A conversation at a gathering place for the elite of the home world space corps:
“What’s with the robes, Jewboy?”
“I told you not to call me that.” Jehovah put down his staff. “Just trying to get in the mood. I’m going down again today.”
“You’re always down there. You can’t fool me. I see your log. You spend more time on your project than you do on your life. That’s not good, Jove.”
Jehovah turned to him, his face lit up. “You don’t understand, Satan. You don’t like to work. I do.
I like being with my people. I created them. They’re my entities. They’re what they are because of what I am. I made them. I think of them the same as I do my own kids.
“But you wouldn’t understand. You’re not a parent. You don’t have to check underwear drawers for seeds and glassine envelopes. You don’t look at the odometer to see if they’ve been anywhere on the way home from play rehearsal.
“It’s the same down on Earth.” He sat down. “I can’t help myself. I hover around them. I stay out of sight and spy on them. I want to know what they’re doing. If they’re all right. I want to know they’re not developing bad habits. You know, Sate, I couldn’t take it if my people went wrong.”
Satan smirked. “You always were a goody-goody. Except when someone raised your wrath. Then watch out! You vindictive bastard, you don’t care how harsh the punishment is. I pity your people. And maybe your kids.”
“My kids are fine. They love Dad. He’s got principles. They can count on him. They know the rules, and they know it’s up to them to follow the rules and prevent punishment. They’re good kids.
“They’re scared kids.”
“Same difference.”
