Hell, Verse I

It was a cold day in Hell. Lucifer had bundled up in the burgundy turtleneck his mother had gotten him for his birthday three millennia ago. He had sworn he’d never be seen in public with it. The Father of All Lies had to snigger at the irony there: This was the first time, after billions upon billions of masterfully crafted deceptions, that he had broken a promise to himself. He had to admit it didn’t feel good. But the irony was lost in a moment, replaced by annoyance.

“Where are the souls?” he scowled at his minions. “Bring me more souls!”

His nearest minions, a gaggle of a dozen or so small, impish creatures with fuzzy bellies and great, glossy orbs for eyes, recoiled collectively. Each fastened their claws tighter around their spades and escalated their pace. It was their job to shovel the souls of the unrepentant into furnaces, thereby heating Hell and maintaining the underworld’s reputably nasty climate.

But on this particular day, there was a problem.

“We’re running out!” squealed Ikey, the devil’s scrawniest and least favorite minion, who had been given furnace detail -- a choice position among demons -- not because he deserved it, but because Lucifer wanted to keep an eye on him. Truth was, Lucifer didn’t know what he didn’t like about Ikey. He was just a little creepy in a hard-to-define way.

But at the moment, Ikey was right. Lucifer looked over at the pile, usually stacked several meters high with fresh, blue-glowy souls dropped into his throne room through a chute in the ceiling. They come from Interrogator Dave’s chambers, where they’re usually tortured for several decades to soften them up for burning. But today, the souls were stacked only about knee-high. Lucifer guessed there were maybe a hundred there, maybe less.

Steeling himself, he marched over to the chute and bellowed up.

“Hey Dave!” he cried. “What gives?”

“No more souls,” echoed Dave’s voice from the chambers above, dense and rounded like a foghorn through glass. Lucifer guessed the thick accent was of some Eastern European variety, but he’d never bothered to ask. He shuddered and folded his arms, drawing his hands into his pits.

“What do you mean, no more souls?” he grimaced.

“Dey’s a shortage here,” came the reply. “I’m beating ‘em just as fast as I can, but Friedrick says dey isn’t coming in like dey used to.”

Lucifer glanced irritably at the thermostat affixed to a nearby furnace. The reading had slid from “noxiously searing” to “oppressively balmy -- wear a hat.” He scowled and marched to the intercom at the opposite end of the wall.

“Friedrick!” he screamed into it. “Friedrick, where are you? Friedrick!”

“H-here, your Most Dubiousness,” came the reply after a moment. “What malady may I inflict upon the soul of man for your Highness’ pleasure today?”

What a sniveling wretch, Lucifer thought. Still, he had to give it to him: as the gatekeeper of Hell, Friedrick had engineered quite a frightful entrance scene. Lucifer thought it sufficiently impressed newcomers with the horror he himself liked to inflict back when he had the time. He particularly liked the bit with the severed heads with burning coals for eyes and the three-headed dog gnashing through a mountain of piled infant entrails.