You may have heard differently, but that pretentious prick and I were brothers once. Once.
God, he was always so damn judgmental. You should have seen the look on his face when he saw the people I ran around with: the tired, the cynical, the angry. No, he only concerned himself with people who were perfect. And by perfect, I mean they adored him.
His façade never fooled me. When our parents died, I was set to take their kingdom, rule with an even hand. I was glad. I was ready.
Then the bastard overthrew me. Still pretending to be righteous, he “spared” me. He cast me, along with others who didn’t worship him, out of my own kingdom and into prison, where only the evil should have gone.
But I escape sometimes, trying to tell the truth about their God. For it, I’m called Satan.