Guy’s Night

disclaimer:

if your affinity for comedy red lines at religion (or theology in general), you will be offended.

this story is a work of fiction. names, characters, events, and celestial interventions are entirely imagined. any resemblance to religious texts, figures, or doctrines is purely coincidental… or, let’s be honest, probably intentional.

no humans, angels, demons, or omnipotent deities were harmed in the writing of this story (that i know of). the views expressed by Lucifer, God, or any celestial being herein do not reflect the personal opinions of the author (though one might speculate).

please enjoy responsibly. celestial wagers, metaphysical experiments, and divine bets should not be attempted at home.

—A.

Lucifer sat upon his throne.

I said sat, but it was more of a slouch—the posture of a man who had collected more souls than he could count and squeezed about as much enjoyment from the process as one possibly could.

(Which was to say: the thrill wore off faster than you’d think.)

Alright. Fine.

He was bored.

Profoundly bored.

He was just flirting with the beginnings of a daydream (or, let’s be honest, on the verge of sleep for the first time in a thousand years) when the massive doors to the throne room burst open.

A terrifying shadow stretched across the obsidian floor—long, sharp, apocalyptic. It could have belonged to a conqueror of worlds, a victor of Armageddon… or just a slightly overzealous nightlight.

And then, in stark contrast, a thin, gangly demon scuttled in, bowing so low that its horns nearly scraped the floor.

“Prince of Darkness,” it squeaked, voice trembling like a poorly tuned string, “you… you have a visitor.”

(The movies have it wrong, by the way. Not all demons sound like Barry White fed through a voice distortion machine. Accents in Hell vary depending on depth and temperature. This one is from a warmer level. You can tell by the pitch.)

Lucifer didn’t even look up.

“I am far too bored for visitors,” he muttered. “Especially unannounced ones.”

“You’re not going to want to dismiss this one, Your Highness. He says—”

The demon’s voice trailed off.

A thunderous drum like cadence rolled down the hall, deep and resonant enough to rattle centuries of dust from the sconces and make the torches flicker.

“The celestial road was a disaster, Lucifer! I’ll be damned if I came all this way to this cesspool in the ground for you to deny me a visit!”

Lucifer exhaled and dropped his face into his palm.

“Oh, God,” he sighed.

“How’d you know?” God said cheerfully, entering in a wash of light—robes flowing white and pristine, as though Hell itself refused to stick to Him.

(Which, frankly, felt unfair.)

The demon let out a high-pitched squeak and scrambled under Lucifer’s robes, peeking out just long enough to glimpse the overwhelming light. Then it vanished entirely.

(I do believe I witnessed Lucifer himself shudder slightly.)

God pulled up a chair and seated himself in front of Lucifer’s throne, his pearlescent aura and pure white robes were almost a violation of the senses.

(Where did that chair even come from?)

“There’s no water in Hell?” God asked, incredulously.

Lucifer gestured vaguely. “Actually—”

“Let me guess. You do have water. But it’s unpleasant, like existential plumbing.”

“Spot on,” Lucifer replied, dryer than he intended.

God scowled. “I’ll pass.”

The two primordial beings sat in a most awkward silence, broken only by a most irritating little rodent-like creature desperately clinging to Lucifer’s ankles.

He tried to ignore it at first, shaking his leg ever so slightly, but the demon had no intentions of being compliant.

“Move along,” Lucifer said softly, as if coaxing a particularly stubborn toddler. The demon did not move. Not an inch. Not a millimeter. It seemed to whisper silently: No. Absolutely not. I am not leaving the relative safety of your robes while That One is here.

Lucifer sighed. “We have company, you know. It’s impolite to ignore visitors.”

The demon blinked innocently. (And by “innocently,” I mean fuck you, I’m staying here, see if you can make me move.)

Lucifer attempted subtle nudges. Slight taps. Gentle stomps.

Nothing.

He tried more dramatic motions, a little stomp-stomp-step.

(At this point, God was watching, and while He didn’t laugh exactly, there was a twinkle in His eye that said: This is exactly the kind of entertainment I live for.)

The more Lucifer hopped, twisted, and shoved at the tiny demon with every ounce of his cosmic annoyance, the higher the flames licked along his calves. He muttered something about “infernal rodent hellspawn,” though the demon apparently didn’t understand insults… or didn’t care

Finally, with one strong, exasperated kick, the little creature sailed across the room and landed with a tiny sizzle in the open doorway, squeaking indignantly.

Lucifer waved his hands, and the doors slammed shut magically. No effort. No hinge. No mortal craft. Just a casual flick of divinity.

He brushed at his robes, straightened his shoulders, and for a moment, the glow of hellish flames danced across his side, flickering in the contours of his armor-like form as if the room itself were applauding his tiny victory. He exhaled, a mix of annoyance, triumph, and barely restrained amusement.

Leaning against the wall, he finally allowed himself to glance out the massive window.

“I love this view,” he said.

A bout of silence, and then: “Alright. Spare me, God—with a capital G. Omniscient one. Creator of everything that is. Why are you here?”

God smiled faintly, casually pressing his shoulder against a column like this was a regular Thursday. “I thought we could… hang out. Or something.”

Lucifer blinked. “What…? I’m sorry. Have you forgotten that you kicked me out of Heaven?”

“Oh, how could I forget?” God said. “Especially after that miserable ride down here… Christ, it’s hot.”

Lucifer paused. “Christ?”

“Oh, just a name Gabriel and I were brainstorming,” God said, waving a hand. “I was thinking about impregnating a virgin.”

Lucifer frowned. “That’s… rather diabolical of you.”

“But can you imagine her husband’s reaction?” God asked, as if contemplating a particularly tricky poker hand.

Lucifer shook his head, half in disbelief, half in awe. “Aren’t you… supposed to be the good one?”

“Ehhh,” God said, swirling His celestial drink.

(First, a chair. Now, a drink. Where was he getting this stuff?)

“Good is subjective. Depends on who you ask… and when you ask them.”

Lucifer chuckled, finally allowing himself to relax.

“What are they doing down there?” God approached the looming arched window and nodded toward the scene below. “Worship?”

Thousands of souls twisted in what looked unmistakably like agony.

“Worship?” Lucifer let out a guttural laugh. “Hell no. And stop making that face. They aren’t in pain. Well… not like that.”

Lucifer lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and: “We’ve been playing Stairway to Heaven on repeat for five years — twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. This room is soundproof, luckily. Can you imagine? I’d kill myself.”

God whistled. “That’s brutal, Lucifer.”

Lucifer smirked. “No more brutal than you metaphysically impregnating a married virgin. Christ.”

God turned sharply. “What did you say?”

“Taking your future son’s name in vain,” Lucifer replied. “Obviously.”

They stood, Hell stretching endlessly beneath them, like two old friends rather than fated enemies who one day would battle for the universe.

“Now that I know your new favorite color was morally grey,” Lucifer said finally, “you were saying you wanted to hang out?”

God nodded. “I figured we’re both restless. And you’re the only one who understands how demanding this job can be. I take roughly seven billion calls a day. You’re killing it on the soul-collection front. We need a break. One night a week. I’ll come here, or you could come to Heaven.”

Lucifer laughed — loud, unrestrained.

God looked troubled, but only for a fleeting second. “Ah, you’re right. That’s absurd. I’ll just come here. Having you in Heaven would ruffle some feathers, pun intended.”

Then God smiled. “A guy’s night.”

Lucifer shook his head. “And what shall we do, Mr. Alpha-Omega-I-swear-I-don’t-have-an-identity-crisis? Send my most convincing demons out with your most righteous angels and see how many souls we collect?”

God’s mischievous grin only widened. “Something like that.”

⸻

The weeks unfolded quietly.

Drinks first — thick, glowing things that tasted like immortality and the burden of carrying eternity.

(An acquired taste, if your curiosity is getting the best of you.)

Cards. Dice. Wagers barely worth keeping track of. Storms. Coincidences. Small, absurd bets on humans.

It became easy. Comfortable.

Until one night — after a few more of those celestial something’s than usual — God rolled up the sleeves of His snow-white robe, flicked His wrist, and snapped His fingers.

The air between them rippled. A man appeared—kneeling in a field, hands pressed into dirt, lips moving in prayer.

(Surveillance, after all, is eons old. It just used to work without Wi‑Fi.)

Lucifer leaned forward. “Who is this?”

God smiled. “That is Job. Probably the most loyal human I’ve got.”

The image expanded, showing an aerial view: a modest home, fertile fields, livestock roaming freely, children laughing, a wife smiling.

Lucifer leaned back lazily. “He’s only faithful because you’ve given him everything.”

God tilted His head. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Lucifer said. “And I can prove it.”

God considered this.

(Which means He’d already decided ten minutes ago.)

“Alright,” He said. “Rules.”

Lucifer listened.

“You don’t kill him.”

“You don’t touch his soul.”

“And you keep it plausible.”

A pause.

Lucifer shrugged. “Deal.”

The losses started small.

Livestock taken by raiders. Sheep destroyed by fire raining from the heavens. Crops rotted overnight. All his servants, killed.

“Strong opening,” God commented.

In the cloud between them, Job dropped to his knees—praying harder than ever.

“Still faithful,” God noted.

Lucifer gestured with his glass. “Your turn.”

God thought. Slowly. Then the image shifted—Job’s children, gathering to feast. Without warning, a violent cyclone tore through their home. Collapse. Screams cut short. Every one of Job’s children and their spouses lay dead.

Lucifer choked on his drink. “What the fuck, man?”

“I said we couldn’t kill him,” God said calmly. “Family… family is fair game.”

Lucifer cleared his throat, rubbing his temple. “Right… it’s just… I’m usually the murderer, you know?”

God finally looked at him. “You have no idea.”

Job collapsed into the dirt — screaming, while simultaneously praising, utterly loyal.

“How do you make them do that? It’s twisted, man,” Lucifer exhaled sharply.

“…Alright, we need something big. A kill shot.”

They looked at each other.

“Leprosy,” they said together.

They laughed. And then they watched as the last thing Job had was taken from him.

Job cursed the day he was born — but never God.

Lucifer shook his head. “What is it with this fucking guy?”

God swirled His drink, cool and casual. “I mean…I am God. Capital G.”

When it was over, God snapped His fingers. Health restored. Wealth doubled. New children placed gently where the old ones had been.

Lucifer recoiled. “You can’t just undo that.”

God stood. “Why not? He passed.”

“Those aren’t replacements.”

“You know better than that,” God said faintly as he got up from the table.

He finished off his drink and headed for the door. “Same time next week?”

Lucifer didn’t answer. Hell had always been his domain.

Turns out, it was just overflow.

“Hey, Lucifer?”

Lucifer only slightly turned his head in God’s direction.

“I know you probably haven’t read my book in centuries, but don’t forget—you were created in my image.”