In the hallowed, albeit fiery, halls of the underworld, one must carefully navigate the delicate balance between acknowledging the suffering of others and maintaining one’s own sanity. For Lucifer, this tightrope walk was further complicated by his lingering celestial pride, which stubbornly persisted despite his less-than-ideal living conditions. And so, amidst the eternal wails and sizzling flesh, the once-illustrious angel attempted to find solace, however fleeting, in the simple, primal act of chewing.
In the remote annals of history – although the concept of time in the infernal realm was a rather slippery and elusive beast – Lucifer found himself unable to shake the recollection of his body igniting like an ill-fated supernova as he hurtled toward a battered and bruised Earth. The vestiges of his calamitous descent remained imprinted on the landscape, with the once-majestic crater now functioning as the very aqueous prison that ensnared his fallen form.
While Lucifer bore no remorse concerning his insurrection against the Almighty and his audacious efforts to usurp his celestial overlord, he would occasionally find himself musing on whether the wholesale annihilation of Earth’s simian inhabitants might have been somewhat excessive. Had his fury blinded him to reason in those heated moments? Lucifer couldn’t help but speculate whether he might have opted for an alternate path, had he been privy to the unending nature of his confinement. Perhaps this very thought was the reason why his demonic brethren continued to make their infernal pilgrimage to torment him – they operated under the assumption that the leopard, so to speak, would never change its spots.
In the grand scheme of cosmic events, the choices and consequences faced by the fallen angel served as a poignant reminder of the fine line between ambition and hubris. And as he languished in his eternal watery cage, Lucifer couldn’t help but reflect on the strange, winding road that had led him to this decidedly uncomfortable juncture in the vast, unfathomable tapestry of existence.
As his thoughts meandered and he persistently gnawed on The Betrayers, Lucifer often found himself questioning whether his torment would ever cease. He’d heard countless declarations about God’s forgiveness. “God will forgive me,” the damned souls would sob as the demons went about their infernal business. Initially, Lucifer’s laughter would reverberate through the caverns when they cried out about God’s mercy. Having been confined to Hell for several millennia, Lucifer knew better – the very existence of Hell was proof that there was no forgiveness. Eternal damnation and forgiveness were fundamentally incompatible concepts. The fallen angel could accept being imprisoned for his crimes, but an indefinite sentence? Where was the justice in that? No, Lucifer had long since abandoned the notion of divine forgiveness.
“I just don’t get it. How can Brutus and I be considered betrayers?” Cassius would frequently lament. “Yes, we did help assassinate Julius Caesar, but the man was insufferable! He’s the one who turned Rome into a dictatorship! Before that—”
“It was a corrupt republic that let the rich trample on the poor,” Lucifer interjected, having heard the tirade countless times.
“Well, sure, when you put it like that, it sounds terrible.”
“Mmrph mmmrrrh mrugh,” came Judas’ muffled voice from within Lucifer’s mouth. You see, while Brutus and Cassius were chomped on from the waist down, Judas (for his crime) was gnawed upon from the waist up. His face was in perpetual contact with Lucifer’s molars, making conversation during torture hours a rather challenging endeavor.
“I can’t hear you through all the chewing, Messiah Murderer,” Brutus piped up.
Always up for a spirited debate, Cassius quickly considered the concept of the Messiah. “Was he, though? I mean, if Jesus really was the Messiah, would he need a second go? You’d think the savior of humankind could get it right the first time around.”
A piercing whistle sliced through the air, causing everyone to wince. The high-pitched screech seemed to stab the atmosphere like a razor-sharp blade. Oddly enough, the tortured souls welcomed the noise – it signaled the arrival of lunchtime. With a flick of his head, Lucifer spat The Betrayers onto the frozen lake. “I don’t think it matters much,” the fallen angel remarked, “You humans have a penchant for tall tales, most of which amount to little more than children’s fantasies.”
Brutus scoffed, “Don’t you ever have anything nice to say?”
Lucifer raised a finger, his face tightening. It was as though he had been perfectly set up for a prearranged quip, the kind you rehearsed in front of a mirror before work, hoping for an opportunity to zing Carl over his excessive cologne. But before Lucifer could retort, the doors to the Ninth Circle swung open with a brisk flourish – it never ceased to amaze Lucifer how Virgil could enter a room with such power and elegance. Instantly, Virgil’s icy gaze fell upon Lucifer, and he smiled like a wolf eyeing its prey. With agility, his tall and slender form navigated the narrow path leading down to the shores of the Lake of Ice. Each movement seemed premeditated, as if choreographed in the poet’s mind.
Virgil was an enigmatic figure, the kind who seemed to slither through the fabric of reality like a particularly slippery piece of cosmic linguini. Tall and lanky, his form reached ever skyward, as if the very force of gravity had thrown up its metaphorical hands in a gesture of defeat, no longer attempting to tether him to the Earth.
Virgil’s spindly frame, as lithe and delicate as the quill with which he scribbled his bewildering reveries, appeared to be crafted from the most exquisite strands of interstellar thread. His limbs, elongated and sinewy, were uncannily reminiscent of the elegant, sprawling branches of a weeping willow that had decided to give up on gravity as well.
However, his most striking feature was undoubtedly his eyes. Deep and inky, they held a penetrating gaze that could shake the resolve of even the most steadfast of souls. Set within the sculpted landscape of his face, these windows to the unfathomable seemed to harbor the enigmas of the universe – a swirling maelstrom of wisdom and malevolence that menaced to engulf any who dared to peer into their depths.
Virgil exuded an air of cunning, a nearly tangible aura that emanated a distinct sense of scheming. He was the sort of individual who appeared to have machinations perpetually waltzing just behind his obsidian eyes, ceaselessly devising stratagems and concocting plots like a grandmaster of some cosmic game. To engage with him was to embark on a high-stakes journey of wits and intrigue, a treacherous foray into the serpentine recesses of a mind both breathtakingly brilliant and alarmingly perilous.
As he traversed the world, this emaciated, enigmatic figure cast a long, spindly shadow that seemed to trail behind him like a sinister cloak forged from darkness itself. And in the aftermath of his passing, the whispers of his intricate designs continued to reverberate, echoing throughout the annals of eternity and leaving an indelible impression on all who dared to cross his path.
“Good afternoon, my dark ‘lord,’” Virgil began sarcastically, adopting a congenial tone, “What a pleasure it is to see you in such fine health!”
“What do you want?” Lucifer’s words sent a chill through the air, colder than their glacial surroundings.
“What? An old entertainer like myself can’t visit my tour’s main attraction? I’m hurt.”
“I’m sure you’ll get over it. What brings you to the Ninth Circle?”
“All business and no play. Listen, sourpuss, I have a proposition for you.”
Virgil prattled on about his ambitious plans for the Underworld, but Lucifer had already reached his limit of tolerance for such balderdash. It was the same rigmarole Virgil had spouted time and time again. The fallen angel wasn’t particularly fond of being the nucleus of Virgil’s warped source of entertainment. It made him feel like a specimen on display in a cosmic menagerie. Although Virgil portrayed himself as a silver-tongued wheeler-dealer, it was Lucifer who faced the brunt of any backlash from the diabolical tour scheme. He wasn’t particularly thrilled about his visage being exploited in such a fashion either.
To exacerbate matters, Lucifer never saw a sliver of the proceeds. Had he been reaping some benefits from it, the dishonored seraph might not have been so vehemently opposed to his image being used to drum up commerce. But then again, what would he squander the earnings on? It’s not as though Hell boasts an abundance of boutiques. The only thing worth spending currency on is the souls of others, but that’s hardly an option for Lucifer. He’s not in the business of soul procurement. That’s more in the purview of the Divine.
Indeed, the celestial depths of Hell hardly offered a shopping spree for a discerning fallen angel. Any thoughts of indulging in a luxurious lifestyle were as futile as attempting to open a beach resort in the Ninth Circle. The irony was not lost on Lucifer, who, despite his current predicament, possessed a keen appreciation for the universe’s twisted sense of humor.
“To cut a long story short,” Virgil’s words interrupted Lucifer’s musings, “sales are plummeting. Rumor has it that you’re a perpetual wet blanket every time I bring a tour group through here. People expect to see The Devil – they want fury and flames!”
“Neither of which exist, especially not the fire part. The ice should have been a rather large clue,” Lucifer retorted.
As Virgil paced, he felt anger and frustration bubbling within him. Drawing a deep breath, the ancient poet kept his composure. He realized that maintaining his facade was crucial if he hoped to enlist Lucifer’s help, but it was a challenge. All he yearned to do was lash out and tell Lucifer what he genuinely thought of him: a washed-up relic too terrified to confront the world or embrace his true nature. Who cared if the world had made that decision for him? Most sentient beings were shackled by destiny’s weight, and Lucifer was no exception. Nevertheless, Virgil bit his tongue, knowing it was his only shot.
As he paced to and fro, he felt the biting wind and the sharp ice beneath him, but paid them no heed, lost in his thoughts. “Things were so much better when I had Dante gallivanting about, advertising for me. Ah, my golden age! Those were the days,” the poet reminisced fondly, “Even after his death, his rave reviews attracted thousands of customers!”
Brain Matter Entertainment 
Leave a comment