Selfish Beings. J Morris L

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СКАЧАТЬ head. From Mastema’s office at the top of the tower one could view the almost endless city as well as the beginnings of the sandy plains of Perdition. Only Lucifer’s chambers sat higher than the building they were in. As it was, all the messenger could see was the white marble roof of the office and the tip of the golf tee he held between his teeth.

      Mastema leant down and gingerly placed a ball on the top of it. The messenger was rigid with fear, he had already trembled once and the ball had fallen to the floor. The man remembered well the penalty for that failing. The Demon-Lord had “played it where it lay”, driving the ball with tremendous force in to the side of his head. An earthly mortal’s skull would have been demolished by the power; the damned mortal that was the messenger had a splitting headache and a golf ball permanently lodged in his temple.

      Mastema kept his knees bent and arms straight, eyes on the ball as he had been taught. He let loose with all his unholy might and the ball sailed out of the window and deep into Hell. He laughed as it struck a minion two miles away square in the head. Mastema did not find the misfortune of the minor demon humorous; pleasures of such a petty nature were below a Demon-Lord. Mastema rejoiced instead because it was clear that over the morning’s practice he had progressed a long way and he anticipated a great improvement in his long game.

      A glance at the clock on his wall told him the meeting would be starting in moments. Mastema dismissed the golf-ball embedded messenger and walked to the changing room adjoining his office. Most of the Lords preferred either black robes or baring their upper bodies, covering the lower with fur loincloths decorated with flayed flesh belts, skull buckles and other such nonsense. Mastema found the exposed red abdominals and fuzzy underpants look disgustingly clichéd. He liked suits. Nice suits.

      Mastema had been lucky enough to stumble in to a tailor of sorts decades earlier whilst slumming it in one of Perdition’s less exclusive drinking establishments. The elderly man had helped design dress uniforms for the Gestapo and elements of the SS before his eternal soul had been sent to Hell. What Mastema had, in essence, was a wardrobe of Hugo Boss originals.

      He selected his most sombre-looking black suit and an exquisite silk shirt of a slightly lighter hue. After changing, he examined himself in the gilded full-length mirror in his suite. The black attire contrasted nicely with his deep red complexion and complemented his void-like eyes and sharp features superbly. Mastema deemed the overall effect to be both professional and dashing as he left at a leisurely pace for a meeting that he was already late for.

      Like all of Perdition, the Soul Reaper Tower was nothing like the imagery the foolish Mortals associated with Hell. Mastema had not set foot upon their world for centuries but he had heard the rumours - a pit of fire and despair that looked like an angry and palsied volcano was consulted as the interior decorator, it was absolute nonsense. Perdition resembled nothing more than a vast, sprawling city, with a variety of stone in every colour and type imaginable used to build it. Beyond the ever-encroaching city limits was a boundless desert of black sand. An immense fire burned in the sky but only to provide heat, light and to make up for the lack of a sun. It was majestic more than threatening and at night it smouldered with a soft glow that was almost romantic. The tower itself was a marvel of differing shades of marble, gold edging, glass and dark woods stained and polished to a sheen. If the stupid Mortals had any idea what Perdition was really like then Mastema and his fellow Lords would have had no trouble meeting their demanding and never-achieved quotas.

      All eyes were on Mastema as he slammed closed the black marble doors of the Board’s chamber. No gathering of the Lords could begin without the entire Board present and Mastema’s tardiness had only prolonged the other members’ fear and anxiety at the meeting’s purpose. None of the waiting Lords commented on his late arrival; the visual daggers they threw his way were indicative enough of their anger. Like everything Mastema did, his belated entrance had been on purpose. It showed how unconcerned he was at the request; he was superior amongst his so-called equals and held none of their fears.

      Let them scramble when Abaddon shouts, he thought. I come when I’m good and ready.

      With a faint sneer on his lips, Mastema looked around the burnt oak table and found his usual place was already taken. The smile at his one-fingered salute to the hierarchy of Hell was quickly wiped away as the cost of his display became apparent. The only available seat was next to Samael, Bringer of Death and Destruction, a Lord who possessed the strength of a thousand demons, the IQ of a semi-retarded brick and a homicidal rage viewed as excessive, even by Perdition’s standards. There was also the issue of Samael’s stench. The strength of a thousand demons apparently brought with it the body odour of a thousand pairs of unwashed feet. As far as Mastema was concerned, Samael could keep that particular blessing. Sighing, he ignored the glares of his fellow Lords and with great resignation took his seat next to Samael.

      ‘Nice loincloth,’ Mastema said as he proceeded to lean forward and block the Demon’s view of the Chairman.

      Samael could have easily backhanded him out of the way, several miles out of the way in fact. However, such an unprofessional display during a meeting would have brought severe penalties from the Chairman. Samael instead let out a low, threatening growl and Mastema grinned at the brute’s enforced impotence.

      Abaddon, King of Demons, Voice of Lucifer and Chairman of the Board, stood before the gathered Lords in a resplendent blood-red robe with gold trim, a surprisingly calm look on his stony face. His anger at Mastema’s late arrival was gone, replaced with a quiet appreciation of the subtle way he had forced the mighty Samael to kowtow to protocol. It was a paltry display but against a great and powerful opponent. Such rivalries between Lords were expected and encouraged. In any case, if Samael’s grimace was any benchmark, Mastema would be feeling pain and punishment enough soon after the gathering. The Chairman signalled for silence with his hands and rose to address the Board. There were far more pressing matters than Mastema’s lack of respect and punctuality.

      ‘My fellow Lords, I have called this meeting on behalf of none other than Lucifer himself to address a grave and growing concern. Humanity is expanding at a phenomenal rate and the ratio of souls we are claiming is in no way matching it. Needless to say, Lucifer is extremely displeased with the situation and, by extension, with us.’

      Abaddon took a quick account of the assembled Lords and the undivided attention he received from all pleased him. Although he was certain the Board would understand the gravity of the situation, their silent confirmation was a welcome reassurance.

      ‘Asteroth, our venerable Treasurer, has been going over the figures for some time. I will not overburden you with the statistics and his explanations of data-models but, even in his best case scenario, the situation is dire. Assuming half of the souls we are not claiming are going in to Limbo, which is to say the least highly optimistic, we are losing souls to the Hated One at a ratio of almost three to one.’

      The assembled Lords visibly began to show distress at the news; if in the best case Hell was gaining one soul to Heaven’s three then Lucifer’s anger was well and truly justified. Mastema saw glances between the opposing factions of the Board and knew the blame-gaming and scapegoating was only moments away. In the interests of keeping the meeting brief and making his afternoon tee time, he decided to step in and redirect events.

      ‘Esteemed Chairman, if I may offer an opinion?’ he asked.

      Abaddon, wondering which of the other Lords Mastema was about to artfully try to heap the responsibility on, nodded his permission.

      ‘This news is most regrettable and whilst I, and without doubt my fellow Lords, fully understand Lucifer’s anger I believe perspective is important. We play this game with the souls of humanity on behalf of our Master, yet it is the opponent who owns the board and who made the pieces. The Hated One has churches, cathedrals, magazines and missions. We have nothing of СКАЧАТЬ