MONOLOGUE: Revelations

by Lucas J.W. Johnson

SETTING:           Hell

TIME:                Armageddon

CHARACTER:      SATAN, a.k.a. the fallen angel Samael, a.k.a. the Devil, a.k.a. the Adversary, a.k.a. the Crooked Serpent, a.k.a. the Prince of this World, a.k.a. the Dragon, a.k.a. the Accuser, a.k.a. the King of the Demons, a.k.a. the Ruler of Hell, a.k.a. the Antichrist

SATAN’s throne sits centre, and a side table holds a tattered old book and a pair of tongs. Satan sits in his throne, fuming. Through the monologue, he may stand, pace, etc.

SATAN

You know, the least they could have done was give me a warning. I mean, there I am, minding my own business, torturing the sinful and plotting the downfall of man, when suddenly, pow! These four horsemen go riding across the world heralding the beginning of the end and bringing war, pestilence, famine, and death in their wake. I mean, come on, that’s totally supposed to be my thing. Not the riding, though, I get horrible wedgies. I just mean the destruction and doom.

And you know where they come from? Scrolls. They spring out of scrolls. He’s sitting up there on His glowy throne like He’s so much better than everyone else, having praises sung to Him night and day, and He holds up these seven scrolls, and four of them turn into horsemen and go riding off. What’s up with that? I mean, what are they supposed to be? Angels? Hardly. Demons? Not mine, anyway.

And don’t get me started on the singing of praises. Talk about inferiority complex, if He needs people telling Him how great He is all the time. I know I’m great, I don’t need people telling me. The screams of the damned are all the proof I need. I mean, you gotta admit, Scientology was a stroke of genius. Got so many suckers with that one… 

So anyway, as if the war and death wasn’t stepping on my toes enough, then He has to go and be all wrathful. And I’d thought He’d calmed down in his old age, getting all soft and merciful after his son came along. No such luck—open up the end of the world with earthquakes and lightning. Not even any originality there—I totally would have gone for something a little more of the time, like nuclear holocaust or deadly radiation breaking through the thinning atmosphere. I guess He’s just a traditionalist. And then He gets his little angels to tell everyone—‘cuz He can’t do the dirty work Himself—that the faithful should all gather together and pray so He’ll protect them. They’re also supposed to put some symbol on their heads so He’ll know who not to kill. Okay, isn’t he all-knowing? Shouldn’t that be a non-issue?

(Pointing, as if to a bunch of different people.)

“You love me, you don’t, you love me, you worship false idols, you love me, you pretend to love me but secretly hire gay prostitutes…”

Anyway, then He proceeds to destroy the world. Well, a third of it anyway. Then there’s more destruction and mindless killing, because there hasn’t been enough already. Isn’t it supposed to be a day of glory and the coming of peace? Man, I haven’t even come onto the scene yet, and already there’s barely anyone left to corrupt. But then, finally it’s my turn.

So there I am, all fearsome and with my Whore. That’s metaphor by the way. My Whore is the gluttony and corruption of the West. Some people were confused when I arrived alone. People just don’t get allegory these days. Unless all the smart ones were the ones that had been killed already… So anyway, there I am, finally coming on stage. I come up with my army of angels, and there’s Mike leading his army of angels. We did some fighting, spilt some blood—not that angels can really die, but you know, it feels good to get out some of that pent-up rage. It has been a few thousand years.

We lost, of course. We only have about half the forces they do. That’s why we corrupt people. We’re subtle. None of this “repent or ye shall be condemned to eternal suffering!” shit. Way too obvious for my tastes.

Anyway, where was I? We get thrown back down to earth. As if we really wanted in to heaven, when so many succulent mortal souls were still available down on earth. Well, fewer than before, after all that killing, but still. Then I bring up the Beast—the other one, the false prophet. Well, it’s still really me of course, same as the Antichrist, part of the Unholy Trinity. Unless you believe the Arians.

And the Beast, he does his thing, corrupts all those people who remain—except I guess the ones with the mark on their head, they might have been saved already. I’m a little fuzzy on the details. And anyway, the Beast falsely prophetises, as he does.

(Beat.)

So, that’s kind of where we are now. Everyone who’s left worships me. As they should. It’s not like I’m so different from Him. And those who were going to be “saved” have been saved, or at least they’re not around anymore, I guess. Maybe they’ve made their new little City of Heaven already. I kinda thought there’d be more to it, but whatever. I don’t decide what happens, I just enjoy it.

(SATAN falls silent for a moment. He seems almost bored.)

I swear there was supposed to be more to this… What am I missing?

(He looks over to the side table. Carefully, he picks up the tongs and uses them to open the book, flipping to the end.)

Okay, scrolls, angels, praying, trumpets, one-third of blah blah blah… Beast, Whore, rules, false prophet. Here we go. Wait, there’s more destruction? Seven plagues? Seriously? Okay, these aren’t even plagues. “The sea creatures die”? Whoopdie-freaking-doo. Blood, scorching… Okay, wait, here — the river dries up, forces my armies to gather. I guess then we go kick some—no, wait, another earthquake. Geez. Okay, then we get the Whore back, corruption—she
dies? Then—hold on. Hold on.

The son leads an army to fight me and mine, and we’re… bound to the Abyss for a thousand years before being thrown into a lake of fire for eternity, while they go and make Heaven on Earth?

(Pause.)

God damn it!

(Black.)

copyright © 2008 Lucas J.W. Johnson. All rights reserved.
_________________________________________________

Lucas J.W. Johnson is a freelance writer from Vancouver, British Columbia. He attends the University of British Columbia for Creative Writing. Always a storyteller at heart, he lives mostly in his imagination, where he’s forever creating worlds. When he’s not writing, he wishes he was writing. Find him online at lucasjwjohnson.wordpress.com.

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