City of Dis

The putrid sulphuric stench of Dis was all-encompassing, permeating every cobblestone; As one walks through the cursed city, they can find themselves gazing upon the red-hot tombs, glowing seals of binding still furiously blazing white eons after their heavenly conception, of those fated never to leave the city again: the wrathful and the heretical, the seducers and flatterers and false prophets. And when one turns their gaze back to the cobbles, there is one thought that goes through every damned soul's brain upon entry to the wretched place, despite language or verbiage used the idea was always the same.

That thought now went through the mind of its latest visitor.

"No way it gets worse than this."

Dis was going through what the visitor only could describe as a "great white flight"; he had listened to the chatter on the street by the various freaks and horrible beings that were citizens of Dis, apparently over the centuries the greater demons in charge of the city started to find themselves outnumbered by tides upon tides of lesser creatures. Looking around, the visitor couldn't see anyone, or anything, that looked remarkably above an Imp or a damned soul like himself. Hell was home to many pitiable and awesome creatures, but somewhere along the line the census, apparently they take a census here, started reporting that there were far fewer Pattern Screamers, Dukes and Barons of Hell, Vampire Lords, Karcists, and Necromancers than there were lesser demons.

The nameless little things that were just random combinations of body parts, the visitor had taken to calling them "hoppers", because they usually just hopped everywhere on a single foot or hand; they were everywhere. The visitor had no idea what they were, and upon starting to think about it, he realized he didn't care.

Looking down to find at least a dozen hoppers trying to unlace his shoe, he stomped down hard on the despicable thing and continued down the sidewalk, passing by many Imps; there were vendors selling tattered and soot-covered clothing, of all ages and genders, and there were others gathered in an alley: three of them were standing over two other Imps, apparently rolling dice. On the other side of the alley, the visitor couldn't tell whether the silhouettes in the distance were fighting or fucking. The sounds indicated some kind of mix.

As far as intelligent beings, the Imps were...amicable...at least relative to most of the Underworld's flora and fauna, until they get close enough to mug a damned soul and take their last earthly possessions; after witnessing such a scenario, the visitor stayed away from the large packs. He already had to strangle a few Imps after they tried tearing the clothes off his back, and looking at the mangled crimson bodies of the stunted creatures, the visitor wondered what happened when something dies in Hell. And once again upon starting to think about it, he realized he didn't care.

Turning his gaze from the alley, the visitor once more stepped down the cobbles.

Carelessness was something of a shared trait among damned souls, since as soon as someone finds themselves in Hell usually something immediately happens that either involuntarily whisks them away in service to a higher entity or completely atomizes their spirit into pure necroplastic chaos. If that individual is lucky enough, instead of a wandering Venus Soultrap being the first thing they see after falling through the void, a Duke might be driving by in his Duesenberg on the way to a blood-orgy or a minstrel show. 

The visitor had heard whispers about what happens to souls that are taken in by a Lord of Hell, mostly whispers about dark magic and rituals, but the quietest whispers talked of how the great elite of demonkind, the Dark Lords, were using damned souls in a profane act that would allow a demon to somehow bypass the rules of providence and  ascend to Heaven.  If the rumors were true, the visitor couldn't blame them for trying. 

Considering the state of the City of Dis; he could only imagine what the other regions of Hell looked like.

After walking for what seemed like a few hours, the visitor turned his head upward and looked at the sign to his left:

>DEMONS ONLY

>NO IMPS, CHIMERAS, OR SINNERS ALLOWED

The visitor looked up and around, and found he was standing outside what looked like some kind of strip club. He barely had time to turn before his head seared hot and he fell to the pavement; it smelled like rotten eggs.

Vision blurry, he tried to get up but found himself forced up and pinned against the wall by a big, black, pig-snouted demon with huge red eyes. With a big meaty paw wrapped tightly around the visitor's neck, it snarled and chuffed, blowing the smoke from its bright-red cigar out its huge nostrils.

"CAN'T READ SINNER? DO I GOTTA TO LEARN YOU SOMETHING ABOUT STAYING OUTTA PLACES YOU AIN'T SUPPOSED TO BE?"

This was it. He hiked his way down to the Fifth Circle, followed the Styx down into the marshes outside the city, braved the blood swamps and the dark biters under the surface, all to meet oblivion outside a strip club, at the hands of a demon bigger and meaner than he was. The visitor always figured it would end this way.

He didn't care.

"Fuck yourself."

That genius comment earned him a blow to the chest. The porcine beast threw him down onto the pavement and started kicking the visitor with enormous cloven hoofs. This went on for a while until a voice came calling behind the big pig.

"Enough Boris."

The pig squealed and practically jumped to the side, revealing a human-shaped silhouette against the polluted red sky. The shadow lit a cigarette and walked into the neon light of the entrance, revealing the human-shaped shadow belonged to a human-shaped human, or so it seemed.

Demons typically don't get to choose their forms, if they get to choose at all, until they find themselves a bit higher on the ladder of Hell's hierarchy: Imps long enough in service to a Baron can be promoted to Hell Knight, and their body changes to a huge hulking mass of muscle and dark magic. Higher demons can use glamours and blood magic and all sorts of dark arts to harness the power to change their forms at will, but this was something too costly for a lower denizen of the Hellscape to manage.

Demons that can change their form to appear human were something else entirely. 

The human-shaped shadow walked through the light and back into the dark, and he crouched down and looked over the visitor, pulling a hit off his Marlboro. "Takes a lot for Boris to start kicking, whatcha say to him?"

"Fuck yourself." The words came out with the same lax tone. The visitor didn't care whether this shadow heard it the right way or not, he could go fuck himself too if he wanted.

Taking another long drag, the shadow nodded his head and started to chuckle. "That'll do it. Lemme tell you sinner, you got a big mouth for a damned soul."

"I like to think of myself as a free spirit." Whoever this shadow was, the visitor was sure he was digging a deeper and deeper hole for himself. He didn't care.

The shadow stood up, chuckling. He motioned at Boris the pig and the visitor found himself hoisted over the big pig's shoulder, and the three descended down the cobbles, taking a left down the alley of the building.

They walked for what seemed like a few hours, through shadow and cardboard and flame and hoppers. It felt like one moment he was smelling brimstone and cum and blood, and the next moment the visitor was smelling liquor and cigar smoke; instead of being over the shoulder of a big furry pig-faced bastard, suddenly he found himself in a plush leather chair and a glass of whiskey in his hand. The disorientation itself was interrupted promptly:

"You're a funny guy, you got a name sinner?" 

The visitor looked up to find he was sitting in front of a huge desk, wooden and ebony in color, and sitting behind said huge wooden ebony desk was the human-shaped shadow.

"Don't have one." Technically he wasn't lying.

"Can't remember is whatcha mean, am I right?" The shadow was still dragging the cig, still barely a quarter burned down.

"Yep."

The shadow smiled a snake's smile

"That's wonderful. So listen sinner and listen good ya hear? I need a damned soul to settle a little....wager I got with a few friends of mine ya see."

The shadow was hunched over now, eyes staring daggers into the visitor's; his eyes weren't compound or slitted, they weren't all black or glowing. They were green, and soft, and old.

"See, me and my...colleagues...we've done everything there is to do, what with the biz being how it is right now and what not, so we've been brainstorming some new ideas of how to spice things up down here. One of my pals...he ain't the most original fella, and I told him! I told him: "A sinner fresh out the box could think of somethin better than you", and he...called my bluff, so to speak..."

The visitor hadn't cared about anything this guy had been saying since he met him, but he had to admit, right now he was curious.

"You want me to..."

"I ain't done talking boy."

The visitor shut his mouth, and the shadow continued:

"As I was saying, he called my bluff and told me to pick up the next damned soul I see to fulfill this little bet of ours."

"So...you want me to make up a new way...to punish the damned?

"You're a bright one. Yes that's right, I want you to come up with a new kind of torture, something real awful ya hear?"

The visitor paused, before asking: "Why should I?"

"Because you hurt Boris' feelings now boy!" The shadow was theatrically indignant. "And I'd just hate if I had to go out and find another little sinner since you don't care for this little..favor...I'm asking of ya. There's something real nice in it for you too if that's your bag."

The visitor sighed.  Eh, why the fuck not?

"Deal."