Continuation of angsty slash fic
Thanks to everyone who left comments on the last chapter. Here's a fresh chapter for you, though I must warn things start to get a LOT darker here (though I threw you in a wee bit of comic relief at the opening).
Title: Heaven Fall Into Hell (2/3)
Rating: R for adult themes and sexual content (not terribly graphic, I don’t think, but not exactly work safe either), violence, and possibly some language
Genre: Angst
Characters/Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale, Metatron, Hastur
Summary: Angels are supposed to be pure. Aziraphale is not.
Author’s Notes: I don’t usually write slash, and this is my first foray into it. This is not going to be terribly happy slash, though, so get ready for lots of not-so-nice things to happen. Completely un-betaed, so feel free to criticize. Title from the song ‘Angels/Losing/Sleep’ by Our Lady Peace.
***
-II-
He hated him.
Not that this was much of a stretch for the imagination by any means; Hastur generally hated everyone. Still, this duke of Hell found himself particularly irked by his new partner. The demon Bartok had been promoted and assigned Ligur’s old post some time after the apocalypse had failed. Bartok was eager, zealous, ambitious, and fiercely obedient to their lord. Essentially, he was a collie. An evil collie. Hastur had no want for a collie.*
*It was almost as embarrassing as having a Satanist tag along lurking with you.
Some other, lower demons would speculate that Hastur actually missed Ligur, but none would dare say this to his face for fear of some unspeakably painful fate. It was true, though, that Ligur may have been the one being on or below this planet that Hastur hadn’t precisely hated. He had, at the very least, tolerated Ligur-which was more than he could say for Bartok.
No matter, though, because Ligur was gone. Ligur was gone and the apocalypse had failed and Hastur himself had been reprimanded sternly for his failure. Meanwhile, that filthy serpent Crowley got away scot-free. The thought of it enraged Hastur to no end. As far as he could see, the whole bloody mess was Crowley’s fault. Crowley should be the punished one. Crowley should be the one to pay. The powers that be wouldn’t let Hastur go up to set it right, though. The ranks of Hell had their collective tail tucked between their legs and wanted to keep a low profile until they were ready to launch another sorry attempt at the apocalypse. In the meantime, all Hastur could do was seethe and lurk and try not to discorporate Bartok.
Hastur stood now lurking at the edge of the tenth circle of Hell.* He scowled and kicked a pile of smoldering sulfur down onto the damned below. It gave him no satisfaction. Lately he’d been in a dreadful mood and had taken to brooding almost as a hobby. Bartok had approached him recently and suggested they damn some nuns together, had said it might lift his spirits. Hastur had been looming alone over the tenth circle ever since.
*Dante recorded only nine circles of Hell. At the time his Divine Comedy was written, this was still true. However, at some point during the 20th century, Hell was forced to open up a new level of Hell for the growing numbers of lawyers, corrupt politicians, and contractors. There was also a special area of this circle sectioned off and reserved for certain members of the Disney corporation-the members responsible for all the sequels, and that horrible surfing movie.
Presently he felt a hot wind pick up and brush past him, making his cloak flutter ominously.* Something big was happening. He turned about to survey the landscape and almost instantly a wailing body landed hard on the ground just yards in front of him.
*Ominously was the only way Hastur’s cloak was capable of fluttering.
Hastur saw many damned souls fall in the course of a day. It was hardly a cause for great interest. However, it had been a great long while since Hastur had seen an angel fall, and he observed the fallen with a grim intrigue. The angel was curled up and whimpering pitifully, his wings stuck out at odd angles. The closer Hastur approached, the tighter the angel curled up in a lame attempt to protect himself. By the time Hastur stood over the angel he was like a little quivering ball of flesh with wings sticking out.
The duke nudged the cowering being with his foot and the angel uncoiled in alarm. Aziraphale rolled over onto his back and stared up at the demon in wide-eyed terror. “Who-who are you?” he whispered and sniffled back some tears.
That voice was awfully familiar. It took Hastur a moment to place it, it had been so long. Then, slowly, realization came, and with it a wicked grin twisted its way across Hastur’s face. “I suppose you could say I am an old friend of Crowley’s,” said Hastur. The answer to all his problems had come.
***
Crowley slammed down the phone and snarled in frustration. A week had then passed since Aziraphale ran out on him in that restaurant and Crowley hadn’t heard from the angel since. He wouldn’t come to meet him; he wouldn’t pick up his phone. Crowley didn’t understand what he’d done to make Aziraphale so upset with him. For the first few days the demon tried to pretend that none of it fazed him, tried to tell himself that he didn’t need the angel anyway; he had gone centuries without the angel before… not recently, per se, but he had done it before. By day five Crowley started to get anxious. Now he was just annoyed. It wasn’t like Aziraphale at all to be this unreasonable, though it wasn’t exactly a stretch for him to be this stubborn. Crowley simply chalked it all up to that as he abandoned the phone for the day. Tomorrow, he would take the Bentley across town to the bookshop and ambush him.
For right now, Crowley found himself in desperate need of some tunes. He needed to wind down. As the use of CDs had become more widespread, Crowley’s selection of tapes had simply automatically become CDs themselves. The tapes had been quite shocked at the change but adjusted quickly. Crowley settled a disk into the sound system and music flooded the room from nowhere in particular. The demon had just decided to make a relaxing afternoon of threatening the plants when he was interrupted by the stereo.
HELLO CROWLEY, said Andrea Bocelli.
Startled, Crowley fell back into an array of flowerpots. Hell hadn’t spoken to him for fifteen years, why should they start again now? Crowley got the distinct feeling that something very bad was about to happen. “Um, hi there, long time no… hear,” he muttered lamely.
YOU HAVE BEEN TREASONOUS, Andrea Bocelli decreed. YOU HAVE BROUGHT GREAT SHAME TO HELL.
Crowley’s mind floundered. “…Sorry?” he attempted.
HELL ACCEPTS NO APPOLOGIES, CROWLEY, Andrea Bocelli assured Crowley. YOU, OF ALL, SHOULD KNOW THAT.
Crowley decided that he liked Andrea Bocelli much better when he was singing about the love of a woman. The demon squirmed uncomfortably in his seat amongst the pots and ventured, “I think I can safely assume that you haven’t made this call to make nice with me, so… what do you want from me?” As soon as the question was asked, he was sure that he didn’t actually want to know the answer to it.
WE DESIRE NOTHING OF YOU, CROWLEY, answered the voice which spoke through Andrea Bocelli. WE SIMPLY WISH TO INFORM YOU OF SOMETHING. WHAT YOU MAKE OF THIS INFORMATION IS ENTIRELY YOUR DECISION.
After a moment of expectant silence, Crowley waved his hand and prompted, “Yes? Go on.”
WE HAVE THE ONE CALLED AZIRAPHALE, CROWLEY. WE UNDERSTAND HIM TO BE A FRIEND OF YOURS.
For a moment, Crowley was simply shocked, incapable of thinking anything. His brain froze up trying to process the information. Then the demon burst out into shivery fits of nervous laughter. “You’re bluffing!” Crowley cried. “You can’t possibly have Aziraphale! He’s an angel. If you had him, Heaven would be all over you guys. He’s outside your jurisdiction.”
HE USED TO BE OUTSIDE OUR JURISDICTION. NOT ANYMORE. HE HAS FALLEN. HE IS OURS NOW.
Crowley felt his heart drop into his gut and his gut sink into the floor. “I still don’t believe you,” he mumbled. He really didn’t believe it either, but only because he didn’t want to.
YOU DON’T HAVE TO BELIEVE US. JUST LISTEN.
And suddenly the room rattled with the sounds of agonized screaming which issued forth from the sound system. The sound was chilling and sickening. Then there was the unmistakable sound of Aziraphale weeping and, voice cracking, begging to be let go. Crowley tried to hide from it; he closed his eyes tight and covered his ears. It was too loud-he could still hear Aziraphale wailing. He ran towards the stereo, fell against it and slammed his hand against the power button, but it still wouldn’t stop. He clenched his fists and held them against his eyes and hollered at the top of his lungs, “Stop! Turn it off! Turn it off!”
Finally it went silent and Crowley slumped to the floor, shaking and traumatized. He who spoke for Hell had nothing more to say to him. After a few moments of shell-shocked hush, Crowley broke down sobbing. This was all wrong. Aziraphale could be a bit of a bastard sometimes, but he didn’t belong down there, and he certainly didn’t deserve such torment. Crowley couldn’t help but think that the only reason they were hurting Aziraphale so was to get back at him. He couldn’t know how right he was at the time.
But Crowley sniffled back his sobs and sucked in the breath he’d been forgetting to take. He wiped his eyes dry and stood, steeling himself. He’d be damned all over again if he let them keep Aziraphale. This had to be set right.
***
It had been so long since Crowley had walked the coarse and rocky lands of Hell. He wasn’t accustomed to it anymore. The air stank and the heat was overbearing and Crowley’s jacket was quickly abandoned. He weaved stealthily between stalagmites and through nooks and crags in the ground. He knew they’d be looking for him-he knew they had been trying to bait him. It had worked like a charm; he had departed for Hell immediately. He wasn’t stupid by any means, though. He was onto them. He wasn’t going to let them get their hands on him.
Where he finally found Aziraphale gave the impression of a decaying Roman garden. There were ruins and fallen pillars and broken statuary all about. Dead thorny plants reached up from the ground and slashed at the ankles of passerby. Aziraphale was at its center, chained to a pillar and weeping openly. Crowley had to swallow a scream of rage at the deplorable sight. He quickly checked to see that the coast was clear before bolting across the open and towards his only real friend.
The closer Crowley got the worse he realized things were. Aziraphale wasn’t himself at all. The fall had changed him, much as it had changed Crowley so long ago. The former angel’s hair had gone dark and the light was gone from his face and his being. He was beaten, bruises discoloring his skin in innumerable places. Fresh wounds along his torso bled openly. His head hung low and his face was hung in misery. Crowley was simultaneously aghast and infuriated. How dare they treat his friend this way?
Crowley scrambled up to Aziraphale, placed his hand under his chin, and lifted the fallen angel’s face to meet his. Aziraphale’s eyes opened slowly, unwilling to face what he believed to be his tormenter. His eyes had been drained of all their color. At the sight of Crowley, though, they widened, and he gasped. “Crowley…” he whispered. If it is possible for one to sound pained, overjoyed, and horrified all at once, Aziraphale did.
Fleetingly Crowley nodded as he felt around the chains to find the locks. He wanted to keep eye contact but found it impossible to concentrate on his work while he did so. He tried to do both anyway. “Yes, yes it’s me ‘Zira,” Crowley reassured him. “Don’t you worry. I’m getting you out of here.”
Aziraphale, however, shook his head vigorously. “No, no, no, no, no,” he stammered. “Y-you’ve gotta go… you have to g-get out of here… run… run…”
Fumbling with the chains, Crowley struggled to keep his composure. “I’m not leaving here without you,” he insisted. The chains didn’t seem to have any locks at all… nor did they seem especially to have any beginning or ending. They were probably just willed into being. Crowley chided himself for not having thought of that and looked for something to cut them with. It shouldn’t be that hard-Hell is full of sharp things.
“You have to go, Crowley,” Aziraphale pleaded. “They know you’re coming. They want to hurt you.”
“I know they know,” Crowley said as he felt frantically around in the bushes and nicked his hands up pretty well in the process. “I counted on that.” He checked around the feet of the statue that stood just above him, but still no luck. He frowned longingly at the spear the stone warrior held. If only it were real-that would do just the trick.
“Crowley, you don’t understand,” he whimpered in desperation.
Crowley looked up sharply. “What don’t I understand, Aziraphale?”
Aziraphale gulped and looked past Crowley.
“It’s a trap.”
Once again, for about the third time that day, Crowley found himself frozen up with shock. It was brief, though, for quickly he turned to look behind him and see what Aziraphale saw. The statuary which stood above Crowley moved. It shifted in place and smiled wickedly down on him, and then the façade melted away and it became Hastur. “Hello Crowley,” the duke rasped.
Without taking a second to think, Crowley bolted. Hastur quickly caught him by the wrist. Aziraphale never felt so helpless before. He closed his eyes and looked away because he simply couldn’t watch. Hastur moved to pull Crowley closer to him, but suddenly Crowley wasn’t there anymore. “What--?” Hastur began. Then he looked down. A snake slithered rapidly away towards the cover of the shrubbery. Hastur merely frowned and threw the spear he held at the ground. There was a shriek as Crowley took his true form, wings fluttering, spear stuck straight through his ankle and into the ground. Pleased, Hastur stood over the writhing Crowley, stepped on his back, and smiled brightly.
“We’re going to have a lot of fun,” the duke of Hell declared.
Title: Heaven Fall Into Hell (2/3)
Rating: R for adult themes and sexual content (not terribly graphic, I don’t think, but not exactly work safe either), violence, and possibly some language
Genre: Angst
Characters/Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale, Metatron, Hastur
Summary: Angels are supposed to be pure. Aziraphale is not.
Author’s Notes: I don’t usually write slash, and this is my first foray into it. This is not going to be terribly happy slash, though, so get ready for lots of not-so-nice things to happen. Completely un-betaed, so feel free to criticize. Title from the song ‘Angels/Losing/Sleep’ by Our Lady Peace.
***
-II-
He hated him.
Not that this was much of a stretch for the imagination by any means; Hastur generally hated everyone. Still, this duke of Hell found himself particularly irked by his new partner. The demon Bartok had been promoted and assigned Ligur’s old post some time after the apocalypse had failed. Bartok was eager, zealous, ambitious, and fiercely obedient to their lord. Essentially, he was a collie. An evil collie. Hastur had no want for a collie.*
*It was almost as embarrassing as having a Satanist tag along lurking with you.
Some other, lower demons would speculate that Hastur actually missed Ligur, but none would dare say this to his face for fear of some unspeakably painful fate. It was true, though, that Ligur may have been the one being on or below this planet that Hastur hadn’t precisely hated. He had, at the very least, tolerated Ligur-which was more than he could say for Bartok.
No matter, though, because Ligur was gone. Ligur was gone and the apocalypse had failed and Hastur himself had been reprimanded sternly for his failure. Meanwhile, that filthy serpent Crowley got away scot-free. The thought of it enraged Hastur to no end. As far as he could see, the whole bloody mess was Crowley’s fault. Crowley should be the punished one. Crowley should be the one to pay. The powers that be wouldn’t let Hastur go up to set it right, though. The ranks of Hell had their collective tail tucked between their legs and wanted to keep a low profile until they were ready to launch another sorry attempt at the apocalypse. In the meantime, all Hastur could do was seethe and lurk and try not to discorporate Bartok.
Hastur stood now lurking at the edge of the tenth circle of Hell.* He scowled and kicked a pile of smoldering sulfur down onto the damned below. It gave him no satisfaction. Lately he’d been in a dreadful mood and had taken to brooding almost as a hobby. Bartok had approached him recently and suggested they damn some nuns together, had said it might lift his spirits. Hastur had been looming alone over the tenth circle ever since.
*Dante recorded only nine circles of Hell. At the time his Divine Comedy was written, this was still true. However, at some point during the 20th century, Hell was forced to open up a new level of Hell for the growing numbers of lawyers, corrupt politicians, and contractors. There was also a special area of this circle sectioned off and reserved for certain members of the Disney corporation-the members responsible for all the sequels, and that horrible surfing movie.
Presently he felt a hot wind pick up and brush past him, making his cloak flutter ominously.* Something big was happening. He turned about to survey the landscape and almost instantly a wailing body landed hard on the ground just yards in front of him.
*Ominously was the only way Hastur’s cloak was capable of fluttering.
Hastur saw many damned souls fall in the course of a day. It was hardly a cause for great interest. However, it had been a great long while since Hastur had seen an angel fall, and he observed the fallen with a grim intrigue. The angel was curled up and whimpering pitifully, his wings stuck out at odd angles. The closer Hastur approached, the tighter the angel curled up in a lame attempt to protect himself. By the time Hastur stood over the angel he was like a little quivering ball of flesh with wings sticking out.
The duke nudged the cowering being with his foot and the angel uncoiled in alarm. Aziraphale rolled over onto his back and stared up at the demon in wide-eyed terror. “Who-who are you?” he whispered and sniffled back some tears.
That voice was awfully familiar. It took Hastur a moment to place it, it had been so long. Then, slowly, realization came, and with it a wicked grin twisted its way across Hastur’s face. “I suppose you could say I am an old friend of Crowley’s,” said Hastur. The answer to all his problems had come.
***
Crowley slammed down the phone and snarled in frustration. A week had then passed since Aziraphale ran out on him in that restaurant and Crowley hadn’t heard from the angel since. He wouldn’t come to meet him; he wouldn’t pick up his phone. Crowley didn’t understand what he’d done to make Aziraphale so upset with him. For the first few days the demon tried to pretend that none of it fazed him, tried to tell himself that he didn’t need the angel anyway; he had gone centuries without the angel before… not recently, per se, but he had done it before. By day five Crowley started to get anxious. Now he was just annoyed. It wasn’t like Aziraphale at all to be this unreasonable, though it wasn’t exactly a stretch for him to be this stubborn. Crowley simply chalked it all up to that as he abandoned the phone for the day. Tomorrow, he would take the Bentley across town to the bookshop and ambush him.
For right now, Crowley found himself in desperate need of some tunes. He needed to wind down. As the use of CDs had become more widespread, Crowley’s selection of tapes had simply automatically become CDs themselves. The tapes had been quite shocked at the change but adjusted quickly. Crowley settled a disk into the sound system and music flooded the room from nowhere in particular. The demon had just decided to make a relaxing afternoon of threatening the plants when he was interrupted by the stereo.
HELLO CROWLEY, said Andrea Bocelli.
Startled, Crowley fell back into an array of flowerpots. Hell hadn’t spoken to him for fifteen years, why should they start again now? Crowley got the distinct feeling that something very bad was about to happen. “Um, hi there, long time no… hear,” he muttered lamely.
YOU HAVE BEEN TREASONOUS, Andrea Bocelli decreed. YOU HAVE BROUGHT GREAT SHAME TO HELL.
Crowley’s mind floundered. “…Sorry?” he attempted.
HELL ACCEPTS NO APPOLOGIES, CROWLEY, Andrea Bocelli assured Crowley. YOU, OF ALL, SHOULD KNOW THAT.
Crowley decided that he liked Andrea Bocelli much better when he was singing about the love of a woman. The demon squirmed uncomfortably in his seat amongst the pots and ventured, “I think I can safely assume that you haven’t made this call to make nice with me, so… what do you want from me?” As soon as the question was asked, he was sure that he didn’t actually want to know the answer to it.
WE DESIRE NOTHING OF YOU, CROWLEY, answered the voice which spoke through Andrea Bocelli. WE SIMPLY WISH TO INFORM YOU OF SOMETHING. WHAT YOU MAKE OF THIS INFORMATION IS ENTIRELY YOUR DECISION.
After a moment of expectant silence, Crowley waved his hand and prompted, “Yes? Go on.”
WE HAVE THE ONE CALLED AZIRAPHALE, CROWLEY. WE UNDERSTAND HIM TO BE A FRIEND OF YOURS.
For a moment, Crowley was simply shocked, incapable of thinking anything. His brain froze up trying to process the information. Then the demon burst out into shivery fits of nervous laughter. “You’re bluffing!” Crowley cried. “You can’t possibly have Aziraphale! He’s an angel. If you had him, Heaven would be all over you guys. He’s outside your jurisdiction.”
HE USED TO BE OUTSIDE OUR JURISDICTION. NOT ANYMORE. HE HAS FALLEN. HE IS OURS NOW.
Crowley felt his heart drop into his gut and his gut sink into the floor. “I still don’t believe you,” he mumbled. He really didn’t believe it either, but only because he didn’t want to.
YOU DON’T HAVE TO BELIEVE US. JUST LISTEN.
And suddenly the room rattled with the sounds of agonized screaming which issued forth from the sound system. The sound was chilling and sickening. Then there was the unmistakable sound of Aziraphale weeping and, voice cracking, begging to be let go. Crowley tried to hide from it; he closed his eyes tight and covered his ears. It was too loud-he could still hear Aziraphale wailing. He ran towards the stereo, fell against it and slammed his hand against the power button, but it still wouldn’t stop. He clenched his fists and held them against his eyes and hollered at the top of his lungs, “Stop! Turn it off! Turn it off!”
Finally it went silent and Crowley slumped to the floor, shaking and traumatized. He who spoke for Hell had nothing more to say to him. After a few moments of shell-shocked hush, Crowley broke down sobbing. This was all wrong. Aziraphale could be a bit of a bastard sometimes, but he didn’t belong down there, and he certainly didn’t deserve such torment. Crowley couldn’t help but think that the only reason they were hurting Aziraphale so was to get back at him. He couldn’t know how right he was at the time.
But Crowley sniffled back his sobs and sucked in the breath he’d been forgetting to take. He wiped his eyes dry and stood, steeling himself. He’d be damned all over again if he let them keep Aziraphale. This had to be set right.
***
It had been so long since Crowley had walked the coarse and rocky lands of Hell. He wasn’t accustomed to it anymore. The air stank and the heat was overbearing and Crowley’s jacket was quickly abandoned. He weaved stealthily between stalagmites and through nooks and crags in the ground. He knew they’d be looking for him-he knew they had been trying to bait him. It had worked like a charm; he had departed for Hell immediately. He wasn’t stupid by any means, though. He was onto them. He wasn’t going to let them get their hands on him.
Where he finally found Aziraphale gave the impression of a decaying Roman garden. There were ruins and fallen pillars and broken statuary all about. Dead thorny plants reached up from the ground and slashed at the ankles of passerby. Aziraphale was at its center, chained to a pillar and weeping openly. Crowley had to swallow a scream of rage at the deplorable sight. He quickly checked to see that the coast was clear before bolting across the open and towards his only real friend.
The closer Crowley got the worse he realized things were. Aziraphale wasn’t himself at all. The fall had changed him, much as it had changed Crowley so long ago. The former angel’s hair had gone dark and the light was gone from his face and his being. He was beaten, bruises discoloring his skin in innumerable places. Fresh wounds along his torso bled openly. His head hung low and his face was hung in misery. Crowley was simultaneously aghast and infuriated. How dare they treat his friend this way?
Crowley scrambled up to Aziraphale, placed his hand under his chin, and lifted the fallen angel’s face to meet his. Aziraphale’s eyes opened slowly, unwilling to face what he believed to be his tormenter. His eyes had been drained of all their color. At the sight of Crowley, though, they widened, and he gasped. “Crowley…” he whispered. If it is possible for one to sound pained, overjoyed, and horrified all at once, Aziraphale did.
Fleetingly Crowley nodded as he felt around the chains to find the locks. He wanted to keep eye contact but found it impossible to concentrate on his work while he did so. He tried to do both anyway. “Yes, yes it’s me ‘Zira,” Crowley reassured him. “Don’t you worry. I’m getting you out of here.”
Aziraphale, however, shook his head vigorously. “No, no, no, no, no,” he stammered. “Y-you’ve gotta go… you have to g-get out of here… run… run…”
Fumbling with the chains, Crowley struggled to keep his composure. “I’m not leaving here without you,” he insisted. The chains didn’t seem to have any locks at all… nor did they seem especially to have any beginning or ending. They were probably just willed into being. Crowley chided himself for not having thought of that and looked for something to cut them with. It shouldn’t be that hard-Hell is full of sharp things.
“You have to go, Crowley,” Aziraphale pleaded. “They know you’re coming. They want to hurt you.”
“I know they know,” Crowley said as he felt frantically around in the bushes and nicked his hands up pretty well in the process. “I counted on that.” He checked around the feet of the statue that stood just above him, but still no luck. He frowned longingly at the spear the stone warrior held. If only it were real-that would do just the trick.
“Crowley, you don’t understand,” he whimpered in desperation.
Crowley looked up sharply. “What don’t I understand, Aziraphale?”
Aziraphale gulped and looked past Crowley.
“It’s a trap.”
Once again, for about the third time that day, Crowley found himself frozen up with shock. It was brief, though, for quickly he turned to look behind him and see what Aziraphale saw. The statuary which stood above Crowley moved. It shifted in place and smiled wickedly down on him, and then the façade melted away and it became Hastur. “Hello Crowley,” the duke rasped.
Without taking a second to think, Crowley bolted. Hastur quickly caught him by the wrist. Aziraphale never felt so helpless before. He closed his eyes and looked away because he simply couldn’t watch. Hastur moved to pull Crowley closer to him, but suddenly Crowley wasn’t there anymore. “What--?” Hastur began. Then he looked down. A snake slithered rapidly away towards the cover of the shrubbery. Hastur merely frowned and threw the spear he held at the ground. There was a shriek as Crowley took his true form, wings fluttering, spear stuck straight through his ankle and into the ground. Pleased, Hastur stood over the writhing Crowley, stepped on his back, and smiled brightly.
“We’re going to have a lot of fun,” the duke of Hell declared.