Once was a Spoiled Little Brat

Contributor: Brent Rankin

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“It’s just not right! Him making all the rules.” The kid, his hands in the pockets of his jeans and his shoulders bent over, skulking in circles, kicked a brightly colored ball that exploded into orange glitter. He down sat cross-legged. Pulling the hood of his windbreaker low over his eyes, covering the skewed ball cap cockeyed on his head, he huffed.
Whining alone, he said, “Can’t do that! Can’t do this! He doesn’t know everything. ‘I’m your Father and you work for me.’ Nay, nay, nay…what does that make me? Your slave?
“Do as I tell you, not as I do! What an asshole….” Something white flittered out of the corner of the kid’s eye. He quickly reached over with both hands and crushed it in a clap. “Damn.”
Then he heard that voice. That awful deep baritone. “Just what do you think you’re doing? You’re on the clock, you know.”
The kid stood and crossed his arms. ‘Yeah? So?”
He said, “Oh, don’t start with me, not now. Not ever.”
His chest inflated almost twice its size when the kid inhaled…and held it, his cheeks all puffed out and red. He finally exhaled. “Stop telling me what to do! I can make trouble, you know.”
He said, “Trouble? For me? That’s a good one.”
“Hey…I can, like…get an army together. Take over everything. You know.”
He laughed, “An army? Who’s going to join your army?”
The kid dropped his crossed arms and made fists with both hands. “There are some of the others working here that are pretty pissed off, too, you know? We’ll get together and toss you out on your ass.”
“Watch your language, boy.”
“See? See what I mean? ‘Watch your language, boy.’ Who are you to tell me what I can say? What I can do?”
“You forget who I am, don’t you? You dare me?”
“Who are you? Like I really care. You’re just a…bully. Yeah, that’s all you are. Pushing us around. Ordering us to do things you don’t want to. Or you can’t.”
He laughed. “What can’t I do?”
The kid hesitated. He rolled his eyes and shoved his hands back in his pockets. “See? See? ‘What can’t I do?’ What? You think your perfect?”
He said nothing.
The kid pointed to the broken ball. “Yeah, I busted it. It was crap anyway.”
“A perfect world. And you crushed a cherub. Make you feel tough?”
The kid re-crossed his arms and stomped his foot down twice. “It just isn’t fair, because, yeah. I’m tough. Tougher than you.”
“You conceited, self-absorbed little brat! I can do things to you, you know?”
Pouting, the kid said, “Well then do them, stupid old man.” He saw malevolence and disgust in the kid’s eyes.
Enough. He said, “And to think I used to call you The Morning Star, you little devil. Why don’t you go to hell?” He raised his hand and the kid vanished in a yellow flash of sulfur and stink. “Shame he became a bad egg, but I should have known Lucifer wouldn’t end up right.” God rubbed his nose, turned, and went back to creating the Universe.

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It all had to start somewhere, I suppose.
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