Verse 7

[This is part of an ongoing tandem writing experiment. To read the full story, click here.]

Lucifer trudged back to his throne room, deflated. He slinked past the large, golden throne, adorned with skulls of various breeds of humans and angels, and into an unassuming doorway behind it. Sighing, he leaned back against the cherrywood door, clicking it shut. He collapsed into his high-backed leather chair, the very image of defeat.

His private office looked more or less like the average auditor's or insurance adjuster's; a cluttered desk, faux gold nameplate posted prominently at the front, pictures of the kids on a family canoe trip adorning the bookshelves. The sole remarkable difference was a fishbowl on a small pedestal adjacent to the desk.

It was to this fishbowl that the Prince of Lies now turned his attention. Leaning heavily into his palm and peering through the bowl at eye level, he scanned the small underwater castle for signs of life. Before long, a sad-looking fish emerged from the shadows.

The Sadfish burbled.

"Oh, Sadfish," Lucifer moaned, visibly relieved by the sight. "Have I done the right thing?"

Moments passed. The Sadfish more or less hovered in place, once flicking a bit of algae from its gill.

"What I mean is, nothing I do ever seems to make them happy," he continued. "They bicker and bicker and bicker, and never give me a break. Truth is, I bring some genuinely good ideas to the table sometimes, but the council doesn't give me the time of day."

The Sadfish drift idly toward a stalk of plastic seaweed, propelled by some microcurrent. He bumped into it without much ado.

The display didn't affect Lucifer. He continued: "Ah, well. Maybe this time around things'll be different. I mean, we've never been up against a wall like this before. I thought we'd never need the Daylighter -- but maybe it's just what the doctor ordered to put these guys back in their place."

The Sadfish blurped a tiny bubble, which meandered to the surface, skated around for a second, then popped inaudibly. This certainly betrayed its intended sentiment, but that could hardly be helped. In days of yore, when the universe was just a jot on the bottom of God's to-do list, he created a few beings to keep him company. Among the earliest were Lucifer, Jesus Christ, Adam, and a handful of others that without exception eventually appeared in scripture. No exceptions, but one -- the Sadfish. Undeniably the most evil creature in creation, his role was largely diminished when in some cosmic roll of the dice he was relegated to his current form. It was early in the process, and God was still working out the kinks in Matter, his latest creation.

So Lucifer assumed the mantle of eternal counterpoint to God, a role originally held by the Sadfish. The most unimaginably evil cretin ever to curse existence was left to manifest his diabolism largely by swimming menacingly in slow circles and bumping into the glass of his bowl in an irritating way. On the other hand, Lucifer -- once considered a moderate, indeed a lightweight by many in God's closest circles -- got the top job.

"I just don't know, Sadfish," Lucifer sighed. "Sometimes I think nobody understands me."