Short Stories

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The Devil only drinks whiskey. Scotch to be specific, and he drinks it neat. Seems kind of nonsensical to drink scotch on the rocks when he’ll be spending the rest of eternity in the Lake of Fire. But he’s not there yet. He’s out roaming and seeking whom he may destroy. He’s the Prince of this World. He’s the Tempter, the Wicked One and his personal favorite, Beelzebub, the god of dung. Now that was creative, somewhat base, but creative nonetheless.

It had a nice ring to it. Granted, it wasn’t appealing to most, but the dung god did not exactly portray an image of hope and beauty. He had found, however, that the less offensive titles served him better. The Prince of the Power of the Air was much nobler, and King of Babylon was definitely regal. Even Apollyon sounded stately. Now that time had moved on, only a few people knew it meant destroyer. Humans for the most part were not interested in finding the meaning behind something simple like a name.

He had found humans placed the most value on the immediate. He, however, was not interested in the immediate. His focus was a little more eternal. He knew where he had come from and where he was going. He also knew many would be joining him.

Immediacy was the dung god’s greatest weapon. Things that doled out small doses of pleasure instantly were particularly useful. The 21st century’s fast-food mentality made things easier. Instant gratification was no longer a novelty. It was a way of life. Whether it was television or heroin, it all led to the same place.

The bottom line is he is a stalker, a murderer. The humans that belonged to Christ were the ones he stalked so tirelessly. The others weren’t a challenge. He could keep up appearances and maintain a good public relations image for the rest of the population.

His favorite campaign so far was the “hell will be more fun with my friends and without those stuffy Christians.” That was runner up to the more obvious “there is no God and therefore no hell” campaign.

He had convinced a good portion of the world he didn’t exist. Another chunk of the population believed in one of his made up gods. Islam was a big hit because not only did it detract from the true God, some of the more radical followers actually killed Christians. It didn’t get much better than that. Especially when those dying “in Allah’s service” thought there would be 72 virgins, 72 wives and unlimited happiness on the other side of the fireball. All they found was more fire.

That was the sales job of the universe. The modern day ad execs summed it up nicely, “sex sells.” Doesn’t matter if it’s Playboy or virgins in the afterlife.

The great deceiver never failed to relish in the shock that engulfed their souls. Not only did they not get the virgins, they realized the truth about God, but of course it was too late.

He thought of another title to add to his list – Hell’s Concierge. Visit the hospitality desk before checking in. Pick up a brochure or two. It was probably the only place in the universe that advertised nonexistence.

Even with all the “fun” the Prince of this World was having, it was tempered with dread. He hated admitting it. He knew what was coming. Even though he convinced as many humans as would listen that the Bible was just a few nice words to live by, he knew the truth. He knew the One who really wrote it. He had read Revelation. He knew he would burn.

It wouldn’t be so bad if he could just coast through existence, chewing up the eons until God blew the whistle, but he had all those pesky Christians to deal with until then. They were the ones who made his life miserable now. Eternal punishment would be much worse of course, but waging war until then just seemed to be such a nuisance. Still he would fight them tooth and nail. He loved to watch them fall. He reveled in their sin, but for some reason cringed when Jehovah disciplined them. It seemed like he should enjoy that too, but it hit a little too close to home. It always reminded him of what was coming.

The biggest pain in his backside was watching them win over one of the masses he was leading to damnation. He had been listening to the same story for more than 2,000 years now. And every time he heard it it just ticked him off more. It started out alright of course with his little trick in the garden, but he still bore the mark of when Christ came and took the keys of hell and death from him. He hadn’t seen that one coming. Just like the rest of the world, he didn’t have the Bible then either.

He knew what was coming now though; he just didn’t know when. “Only the Father knows the time,” the Son had said, but he knew that time was close. It was time to start wrapping things up. It was time to start killing as many people as he could before the Christians could talk to them.

He had to pace himself though. The tsunami in Asia had taken quite a toll. Hurricanes, floods, war. He was killing people right and left, but he couldn’t be too bold or it might drive people back to the truth. He couldn’t risk that. Nope, the old dung god would have a crucial balancing act over the next few years to keep catastrophe at critical mass before all the prophecies are fulfilled.

Above all, he had to keep the Christians quiet. When the last tribe and tongue hears the gospel, it will be too late.

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