“And so,” Virgil began, his voice swelling with an irresistible crescendo, “our intrepid explorers descend into the abyss, their hearts pounding with equal measures of terror and fascination. They tread cautiously through the shadowy realm, guided only by the flickering light of my trusty lantern and the soothing sound of my voice – a beacon in the darkness, if you will.”
His eyes sparkled with mischief as he continued, “We venture further into the depths, each step revealing yet another marvel of the netherworld – a realm of tormented souls and unspeakable horrors, each more ghastly and grotesque than the last. Our guests shudder and gasp, their knees weak with fear, yet they cannot tear their gaze away from the bizarre spectacle that unfolds before them.”
Virgil’s voice took on a conspiratorial tone as he leaned in closer, his hands now weaving a delicate ballet of shadows and light. “And just when they believe they have seen it all, when they think their senses can withstand no more, we arrive at the pièce de résistance, the grand finale that will leave them speechless, their minds forever changed by the experience.”
With a final, triumphant flourish of his hands, Virgil brought his narrative to a close, leaving his listeners hanging on the edge of their ethereal seats, their imaginations ignited by the tantalizing prospect of the unspeakable wonders that awaited them on his tour of the great beyond.
“Is this the speech where you try to paint me as some unhinged beast, writhing against the shackles that bind me?”
“You do remember! How delightful. Yes, that’s the one. Only this time, rather than you sitting there all melancholy, you’ll be more of an active participant.”
Lucifer rolled his eyes as he chuckled to himself, the memories of countless iterations of Virgil’s grandiose speech washing over him like an infernal tide. He had heard the well-rehearsed monologue more times than he could remember – or care to count, for that matter – each performance as bombastic and theatrical as the last.
As the eons had rolled by, Hell had become quite the popular tourist destination, with Virgil’s Tours of the Underworld serving as a veritable hotspot for those daring enough to explore its dark, twisted depths. The tormented souls and grotesque horrors had become something of a twisted attraction, drawing in an eclectic array of the famous and infamous alike.
Lucifer couldn’t help but smile wryly as he recalled the cavalcade of noteworthy individuals who had passed through his domain, their eyes wide with a perverse fascination as they gazed upon the eternal suffering of the damned. There had been poets and philosophers, emperors and kings, even the occasional rock star, all clamoring for a glimpse of the ultimate forbidden fruit – a chance to peer behind the veil and bear witness to the darkest corners of creation.
He remembered the particular delight of seeing some of the more pious individuals – those who had once preached of love and virtue – struggling to maintain their composure as they encountered the harsh, unforgiving reality of the underworld. Their moral certainties crumbled like ash in the face of such overwhelming, visceral torment, and Lucifer couldn’t help but take a certain perverse pleasure in their discomfiture.
Yes, Virgil’s Tours of the Underworld had certainly been a rollercoaster of experiences, a veritable parade of humanity’s finest and most flawed. And through it all, Lucifer had been there, a silent observer of the grand cosmic spectacle, his once-fiery heart now tempered by the endless parade of souls that had passed before him.
But as he stood there, his thoughts drifting through the eons like dust motes in the void, Lucifer couldn’t help but feel a certain sense of ennui, a creeping boredom that threatened to consume him as surely as the flames that had once consumed his celestial form. For even the most wicked of delights, he mused, could become tiresome in the fullness of time.
Lucifer chuckled with delight as Virgil expounded on his new plan in great detail. The poet would saunter into the Ninth Circle, Evangelicals in tow. As the group circumnavigated the Lake of Ice, the lights would go out suddenly, plunging the redeemed souls into a profound, all-consuming darkness. Amidst the blood-curdling screams of terror and unease, a single spotlight would then illuminate Lucifer, gnawing sadistically on the world’s most reviled betrayers. Virgil’s hope was that they too would join in the action, playing up to the crowd about the agony they found themselves enduring. In reality, the three damned souls had grown numb to it all and found perverse amusement in the poet’s grand plan.
Finally, as the light zeroed in on the star of the show, steam would begin to rise. The Lake of Ice would start to crackle as the temperature began to thaw the prison holding Lucifer. As the ice weakened, Lucifer would growl, ominously, as his limbs began to free themselves. His wings would burst into the air, sending chunks of ice raining down on the tour group. Just as all hope seemed lost, as the devil escaped from his confinement, the cold winds of the Ninth Circle would once again gust through the cavern, imprisoning Lucifer once more in his icy jail. The light would then fade, slowly, until the only thing that could be seen was the glowing red of Lucifer’s eyes, staring out from the darkness, vowing vengeance.
Virgil bowed to his audience, none of whom were applauding. He stood proudly; arms extended, awaiting feedback on what he regarded as a brilliant ruse to drum up business for his afterlife enterprise. As he waited, Virgil saw the expressionless faces of Lucifer and the three Betrayers. None of them seemed particularly interested or impressed. Not wanting to lose the sale, Virgil continued, “I even had t-shirts made up for the occasion!” The t-shirts were black with white letters that read, “I Went to Hell and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt.” Virgil had thought they were clever. But apparently, his audience didn’t agree.
From the inner recesses of his cloak, Virgil produced a new graphic t-shirt. The design emblazoned on the chest portrayed a caricature of Lucifer, looking exceptionally devilish, as he pursued a group of tourists. His eyes sparkled with delight as he waved his arms and chortled fiendishly. The souls screamed and scurried in every direction, their faces ashen with terror. Curling around the top and bottom borders of the image were the words “I Survived My Tour of Hell.” Clearly, Virgil wasn’t one for picking up on social cues.
Lucifer was now genuinely flabbergasted. Was this the grand scheme Virgil had proposed? A tacky ruse to sell more tours and a few shoddy shirts. “How droll,” the devil mused, “How extraordinarily droll indeed.”
Lucifer’s gaze roamed leisurely over Virgil’s elongated silhouette, methodically absorbing every nuance of the ethereal figure that stood before him. His attention lingered on the poet’s arms, which flailed with the unrestrained enthusiasm of an animated windmill as he waxed eloquent about his diabolical tours, evoking the grandiosity of a seasoned carnival barker. A sly grin tugged at the corners of Lucifer’s mouth, giving him the air of a cat observing a curiously entertaining mouse, as he pondered his response.
The fallen angel found himself mentally perusing the substantial archives of his clever friend, Virgil. It was an awe-inspiring compilation of experiences, overflowing with sage observations and masterful ploys that could only be the handiwork of a mind as devious as it was ancient.
As he mentally sifted through these volumes, each meticulously crafted from the essence of eternity itself, Lucifer reveled in the multitude of instances where Virgil had demonstrated his prowess as a formidable intellectual adversary. The pages were drenched in narratives of serpentine schemes and audacious machinations, all skillfully interwoven by the poet’s astute intellect and adroit wit. These tales seemed to frolic and glisten on the metaphorical page, as if infused with a scintilla of Virgil’s own guile.
Lucifer, a bon vivant of cunning and chicanery in his own right, could not help but be captivated by the astonishing breadth of Virgil’s mental aptitude. It was as if the poet’s mind was a celestial crucible, wherein the base elements of knowledge and experience were transmuted into something genuinely extraordinary—an intellectual amalgam that was both resplendently dazzling and astonishingly durable.
Until next time, Faithful Adventurers!
To be continued… Right Here!
Brain Matter Entertainment 
Leave a comment