Back | Next
Contents

Chapter 1

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 8TH

Lucifer—Puissant Lord of Evil, Utmost Originator of All Things Foul, Master of the Netherworlds, Purveyor of Anguish—glanced up from his newspaper to stare thoughtfully over the miles of open office space that made up the central nervous system of Hell. Uncounted thousands of imps and leccubi and damnedsouls sat at uncounted thousands of obsolete, cantankerous computer terminals, alternately typing and swearing. The air-conditioning was on the fritz again, and Hell's computers worked poorly in the resulting heat.

Lucifer's main office manager, the fallen angel Sertapius, had sent in a request for more computer techs. Unless things improved, he wasn't going to get them. They were hard to corrupt. They liked their work too much, and happy people didn't go to Hell. Lucifer had some of his top people working on a way to convince computer techs to get involved in politics—after all, bureaucrats were easy. Hell was up to the tips of its horns in them.

The news was about average—wars, famines, plagues, shootings, hatred, racism, sexism, politically correct fanaticism—in other words, all good. Lucifer flipped to the entertainment section and read Calvin and Hobbes, which he enjoyed when Calvin was being terrible. And then he read his weekend horoscope—he always read his horoscopes. Some of his best future denizens wrote them, and he liked to check out the talent.

LIBRA—FELLOW LIBRAN, CONCERNED BY ISSUE OF FAIRNESS—LIKE ALL BORN UNDER YOUR SIGN—INTERCEDES ON YOUR BEHALF. BEGINNING OF NEW WEEK BRINGS YOU UNIMAGINED OPPORTUNITIES.

Lucifer arched an eyebrow and rubbed thoughtfully at the base of one of the curled ram horns that sprouted from his forehead. Promises, promises—the horoscopes were always full of them. Of course, where he was, nothing ever came of those promises.

That was the hell of Hell.

Back | Next
Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

Chapter 1

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 8TH

Lucifer—Puissant Lord of Evil, Utmost Originator of All Things Foul, Master of the Netherworlds, Purveyor of Anguish—glanced up from his newspaper to stare thoughtfully over the miles of open office space that made up the central nervous system of Hell. Uncounted thousands of imps and leccubi and damnedsouls sat at uncounted thousands of obsolete, cantankerous computer terminals, alternately typing and swearing. The air-conditioning was on the fritz again, and Hell's computers worked poorly in the resulting heat.

Lucifer's main office manager, the fallen angel Sertapius, had sent in a request for more computer techs. Unless things improved, he wasn't going to get them. They were hard to corrupt. They liked their work too much, and happy people didn't go to Hell. Lucifer had some of his top people working on a way to convince computer techs to get involved in politics—after all, bureaucrats were easy. Hell was up to the tips of its horns in them.

The news was about average—wars, famines, plagues, shootings, hatred, racism, sexism, politically correct fanaticism—in other words, all good. Lucifer flipped to the entertainment section and read Calvin and Hobbes, which he enjoyed when Calvin was being terrible. And then he read his weekend horoscope—he always read his horoscopes. Some of his best future denizens wrote them, and he liked to check out the talent.

LIBRA—FELLOW LIBRAN, CONCERNED BY ISSUE OF FAIRNESS—LIKE ALL BORN UNDER YOUR SIGN—INTERCEDES ON YOUR BEHALF. BEGINNING OF NEW WEEK BRINGS YOU UNIMAGINED OPPORTUNITIES.

Lucifer arched an eyebrow and rubbed thoughtfully at the base of one of the curled ram horns that sprouted from his forehead. Promises, promises—the horoscopes were always full of them. Of course, where he was, nothing ever came of those promises.

That was the hell of Hell.

Back | Next
Contents
Framed