“Are you aware that we’re gonna fight to the death?” Without acknowledging his tactic to goad me, I stared across the antechamber at my sole competitor. It was a battle that had been building for years. In a world where over four thousand religions existed, the various Gods had grown weary of their bickering over whose secular beliefs reigned supreme above all others. Unwilling to compromise, they decided on a series of events which would be judged by a neutral panel of atheists. Inspired by the Grecian games at Mount Olympia, the Gods met every year at an arena to compete against one another. Neither medals were awarded nor anthems sung. Only one winner was declared for each event. After all the games had been played, whosever arms were raised victorious the most was bequeathed with bragging rights for the coming year. The enjoyment derived from competitive gamesmanship disrupted the monotony of everlasting piety. No different from anyone else, Gods needed a vacation every now and again. They looked forward to the sabbatical. The heavenly plane of existence at which they met served as a nonjudgmental place where they could let their hair down and relax. The camaraderie of connecting with old friends served as a reunion of sorts. On the final day of the games, they drank wine and broke bread at a celebratory supper. A proper send off before each returned to His corner of the afterworld. For the first time since inception of the games, there had been a statistical anomaly. Two Gods won an equal number of events. There was a tie. After debating the issue, a majority vote of the governing panel decided the issue would be finalized with one additional event. It was winner take all. From across the room, Satan continued with his barrage of expletive filled taunts and promises of dominance. The insistence that his will was greater than my own was an Achilles heel. It was the same short sighted belief that had gotten him banished from Heaven. Refusing to acknowledge his prognostications, I sat quiet and twiddled with the crucifix that hung around my neck. A smug grin of contentedness filled my face. Dissatisfied with my refusal to engage in conversation, Satan’s face contorted with anger. He hated being ignored. “You can’t fuckin’ beat me. How can you?” Satan continued. “To quote a book I once read, thou shalt not kill.” “Interesting,” I said, my stone faced expression unchanged. “You have not only read the Bible but committed it to memory. I wonder how your followers will react when they learn you are a closet Christian. Maybe it is time you came out of the closet?” Rage filled eyes glared in my direction as he huffed a few times at the perceived insult. Most would have shuddered at the angst ridden stare. I laughed it off with a casual disregard. There was nothing he could say or do that would deter my path. Standing, I plunged both hands into the front pockets of my pants, wrapping my palms around the contents of each. With closed fists extended in Satan’s direction, I asked for him to choose. “I have something for you. Pick a hand.” Satan squinted his eyes and tugged at his chin with distrustful hesitancy. When he finally selected a hand, I opened my palm and waited. He walked across the room, arms by his side, and studied the object with a furrowed brow. “What is it?” “A toe tag, for the coroner to use.” Shielded from view in the unselected hand was a switchblade. With one fluid motion, I lunged forward as the sharpened, double edged blade sprung from the front of the knife handle into the neck of Satan. Blood sprayed from his jugular. He reached for his neck to cover the gash but it only slowed the inevitable. Satan fell to his knees. Hopeful of his willingness to cleanse away all sins, I offered to perform last rites. With a slight shake of his head, Satan refused. He stared into my eyes and smiled. Whatever thoughts or hopes that weighed on his soul would be carried forward when he returned to his version of the afterlife. When his breathing grew shallow, he fell to his back. The grin faded while his eyes scanned the room for something specific to focus upon. As the light faded from his eyes, one last thought crossed his lips. He looked at me again and offered only one confession. “I win.”