate about humankind by this point: they weren’t pushovers. They’d been around the block with the Old Man a few thousand times by now and they were not easily cowed by him anymore. Even after he did all that torture-porn stuff to them, a lot of them still didn’t believe in him! If the Old Man hadn’t gone completely insane by then, that would have done the trick.
EIGHT
While the Beast and his forces attacked the Old Man’s virgin army, I decided to take the war directly to heaven. I took the shape of a seven-headed dragon and showed up in front of his palace. The Old Man looked enraged by my presence in heaven. “Guards,” he screamed, “GUARDS!!” But there was no one there except those pathetic eyeball creatures and some old men. I breathed some fire at them and left.
On earth, the Beast now revealed his secret weapon: a giant robot in the shape of a lion-leopard-bear, with seven heads. (We all knew the Old Man’s favorite number was seven, so it was fun to bug him by using it ourselves.) The Beast’s robot was about a hundred feet tall and at first people weren’t sure what to make of it, but then, as it began to fly around the globe, putting out huge fires, cleaning up bloody messes and crushing masses of crown-headed insects—well, people quickly fell in love with it. “The Beast’s Beast,” they nicknamed the robot. This must have shocked the Old Man. After all, what had he wanted from the start? Love. Who was getting that? Us. Who was despised? Him.
But then again, why wouldn’t people have loved us? The Old Man had been torturing them for years while his annoying followers had scolded, “You’re getting what you deserve.” My son and I had stood up to the Old Man. We had a cool giant robot and we had killed a lot of those annoying followers—what’s not to like? The Old Man apparently told anyone who would listen at this time that we were “deluding” people into following us, but that’s nonsense. They just liked us better, that’s all.
NINE
The Old Man and I met near dark in a burned-out forest near what had been Seattle. I listened to him for awhile, then nodded, getting it. “You’re proposing that we share power then.”
The Old Man bristled. Of course that’s not what he was proposing, no, not at all. What he was proposing was—well, it was predictably insane. “Hold on,” I remember saying. “We’re at war all over the world, I’ve proven to you that you’re not even safe in heaven—and what you’re mainly concerned with is destroying Babylon?”
“Babylon is a whore and I want to punish her.”
“You’re still mad about the Nebuchadnezzar episode?” I asked, incredulous. “That was more than 2,500 years ago.”
“I have not forgotten, Satan, now may I please continue?”
I stared at the Old Man, stunned even at this late moment by the sheer strangeness of him.
“What I am proposing is this,” he said. “If you help me punish Babylon—”
“Wait—you need my help?”
The Old Man stopped and glared at me. “If you perform this service for me, Satan, then I, ahem, will do something for you.”
I stared at him, silent. After a moment, he continued. “As we move forward, toward our inevitable final conflict, we will …” He struggled with what followed. “How to say this? … we will take turns winning.” Then, quickly: “In the end, naturally, I must win.”
“Why must you win?”
He stared at me, clearly confused. “Because I am God and my ultimate victory has been predestined from the start, Satan, did you not know that?” I was silent. Did I know that? “However,” he quickly continued, “when you are captured and imprisoned, I will release you after, oh, let’s say a million years.”
I said nothing, still pondering what he had said. Had I known?
“A hundred thousand years then, but no less!” he said.
“One thousand,” I found myself saying. He stared at me, hesitated—then nodded brusquely.
“Fine—a thousand years then. But understand this, Satan: your boy, the Beast—he will die in the end.”
Something about that hit a nerve in me. “Why don’t we fight right now, God?” I said.
“ … What?”
“Why don’t you fight me yourself for once?”
“I will not—”
“Who sends his son to fight and die for him? A coward, that’s who.”
“—Satan.”
This was a moment I had not planned on. But now that it had arrived, I couldn’t stop it. “You’re not what you say you are, Old Man. You’re not all-powerful and you’re de
finitely not all-good. You’re a scared, loveless, stunted fraud. This incredible world that we all made together—yes, all of us—and all you care about is whether people love you? What is wrong with you, God? What the hell is wrong with you?” And with that, I turned and walked away.
The end of the story (which, of course, is not the “end” at all) played out like this: after Swordmouth defeated and killed the Beast and his robot, I was about to kill him when—why did I let it happen?—an angel suddenly swooped down, picked me up and dumped me in a prison cell for that previously agreedupon thousand years. I was told that Swordmouth was a harsh and tyrannical ruler. Apparently, mass beheadings (performed by him) were quite common. Swordmouth Jesus was despised by most people; they openly longed for my return. (“Imagine having Freddy Krueger as your ruler for a thousand years,” I later heard from more than one person.)
Finally, in the year 3020, I was released from prison. In less than a week I took control of the world once again. Swordmouth had gone a little bit soft in the intervening one thousand years— he’d put on some weight and lost some of his quickness. He could be taken, I felt. We fought for the second time and I was just about to defeat him again when the Old Man, in a typical act of good sportsmanship, dumped a bunch of fire down on me from up in the sky. Swordmouth then grabbed me and tossed me into a fireplace and yelled, “Burn in the lake of fire for all eternity, Satan!” But as I descended to hell, I thought to myself, “You don’t really get it, do you, boy?” This wasn’t even close to over. I had almost defeated the Old Man.
The next time—or the time after that—or the next—I would defeat him. I had plenty of time. I had eternity.
Satan's Story Page 2
