I, Lucifer

Black candles sputtered into the encroaching darkness, their feeble light casting an eerie orange glow on the semi-circle of twelve kneeling, black hooded, robed figures. A thirteenth figure stood in the center of the semi-circle, facing a squat black altar and holding a thick, ancient looking tome. The altar was adorned with the skull of a goat, an upside down pentagram inscribed between its spiral horns. Behind the altar hung a large black banner depicting a stylized devil head and arcane symbols.

"Hail Satan," the figure in the center intoned.

"Hail Satan," the others repeated.

"Tonight we will do the unthinkable: we will summon our lord and master, the Prince of Darkness himself, he who is Abbadon, is Belial, is Apollyon is-"

"Yo! Doug!" interrupted the cultist kneeling directly behind the central figure now known as Doug, "We get the picture. Can we just do this thing? Mom wants the car back before ten."

Doug rolled his eyes (an effect lost in the shadows of his hood) and said, "Fine. Jeez, no respect for ceremony." Doug placed the ancient looking tome on the altar, and gingerly, with great reverence, opened the cover (which looked suspiciously like it was made out of skin.) After a moment of study, Doug began to read from the book.

"Mulla Xul!1 Maskim Xul! Gibil! Ana Harrani Sa Alaktasa La Tarat!" Suddenly the candle flames flared up, and the room began to feel warmer, as if someone had turned up the thermostat in Doug's mom's basement.

"Ati Me Peta Babka, Ma Elu, Mulla Xul, Maskim Xul, Gibil!!" With this last intonation, Doug threw his hands dramatically in the air - which was rather pointless because directly behind him Satan had quietly (and without fanfare, disappointingly) materialized.

"... So I gave the guy this wicked kidney punch and - Bob?" Satan looked around in apparent confusion. "This isn't the Starbucks at the Eighth Circle," he said. He looked down at the kneeling, black hooded and robed cultists, their mouths agape and eyes wide. He turned around to note Doug, who was also quite shocked, and saw the altar, goat skull, and pentagram. The Prince of Darkness visibly slumped, sighed, and muttered, "Here we go. Stupid Sumerian books."

The Satanists were still staring at the object of their worship, who was impatiently tapping his foot. The first thought to creep into their minds (well, second thought actually- the first was I can't believe that actually worked) was He ... doesn't look like what I kinda figured Satan would look like. In fact, none of the traditional trappings of devilishness were present on Lucifer. There were no cloven hooves, prehensile tail, horns, pitchforks, wings or even red tinted skin. Satan appeared to be a tan, thirty-something Caucasian male, medium built, with a clean-shaven, bald head and a goatee. "It's a Van Dyck." The cultists, still in a state of shock, had no idea that Satan was addressing the narrator. "A goatee is just the chin hair. A goatee and a mustache is called a Van Dyck." Sorry. "Common mistake." Anyway, perhaps most unexpected was what He Who Is Abaddon was wearing: Chuck Taylor Converse sneakers, khaki cargo pants, and a sweatshirt that read "Frankie Say Relax."

Doug was the first to snap back to his senses. He quickly dropped to his knees and lowered his forehead to the floor. He gave a sideways glance at his still-awestruck colleagues and hissed "Guys!" before reverently intoning "Hail Satan!"

The rest of the cult looked blankly at Doug for a heartbeat before collectively getting the hint. Oh, right! The worshiping thing! They quickly prostrated themselves at the feet of their Dark Master, repeating in unison "Hail Satan!" Meanwhile the Devil closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. After the fourth "Hail Satan" Lucifer stomped his (decidedly non-cloven) foot and yelled "Knock it off!" His disciples jumped and cowered before his fury - well, irritation. Lucifer cast a jaundiced eye over his flock, still tapping his foot. The cultists began to feel very uncomfortable, as this went on for several minutes. They averted their eyes, cleared their throats, and fidgeted. Finally, Doug spoke up.

"Um ... O Prince of Darkness, we art your humble disciples, who hath summoned you to the Material Plane so that we may ... est do thine unholy bidding and-"

"Art? Hath? Mayest? What are you, a flippin' Pilgrim?" Satan asked snarkily. "Snarkily? Is that even a word?" the Devil asked, looking up at the ceiling. The cultists looked at each other in a mixture of fear and growing confusion. A rail-thin goth girl named Penelope, who wore too much eye liner and called herself Vadamerca, mouthed to thirty-year old computer programmer Lou, Who's he talking to?

Doug faltered momentarily in the face of such withering (and unexpected) annoyance, but quickly regained his composure and continued. "Um ... er ... well, O Lord Satan, we are your willing servants, and with the aid of yon- er, that ancient Sumerian Tome, hat- have called you here to begin the End of Days!" Doug beamed at Lucifer with a look of expectant hope. Lucifer stared at Doug for a full minute with a look of severe annoyance and mild contempt. Finally (and initially to Doug's great relief) the Devil spoke.

"End Of Days?"

"Y ... yes?"

"The Apocalypse?"

"Well, yeeaah ..."

"Arma - frikkin'- geddon?"

Doug could feel the beginnings of a moderate panic attack. "That's ... that's the general ... idea ..."

Satan resumed staring at Doug, this time with flaring nostrils. Doug, who would never win the gold medal at the Quick Uptake Olympics, resolutely pressed on.

"So ... we will do your bidding to bring about the End of Days, lay waste to God's Creation and create your unholy kingdom on Earth!" By this time, the rest of the cult, still kneeling, began to slowly back away from Doug.

Satan rubbed the heel of his palm on his forehead and again pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that none of you wanktards have ever actually read the Bible? Specifically The Revelation of St John the Divine?

"Well, no." "Not as such." "A little in Sunday School." "I'm an atheist."

Satan put a hand in his pants pocket, and in the manner of a professor lecturing to a college class said, "So, pretty much everything you ... people know about the Apocalypse and me is from crappy movies, correct?"

"Well..." "Yeah, I guess..." "It sounds silly if you put it that way..."

"Right. Well, if any of you had read the Bible, then you would surely know that, in the end I LOSE!!" The cultists jumped, a few whimpering. "Why, why, WHY would I want to jump start the very thing that will be the end of my gig as Ruler of Hell? Hmmm? I mean, it's all right there, with ... with the war, and the falling stars and seven headed dragons... Actually I don't even know what half of that means. 'These things saith he that holdeth the seven stars in his right hand, who walketh in the midst of the seven golden candlesticks'... What? Seven golden candlesticks? Sounds more like an advertisement for Pier 1."

Lucifer looked around at the cowering (and increasingly confused) cultists, shaking his head. "And you know what else chaps my muscular buttocks? That a bunch of schmucks like you would think that I could really use your help for anything other than maybe putting on heavy mascara, dog collars and pouting. I'm the frickkin' Prince of Darkness, okay? Adversary of Man. What have- Dude," Satan said, looking up, "Are you listening to Sarah McLachlan while typing this?" Umm...yeah, and? "You're writing a story about Satan, and listening to Sarah McLachlan as opposed to, say, Danzig? Or Slayer?" I like Sarah McLachlan, what? "Whatever. Where was I? Prince of Darkness, yadda yadda, right. What have you people done with your lives? You!" Satan pointed at a pimply faced, awkward looking cultist named Gary. "You've never even kissed a girl, but you think it'll be cool to summon Satan? Also, what do you idiots think you have to offer me, anyway? Your souls? Talk about hubris. Odds are, I'd be getting them anyway. Now, get me the soul of a Pope, or virtuous philanthropist, or Sean Connery. That's saying something."

By this time the cultists were looking anywhere but at Satan, visibly embarrassed by his unexpected (and rather hurtful) tirade. Doug's lower lip began to quiver as tears welled up in his eyes. Satan rolled his eyes and said, "Alright, I'm Audi 5000, but before I roll, let me give you a bit of advice - other than dropping this ridiculous cult thing. Burn the damn book before you bring in something really unpleasant. Lemme tell you, Cthulhu hates being woken up from its thousand year naps. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm late for my monthly poker game with Chuck Norris."2 With that, Lucifer disappeared (again with a disappointing lack of special effects.)

The cultists sat for several minutes, attempting to process all that just transpired (as well as feeling collectively stupid). Finally Doug tentatively spoke up, "So ... you guys wanna hit Denny's?"

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