The Devil's Play: How I Orchestrated Lincoln's Assassination

Step into the infernal mind of Lucifer himself as he recounts one of his *“greatest productions”*—the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. In this darkly humorous and brutally honest monologue, the Devil spills the fiery tea on John Wilkes Booth, broken plans, broken legs, and broken dreams. From political manipulation to theatrical inspiration, this isn’t the version of history they teach in school. It’s the version told straight from Hell’s throne.  

Follow, share, and bow accordingly—Lucifer commands it.

Transcript

Good evening. It is I. Your boss. Your ruler. The one that lusts after your soul, like a diabetic wanting a piece of cake. Lucifer. The Devil. Beelzebub. The son of the morning. Whatever you wish to call me. Just put some respect on my name. I've just finished collecting the soul of some unfortunate man who wanted to defy Kim Jong Un of North Korea. As if he had a chance (Laughs)! I bet you he won't try that again! And where he's going, he'll never have the opportunity!

Ah, but I digress. As much as I love to talk about my newly acquired souls, I know what you are here for. You want to know more about my past escapades, yes? My best works of the past. Things that may seem interesting to you, but it was just another Tuesday for me. You humans are so easy to please, like a dog being given a bone. You all make me SICK.

Sigh. I suppose I could tell you the story of John Wilkes Booth, the man who famously killed Abraham Lincoln, the 16th president of the United States. As if Lincoln was such a saint! Aw, boo hoo! The man that people adored like he was such a martyr but was only FORCED to free the slaves after he had no other options. And they say that only women are naive. (laughs) While we're on the subject, no, I originally had no intentions of freeing the slaves. But it was such a hard decision. Keep the slaves in bondage and enjoy their suffering or end it and kill the masters that owned them? Don't get me wrong, their souls would be mine either way, but the slaves would eventually make to...Him. The guy above me. I dare not speak His name (growls). So, while their suffering is on earth, they would make it "up there" once they've died. They were innocent. With the slave masters dead, I not only earn their soul, but their wealth too on this earth! It was like a two for one special at Denny's!

But being the devil that I am, I had to leave no witnesses, like John Gotti. I had to kill the one who freed the slaves. The question is, how would I go about doing that? Who would be my champion to complete my work? I pondered on the thought for a while. To take my mind from it, I started to visit the local theater plays of the time. As a former music director myself, I am a lover of the arts. It's one of the only good things you humans know how to do right, but even now, your quality of music is deplorable. Talking about "pussyholes being pink" and "booty holes being brown" and whatever filth you're spewing from your mouths. You're all going to hell anyway, but I digress.

One night, as I was in the theater, I watched a play about the death of the infamous Julius Caesar and the betrayal from his trusted friend Brutus. The plot I enjoyed, but the ending was horrible, like all those DC movies you humans like. But what I was fixated on was John. He was the one who played the main character of the play. He was perfect. That's when it hit me. I could make my own play. John would be the star. John would be my Champion.

Although you humans have free will,  there are no rules that state that you can't be convinced to follow me. Luckily, John was easy to convert to my will. He adored the Confederacy and hated that the slaves were freed. All it took was a triumphant speech from Lincoln, a few bottles of whiskey and  whispers of sweet nothings from my voice to his alcoholic friends to convince him to kill the president. Just like that, Act 1 of my play was complete. Too bad I didn't have any popcorn at the time.

In Act 2, John and his group of blind followers had a funny little plan of kidnapping the president. I mean, really? Kidnap a sitting president? That’s adorable. What were they going to do, stuff him in a horse-drawn carriage and send a ransom note via carrier pigeon? I nearly choked on my own laughter. But hey, I let them run with it. Nothing entertains me more than humans thinking they’re criminal masterminds when they can barely plan a successful surprise party. 

But, like all great fools, John and his band of merry morons couldn’t get their act together. The kidnapping plan flopped harder than a fish on land, and John, bless his pea-sized brain, decided he had to go for the grand finale—an assassination! Oh, now *that* had potential. That was the kind of drama I signed up for when I took this job. 

So there he was, pacing back and forth, drinking himself into courage, while I whispered the best ideas in his ear. “Shoot him during the play, John,” I purred. “It’ll be poetic! Everyone loves a good callback to a previous act!” And boy, was John feeling the vibes. It was like watching a bad method actor preparing for his one big scene. 

And so, Act 3 began. He strutted into Ford’s Theatre, probably thinking he was about to become the hero of the Confederacy. Lincoln, bless his soon-to-be bullet-filled brain, was just trying to enjoy a nice night out. *Sic semper tyrannis!* John screamed, because nothing says “I’m a sophisticated villain” like yelling Latin before jumping off a balcony like a dollar-store action hero. Of course, he broke his leg—because, well, karma exists, even under my rule. 

Now, you might think I was proud of him. That I was sitting in the audience, slow-clapping like some overdramatic movie villain. But no. Because you see, John was a moron. I gave him one simple job—kill Lincoln and disappear like a legend. But noooo. He had to go on a whole manhunt-worthy adventure, hiding in barns, getting other people arrested, and making it way more dramatic than necessary. Honestly, I was embarrassed. I have demons who execute destruction with more finesse. 

And then—oh, this is my favorite part—after all that effort, all that planning, all that theater-kid energy, he got caught *in a barn*. A BARN! I mean, come on! If you're going to go down, at least do it somewhere with dignity. But no, my little thespian assassin ended up getting smoked like a pig roast. What a waste. 

So there you have it. One of my greatest plays, ruined by a bad actor with a flair for unnecessary dramatics. And Lincoln? Well, he got the martyrdom package. Now everyone loves him, and I have to watch you humans slap his face on every history book and five-dollar bill like he’s some kind of saint. 

Ugh. You all disgust me. Again. 

That's all the precious time I have today for you fools. If you like what you heard, please feel free to follow me if you're not doing that already. And please, tell your friends about me. Advertising can be such...hell.