Brain Matter Entertainment

**Before beginning here, you may wish to start at the beginning. Or at the very least, Chapter One.**

As he delved deeper into the chronicles of Virgil’s exploits, Lucifer was struck by the realization that, in many ways, the two of them were kindred spirits. Both had defied the conventional wisdom of their respective realms, each charting their own path through the vast and often treacherous landscape of cosmic possibility. They were cosmic mavericks, in a sense, driven by an insatiable thirst for knowledge and a stubborn refusal to bow to the dictates of fate.

Indeed, the more Lucifer read, the more he found himself admiring the poet’s indefatigable spirit and unyielding resolve. For, even in the face of overwhelming odds and seemingly insurmountable obstacles, Virgil had never wavered in his pursuit of wisdom and truth. It was a quality that Lucifer could not help but respect, even as he pondered the countless ways in which he might one day outwit his clever friend.

Lucifer was well aware that Virgil was a masterful puppeteer, a consummate strategist perpetually seeking an advantageous gambit to exploit. And yet, there existed an almost charming quality to the poet’s unbridled zeal, a sort of kinetic liveliness that proved contagious in its own idiosyncratic manner.

Thus, with a calculated languor that teetered on the precipice of theatrics, Lucifer permitted the silence to unspool between them, relishing the gratifying sensation of clutching the reins in their delicate ballet of words and objectives.

At last, after what seemed like an epoch had elapsed, he articulated his thoughts. His voice was imbued with a smidgen of patronization, a discreet reminder of the hierarchical dynamics that underpinned their relationship. Lucifer leaned in, inching closer to Virgil, his arms resting on the brink of the Lake that imprisoned him. He could detect the ancient poet’s trepidation as his nearness disquieted Virgil. A placid smile unfurled across his countenance as he retorted with an unyielding, “No.”

“No?” Virgil inquired, “But, why not?”

“I fail to see any benefit for me.”

“Nothing in it for you? What about alleviating your ennui? Surely that alone would be reason enough. I mean, what else are you occupied with? It’s not as if you have any engagements to attend!”

Lucifer’s disinterested expression contrasted starkly with Virgil’s own frantic one. The poet had been so confident that the agreement would proceed seamlessly. He had been haughty as he paraded around the shores of the Ninth Circle. Now he found it difficult to string together a single coherent thought. Virgil hadn’t been this tongue-tied since he had wooed Lucretia. And the mockery he had endured back then still smarted. To this day, Virgil couldn’t glance at a basket without a surge of resentment bubbling within him.

“Well, fine. I suppose,” Virgil stammered, “I’ll just take my leave. Thank you for your time and consideration.”

Virgil laboriously trudged his way up the challenging path leading to the Ninth Circle’s egress. His feet skidded on the frosty terrain, forcing him to clutch the rocks for balance. He frequently glanced back at Lucifer and The Betrayers, who gazed at him with expressions of amusement. As he reached for the door to depart, Virgil was halted by Lucifer, who motioned him back. Virgil swiveled to face Lucifer and observed the amusement in his eyes. He noticed the way Lucifer’s mouth twitched at the corners as if privy to a secret. He saw the way The Betrayers observed him, their eyes brimming with a craving that made Virgil’s stomach coil.

Lucifer, with a flourish of his forked tail, couldn’t help but relish the sight of Virgil’s noble guide, Virgil, struggling to maintain his composure. The old Roman poet’s misfortunes seemed to tickle the Devil in a way that could only be described as delightful. He had watched as Virgil sulked off in defeat, and now, it appeared, it was Virgil’s turn to suffer a bit of embarrassment.

As Virgil braced himself for whatever mischief Lucifer had in store, the Prince of Darkness leaned forward on his throne, the tips of his horns casting eerie shadows on the icy walls. He cleared his throat in a way that sounded like thunder echoing through the depths of Hell, and then spoke in a voice that seemed to wrap itself around Virgil like a cold, serpentine embrace.

“Oh, Virgil,” Lucifer uttered softly, “I’ve reconsidered.”

A baffled Virgil twirled around, “You’re having me on.”

“Not in the slightest.”

The poet meandered his way back towards the frozen lake, his stride leisurely and wary, like a man unsure of whether he was walking on solid ground or thin ice. His gaze remained fixed on Lucifer, uncertain if he was about to be the target of some infernal jest once more. The atmosphere surrounding them was heavy with tension, and the poet could almost hear the hushed gasps of each individual snowflake as it collided with his skin. The cold was relentless, gnawing at his extremities, gradually leaching away the sensation in his fingers. But he dared not avert his eyes from Lucifer, not even for an instant. He had no intention of being bamboozled again.

“After a fair bit of pondering, the lads and I have decided to lend you a hand on one condition,” Lucifer announced, his voice a lilting melody of mischief.

The words caused Virgil to falter. He sifted through the vast library of his mind, searching for what he could possibly offer Lucifer that would appease the Prince of Darkness. His puzzled expression was not lost on the devil, who decided to cut to the chase. “A petite emissary of mine informed me that you, dear Virgil, are in possession of some of the most exquisite herbal delights cultivated in the afterlife.”

Virgil’s lips curled into a grin, as he attempted to maintain a facade of modesty, “I have been blessed with something of a green thumb, as it were.”

And so, the bargain was struck. In exchange for a portion of Virgil’s ethereal botanical wonder, Lucifer agreed to aid him in transforming the Tour of the Underworld into a slightly more exhilarating experience. At the very least, Lucifer would derive some amusement from witnessing the looks of abject terror on the faces of the redeemed souls. The devil considered himself something of an aficionado when it came to fear. He reveled in its bouquet, a heady blend of perspiration, blood, and dread all intertwined. It was the perfume of his victories, and he fully intended to savor it to the last drop.

In the dimly lit recesses of Hell’s inner sanctum, Lucifer perched himself on his magnificent throne, the flickering shadows casting an eerie glow on his imposing visage. He watched with a mixture of amusement and curiosity as Virgil frolicked away, his spirits soaring higher than a particularly enthusiastic albatross on a gusty day. Virgil was positively elated, his joy so palpable it seemed to manifest as a tangible aura that trailed behind him like a shimmering comet.

The Prince of Darkness had, after much contemplation and an assortment of persuasive tactics from Virgil, agreed to his audacious plan. The prospect of collaborating on a literary tour de force, a narrative so grand that it would eclipse even the brilliance of the Divine Comedy, had proven too tantalizing for the Italian poet to resist. And, as a result, he now found himself in possession of a most lucrative opportunity.

Virgil’s excitement was infectious, spreading through the air like a virulent strain of delight. Lucifer couldn’t help but crack a smile, the corners of his mouth turning upwards ever so slightly, as he observed the once-sullen poet skipping and prancing through the shadowy labyrinth, his laughter echoing in the cavernous chambers of the underworld.

Not since Dante published his excellent work of marketing genius had Virgil so looked forward to his next financial quarter. Indeed, the Roman poet found himself positively giddy with excitement, a sensation that, if quantified, could be likened to a hundred caffeinated squirrels spontaneously taking up a rousing chorus of “Ode to Joy.” It was a rare moment of unbridled enthusiasm for the usually stoic Virgil, whose disposition typically leaned more towards the contemplative than the ecstatic.

As he stood amidst the swirling maelstrom of Hell’s torments, Virgil allowed himself to indulge in daydreams of the potential economic windfall that awaited him. He imagined his pockets swelling with celestial currency, jingling with the melodious sound of financial prosperity. The mere thought of the abundance that was now within his reach sent shivers down his ethereal spine, and he could practically taste the sweetness of success on the tip of his tongue.

Visions of sumptuous banquets, luxurious garments, and exquisitely crafted quills danced in his mind like a parade of opulence. He saw himself lounging on silken cushions, attended by cherubs plucking the strings of celestial harps, as he dictated his latest masterpiece to a legion of eager scribes. The thought of such grandeur was enough to make even the most humble of poets weak in the knees, and Virgil was no exception.

The anticipation bubbled within him like a fine champagne, filling him with a sensation that could only be described as fizzy. As he frolicked through the charred and twisted landscape of the underworld, his joy seemed to radiate outwards, casting a peculiar, almost otherworldly glow that briefly illuminated the shadows of the damned.

Even the tortured souls who dwelt in the depths of Hell couldn’t help but take notice of Virgil’s exuberance, their cries momentarily silenced as they watched the poet cavort past, his jubilation as incongruous in that place as a narwhal at a tango competition.

But as the gloom of Hell settled back around him, Virgil knew that he mustn’t let his fantasies distract him from the task at hand. The potential for vast riches was indeed tantalizing, but he was well aware that such rewards would only be granted if he could successfully navigate the treacherous waters of literary collaboration with his unlikely partner, Dante.

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