Endings and Beginnings? There are no such things.
Welcome to Hell. Please notice the absence of any emergency exits. This is not an oversight on our part, they simply do not exist. If you come here, you're here to stay. The sooner you accept that fact, the sooner we can get down to business and things will be more pleasant all round.
Now, around this juncture, a remark is usally made regarding the lack of fire and brimstone in the immediate surroundings. Which is a fair point. If you look anywhere, you will see a soft, hazy grey mist. The light has no obvious source, just a consistant, pale sickly glow. It removes shadows; every part of the face dully lit. Yes, you will look like death warmed up.
There are several reasons for this.
One, we are not actually completely without feeling. Often newcomers will arrive with great gaping wounds that are none too pretty to behold. This rather muted lighting does wonders in reducing the colour and minimising the shock for all concerned.
Second - and brace yourself because for some reason people find this shocking - you are not actually in hell. Well. Not yet. This is in fact a form of purgatory, a holding room we Senior Partners have created between Hell and the living world. Kind of like a half-way house. We size up the new inmates. They size up their new masters, i.e. us. And then on they go.
This place is actually rather exclusive. It's only available to a certain, choice few. Those who have our permission, those who have signed that rare document known as the 'Perpetuity Clause'. If you're here, it means you've achieved something. Be proud.
There are, however, always exceptions. Two of which are en route right now.
Because whilst being eternally bound to us is a reward for some, we are not blind that for others it is simply Hell. And so managing to entrap some resisting soul in such a hold is always satisfying.
The reason that I, a Senior Partner no less, am actually doing the duty of meeting and greeting the guests, can be summed up in one word. Angel. Irritating thorn that he is. When I last looked, utter bedlam was reigning in that alley. Plus it was raining. The usual impressive looking demons are all up there, beating some sense into that overgelled head. While in the meantime...
A patch of air begins to swirl; whispered echoes of screams and battle and gunfire ebb around me. The light grows, concentrates, and then fades completely. A tight whirl of dark particles remains. Spinning and darkening, a moving shadow.
I look at my watch. Oh come on, just die and arrive, let me deliver the notices and then let me move on.
When I look back up, there he is. Overly long brown hair, checked shirt, boots and a nice smattering of gunshot wounds.
"Mr MacDonald," I say cheerfully. "Welcome to Hell. Please wait one moment, we're expecting at least one more..."
During this, other faint sounds have been growing. Crashing and barely audible gasps and the crack of magic. When I turn, yes, the final darkened particle settles and takes shape. This one definitely looks the worst for wear, although I'm guessing it's the gut wound that actually did for him.
"And Mr Wyndam-Pryce," I continue smoothly. "Well we're all here, wonderful. Gentlemen, I am the Ram. You have now left the living world and entered the domain of and into eternal servitude to myself and my siblings. In a few moments we shall relocate to more permanent settings, but after certain facts have been set before you. And whilst you catch your breath, do you have any questions?"
I look from one dazed face to another, and silently sigh. Both are looking distinctly less than alert, still appearing disorientated and stunned.
"Please," I add, in less sweet tones, "feel free to take your time."
Now, around this juncture, a remark is usally made regarding the lack of fire and brimstone in the immediate surroundings. Which is a fair point. If you look anywhere, you will see a soft, hazy grey mist. The light has no obvious source, just a consistant, pale sickly glow. It removes shadows; every part of the face dully lit. Yes, you will look like death warmed up.
There are several reasons for this.
One, we are not actually completely without feeling. Often newcomers will arrive with great gaping wounds that are none too pretty to behold. This rather muted lighting does wonders in reducing the colour and minimising the shock for all concerned.
Second - and brace yourself because for some reason people find this shocking - you are not actually in hell. Well. Not yet. This is in fact a form of purgatory, a holding room we Senior Partners have created between Hell and the living world. Kind of like a half-way house. We size up the new inmates. They size up their new masters, i.e. us. And then on they go.
This place is actually rather exclusive. It's only available to a certain, choice few. Those who have our permission, those who have signed that rare document known as the 'Perpetuity Clause'. If you're here, it means you've achieved something. Be proud.
There are, however, always exceptions. Two of which are en route right now.
Because whilst being eternally bound to us is a reward for some, we are not blind that for others it is simply Hell. And so managing to entrap some resisting soul in such a hold is always satisfying.
The reason that I, a Senior Partner no less, am actually doing the duty of meeting and greeting the guests, can be summed up in one word. Angel. Irritating thorn that he is. When I last looked, utter bedlam was reigning in that alley. Plus it was raining. The usual impressive looking demons are all up there, beating some sense into that overgelled head. While in the meantime...
A patch of air begins to swirl; whispered echoes of screams and battle and gunfire ebb around me. The light grows, concentrates, and then fades completely. A tight whirl of dark particles remains. Spinning and darkening, a moving shadow.
I look at my watch. Oh come on, just die and arrive, let me deliver the notices and then let me move on.
When I look back up, there he is. Overly long brown hair, checked shirt, boots and a nice smattering of gunshot wounds.
"Mr MacDonald," I say cheerfully. "Welcome to Hell. Please wait one moment, we're expecting at least one more..."
During this, other faint sounds have been growing. Crashing and barely audible gasps and the crack of magic. When I turn, yes, the final darkened particle settles and takes shape. This one definitely looks the worst for wear, although I'm guessing it's the gut wound that actually did for him.
"And Mr Wyndam-Pryce," I continue smoothly. "Well we're all here, wonderful. Gentlemen, I am the Ram. You have now left the living world and entered the domain of and into eternal servitude to myself and my siblings. In a few moments we shall relocate to more permanent settings, but after certain facts have been set before you. And whilst you catch your breath, do you have any questions?"
I look from one dazed face to another, and silently sigh. Both are looking distinctly less than alert, still appearing disorientated and stunned.
"Please," I add, in less sweet tones, "feel free to take your time."