With a grim expression, Lucifer released the pressure, allowing Rockefeller’s mangled form to slump onto the ground. The soul gasped for air, his crushed skull slowly starting to reform. In the peculiar manner of Hell, injuries seemed to heal as quickly as they were inflicted. The fallen angel’s gaze flicked around the immediate vicinity, ensuring the commotion hadn’t drawn any unwanted attention. To their collective relief, it seemed the demons were still preoccupied with their relentless hunt elsewhere. For now, at least, they were safe.
Lucifer glanced around nervously, ensuring that the ruckus hadn’t attracted the attention of any prowling hellions. Miraculously, it hadn’t. He could feel John Rockefeller’s head reconstituting itself in his grasp. Once fully restored, Rockefeller’s face conveyed only mute terror. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, beseeched for mercy. “Please, don’t hurt me! I’m terribly sorry for what I’ve done, I swear.”
“Listen,” Lucifer replied, a touch of exasperation in his voice. “I have no say in this. I am a prisoner here, just like you. I’m trying to escape, so keep quiet!”
Rockefeller’s face contorted with bewilderment, his eyebrows knitting together, and his lips forming a taut line as he struggled to comprehend the information. Throughout his life, he had been led to believe that Lucifer, the devil himself, reigned supreme over Hell, not shackled by it. The revelation sowed chaos in the mind of the former Robber Baron. “Then who tempted me? Who led me astray from the righteous path?” His voice was hushed and laden with remorse.
“You did it all on your own, I’m afraid,” Lucifer replied matter-of-factly.
Rockefeller’s eyes widened in shock, and he stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet before landing with a thud on the ground. He gazed up at the towering figure above him, his mouth agape in a silent scream, as the dreadful truth settled in. He alone had been the architect of his own ruin.
As Rockefeller’s eyes dropped to the ground, he found himself mulling over the revelations that had just been thrust upon him. He had been taught his entire life that it was Satan who lured humans into committing wicked acts. Yet now, he was beginning to accept that perhaps he was simply a malevolent person. He had made those choices himself. Initially, this epiphany led him to a place of remorse. However, that sentiment quickly dissipated as Rockefeller’s eyes darkened. A warped grin of acknowledgement crawled across his face. His eyes shot up, locking with Lucifer’s. “Take me with you.”
“What?” Lucifer responded, incredulous.
“You’re trying to escape Hell. Take me with you. I know a way past the demons.”
Lucifer scrutinized the man with great care, his gaze penetrating deep into Rockefeller’s soul. He couldn’t quite discern what the man’s ulterior motives might be. Moreover, if Rockefeller indeed knew a way out, why hadn’t he utilized it already? Lucifer hoisted Rockefeller up until their faces were mere inches apart, their noses almost grazing. He could see beads of sweat forming on the man’s forehead and could practically taste the fear that radiated from him. “Why would you help me?” Lucifer’s voice resonated like rolling thunder.
“I’ve been ripped to shreds in this place for far too long. I want out. It’s as simple as that.”
“Then why haven’t you taken advantage of your alleged escape route?”
“I’m no match for those winged monstrosities! I’m a mere mortal, not an Archangel. I wouldn’t even make it ten feet past the threshold. But with you, I suspect we could stand a chance of making it out.”
Rockefeller’s utterances weighed heavily upon Lucifer’s ears. He cast his gaze upward to the throng of demons circling above, their ebony wings beating in harmony like a macabre congregation of vultures. If they were to abscond from this infernal place, it certainly wouldn’t be by sauntering through the main entrance. Turning to his companions, Lucifer sought some semblance of guidance on their next course of action, only to be met with vacant expressions. Heaving a deep sigh, the fallen angel’s gaze once again met that of the erstwhile robber baron, John D. Rockefeller. It was as if he wanted to trust him, but only because the situation dictated it. There was an element about this soul that made Lucifer feel as though he were facing a coiled serpent, poised to strike.
The beleaguered soul’s eyes were deeply recessed into his skull, shrouded by heavy shadows. The skin on his face hung like decrepit drapery, drooping and crinkled. The pain of existing in such a place was evident on Rockefeller’s visage, but Lucifer detected a sinister undercurrent lurking just below the surface. He granted himself a moment to scrutinize Rockefeller, attempting to discern any indication that would reveal the man’s true intentions. The shrill cacophony of the hellions soaring above shattered Lucifer’s focus. He found himself with no alternative but to place his trust in this haggard soul. Rockefeller’s eyes appeared dark and hollow, his skin slack and furrowed. He resembled a man who had journeyed through hell and back. Yet, beneath the surface, Lucifer sensed something insidious. He couldn’t quite identify it, but he knew he must proceed with caution.
Lucifer lowered the captive soul back onto the ground with a resounding thump. He made a point of maintaining eye contact with Rockefeller, his gaze stern and unyielding, as if to convey a warning. Lucifer’s voice dropped to a perilous whisper, “Lead the way.”
Rockefeller’s quivering hand grasped Lucifer’s, drawing him forward. Observing their leader being led away by the manic individual who had only recently been shrieking was, to put it mildly, somewhat disconcerting. However, Lucifer shrugged off their concerns, coaxing them to tag along. “Now listen,” Lucifer commenced, “the chap may be a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but he just might be privy to an alternative exit from this wretched place. Let’s give him a chance, shall we? What’s the worst that could transpire?”
“Infamous last words,” Judas lisped.
Despite their reservations, the motley crew pressed on, trailing behind a soul who had evidently misplaced the remnants of his sanity eons ago. Brutus, while plodding along, glanced at Cassius, who swiftly deciphered his expression, having been acquainted with the man for centuries. “Do you have the same sensation I do?” Cassius inquired.
“Philippi?” Brutus replied.
“Philippi, indeed.”
“What’s that all about?” Judas asked, puzzled.
Brutus gently placed a hand on Judas’ shoulder, “Simply remain vigilant, my friend.”
Rockefeller staggered forward, his face a mixture of trepidation and elation. Lucifer, just ahead of him, spotted an inconspicuous door nestled within the cavern wall. To his surprise, it was slightly ajar. Rockefeller, displaying an enthusiasm reminiscent of a child on Christmas morning, slapped his hands onto the doorframe and gingerly pushed it open. Beyond lay a dim, foreboding passage.
Without warning, a demon burst forth from the shadows, narrowly missing the hapless Rockefeller as it hurtled past. Clutched in its talons were a half-consumed doughnut and a cup of coffee. Hastily cramming the remaining pastry into its maw, the demon gulped down the last dregs of its lukewarm beverage before flapping away, ready to resume its infernal duties.
The motley crew of inmates inched forward, a palpable sense of unease descending over the Circle. Glancing up, Lucifer observed that the swarm that had previously been wheeling overhead now perched ominously on the ledges of each tier. Their unblinking eyes were transfixed on the doorway near the base of the Eighth Circle. The silence, akin to a malignant growth, intensified with each passing moment, culminating in the entrance of the archangel Michael.
Michael’s chin thrust out proudly, his shoulders squared and chest puffed as he strode forth. He stumbled momentarily, but swiftly regained his composure, barely missing a beat as he continued on his path. He had finally arrived, the window of opportunity slamming shut behind him.
A shiver of alarm coursed down Lucifer’s spine as he glimpsed his celestial brother striding through the main entrance of the Eighth Circle. Michael’s authoritative presence demanded the attention of all present, his visage a mask of barely restrained fury. The commander of the Heavenly Host swept his piercing gaze across the room, clearly searching for any hint of his wayward sibling. Lucifer knew it was only a matter of moments before Michael’s eagle-eyed scrutiny would reveal their hiding place. In desperation, he urged his compatriots to hasten their escape.
“We can’t,” Cassius groaned, sounding both exasperated and defeated.
“What? Why on Earth not?” Lucifer demanded, his patience wearing thin.
“Your ‘guide’ won’t let us pass.”
There, wedged firmly in the doorway, stood Rockefeller, a devilish glint in his eyes. His fingers bled as they clawed at the rock, as though to emphasize his unyielding stance. The damned soul had no intention of budging unless his bizarre conditions were met. “And I want money!” he proclaimed, seemingly oblivious to the absurdity of his demand.
“What?” Lucifer inquired, utterly baffled by the request.
Rockefeller’s insistence was ludicrous for a couple of reasons. Firstly, Lucifer had already promised to help the peculiar soul escape Hell, which should have been ample compensation for granting them passage through the clandestine doorway. Secondly, and perhaps more bafflingly, money held no value whatsoever in Hell or the Afterworld in general. Employment in the afterlife was nothing more than a punitive measure, typically reserved for those who had exploited the labor of others during their earthly existence. The deceased weren’t remunerated for their toil; they were simply expected to deliver results, in a twisted cosmic irony that was, in its own way, quite fitting.
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