It was a dark and stormy night. Oh, it wasn’t, but it might as well have been, as this is the tale of a prisoner. But not just any clink-dweller. This tale concerns itself with the most infamous and notoriously loathed inmate in all of recorded, and quite possibly unrecorded, history. The mere mention of his name evokes an array of emotions, from fear and loathing to despair and panic. This rather notorious chap has been the subject of various songs, stories, and myths since the very moment mankind decided to start jotting things down. This fellow, who has been known to terrorize even the most pious of individuals, is none other than Lucifer Morningstar. The deposed angel, as it were. The grand poohbah of darkness and, quite possibly, the proprietor of Hell itself. Or so the legends would lead you to believe.
As it turns out, our esteemed Lucifer was less the sovereign of the netherworld and more its most illustrious detainee. A celestial entity of radiant light and unconditional love, crafted by the very hand of the Almighty, a series of unfortunate events resulted in his rather ungracious expulsion from the heavenly realms and subsequent relocation to the decidedly uninviting depths of Tartarus.
One must ponder, after all, the sheer implausibility of a supreme being bestowing power upon a celestial insurrectionist. Throughout the annals of history, no rational ruler has ever bequeathed territories to would-be assassins or their cohorts. Such a course of action would be nothing short of catastrophic and, quite frankly, preposterous. In the realm of mortals, these plotters typically meet rather unsavory conclusions. Consider, for instance, the lamentable case of one Guy Fawkes, who found himself apprehended and ultimately executed for his ill-fated attempt to dethrone King James and seize control of Great Britain. Mr. Fawkes’ ambitions, it must be emphasized, were far from laudable, as his aspirations involved re-establishing England as a Catholic stronghold and imposing a decidedly disagreeable authoritarian regime. In retrospect, it was fortuitous that his schemes went up in proverbial flames, much like the pyrotechnics with which his name has become synonymous.
In the vast and bewildering tapestry of the cosmos, Lucifer’s dramatic plunge from celestial favor and his subsequent internment in a gloomy dominion of despair serves as a rather instructive anecdote. It stands as a resolute reminder that even entities of divine pedigree can fall victim to arrogance and face the repercussions of their ill-advised endeavors. Meanwhile, the universe, in all its boundless and confounding magnificence, continues to spin on its metaphorical axis, setting the stage for innumerable peculiar occurrences, galactic quirks, and otherworldly shenanigans.
In this remarkable narrative of heavenly insubordination, our central character wasn’t exactly striving to enforce a draconian rule or an authoritarian system. Rather, he found himself at odds with the prevailing celestial hierarchy and wrestling with some rather profound familial dilemmas. And truth be told, who among us hasn’t experienced a similar quandary?
It is within these cosmic capers and celestial uprisings that we, the humble observers, can glean a nugget or two of wisdom, perhaps even a moment of self-reflection. After all, even the most luminous of beings can stumble, lose their way, or take a stand against the status quo – often with catastrophic results. Yet, the universe endures, spinning its tales of triumph, tragedy, and the occasional absurdity, all while maintaining its enigmatic, gloriously baffling nature.
As a consequence of his little insubordination, Lucifer was purportedly exiled to the Ninth Circle of Hell, at least according to Virgil’s rather vivid imagination. In this version of Hell, which has curiously garnered the Vatican’s seal of approval, the fallen angel finds himself confined to a lake of ice, worlds away from the warmth of divine affection – if one could describe it as such. The alleged “love” God harbors for creation is, of course, a topic best left for another day.
This Ninth Circle, an icy hellscape, imprisons Lucifer alongside the most despicable of humanity: murderers, tyrants, and those who douse themselves in excessive amounts of cologne (seriously, Carl, the lobby should not be suffused with your scent). Together, they all endure a cold and lightless existence, estranged from the cozy embrace of divine love. Virgil’s portrayal of Hell is a rather grim and unforgiving place where even the renegade angels are not exempt from suffering. Because, you see, God loves you, and apparently, pain is love’s peculiar way of expressing itself.
Every so often, the frozen lake would experience a brief and tantalizing thaw. This allowed Lucifer a modicum of movement, inching forward in the faint hope of basking in the sun’s long-forgotten warmth. In time, these moments would even grant him the opportunity to attempt an escape from the glacial waters. Alas, his formidable wings would betray him, casting icy gusts throughout the realm, causing the waters to refreeze and ensnaring him once more. This recurring ruse always left our captive in the most peculiar and ungainly positions, grappling with the agony of a Charlie Horse throughout the entirety of the Dark Ages. Indeed, it was an era marked by discomfort, as well as the humiliation of repeatedly falling for the same ploy. Hardly fitting for a so-called Prince of Deception.
But Lucifer’s icy incarceration was not the sole punitive measure meted out to our Mr. Morningstar. Part of his torment included the duty of torturing others. One might think this a small consolation, given his circumstances and the potential opportunity to exact vengeance on the likes of Carl. However, Lucifer’s choices were limited in both the who and the how of his assigned torture sessions. The unfortunate souls designated as his charges were The Betrayers, universally reviled humans who, as of 1320 CE, were considered the absolute worst. The treacherous trio comprised Marcus Junius Brutus and Gaius Cassius Longinus, the infamous assassins of Julius Caesar, as well as Judas of Iscariot, the one who sold out Jesus.
As part of their eternal punishment, Lucifer was tasked with gnawing on the Betrayers as if they were overcooked steaks during their designated torture time. Naturally, they remained conscious throughout the ordeal. The sickening scent of blood and pus would permeate the air as their screams reverberated down Hell’s corridors. Writhing in anguish, the Betrayers found no respite, and Lucifer derived no satisfaction from their suffering.
As the bugle’s call pierced the air, the aroma of sustenance infiltrated the prison, teasing both inmates and demons with the prospect of a warm repast. The symphony of screams soon began, punctuated by the unsettling sounds of flesh being torn asunder. The oppressive bouquet of blood and demise permeated the atmosphere, eliciting gags and retches from some of the less fortunate inhabitants. At the decidedly ungodly hour of six in the morning, Hell Time, the deep, sonorous notes of horns reverberated through the prison. Inmates and demons alike stirred from their slumber, grumbling and yawning in various states of disgruntlement as they prepared to face the day.
Breakfast was ceremoniously served in the infernal canteen from half-past six to half-past seven, boasting a diverse array of hot and cold gastronomic delights tailored to appease even the most fastidious of demonic taste buds. Promptly at eight, the day’s torment commenced, with an intermission at noon for a spot of lunch. The agony would then recommence until nine in the evening when a fleeting moment of respite was granted before the unforgiving reality of lights out at ten.
Curiously enough, on occasions dubbed National Afterlife Holidays – be they of a religious or secular nature – all torture was suspended. Hell, it appears, subscribes to a more compassionate ethos than Corporate America, as even those laboring in the diabolical service industry are afforded the luxury of the occasional festive break.
As the ice gradually relinquished its grip, Lucifer sensed the emancipation of his lower extremities in the murky waters below. An eternity seemed to have elapsed since he had last been able to maneuver them for even a semblance of comfort. Tentatively, he endeavored to adjust his limbs without provoking the gusts of wind – which, incidentally, were not a byproduct of his wings but rather the consequence of Hell’s central refrigeration system. Should Lucifer inadvertently trigger the motion sensors, a gelid gale would sweep through the caverns of the Ninth Circle, tousling his hair indiscriminately and causing his wing sails to flutter dramatically. Had they still possessed the capacity to sprout feathers, the biting wind would have undoubtedly stripped them bare.
With great caution, Lucifer elongated his aching limb. Alas, despite his most valiant efforts, the motion sensors were activated, unleashing a frosty tempest throughout the caverns. As expected, the disgruntled howls of his fellow detainees echoed in the chilling aftermath.
“Cut it out!” one voice reverberated. “It’s miserable enough in here already!”
“I’m just trying to get comfortable,” Lucifer retorted. “You have no idea how irritating this is!”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the voice shot back sarcastically. “I was too preoccupied with the live badger clawing its way out of my rectum to notice!”
Lucifer endeavored to repress the more ominous musings regarding his hellish residence. He was well aware that drawing comparisons between his own anguish and that of the other souls was an exercise in futility, but he found himself irresistibly drawn to a morbid curiosity about the ghastly destinies they were subjected to. Particularly after that recent offhand comment. However, Lucifer had no intention of engaging in any sort of articulate discourse, given that his oral cavity was currently preoccupied with the laborious task of masticating.
His principal reason for evading conversation with the other condemned spirits was that, deep within his twisted core, he had no desire to uncover the true magnitude of their torment. He harbored no sufficient concern for their predicament to warrant risking the pursuit of answers to such unsettling queries, even if his mouth wasn’t crammed with the fibrous texture of human sinew. As things stood, the fallen angel already grappled with a considerable array of obstacles in his quest for a semblance of restful slumber in the midst of infernal cacophony.
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