Blood Lite

Hell in a Handbasket Lucien Soulban

The basket sat at the foot of the Infernos red-hot, iron-wrought gates, below the steaming plate that read ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE! The Ominous warning was wasted on the ebony-skinned baby, however, and it continued babbling. A burp followed; it giggled and cooed and the whole of the Underworld paused for a moment, pitchforks held frozen and tortures forgotten in media res.

"What the Hell was that?" a few demons were heard to whisper. But nobody wanted to be the chump to go and find out. Nobody volunteered in Hell. That, and sing-alongs, were frowned upon.

The ever-vigilant Cerberus, Guardian of the Gates of Hell and Angry Mutt of Damnation, padded up to the basket and looked around, confused and perhaps even sur­prised. He never saw who'd deposited the basket or why. Two of Cerberus's flanking heads peered around, while the middle one sniffed the basket carefully.

Yup ... baby, most definitely, the heads agreed.

Cerberus's middle head considered swallowing the child whole.

"Do it, do it!" the left head whispered gruffly, obviously not interested in taking the risk itself. "You know you want to. All soft and juicy ... just like we like 'em."

"I wouldn't do that," the right head counseled in a sing­song tone, admonishing the left head. "Who leaves a child at the Gates of Hell? Or better yet, why? No, we should hand it off to someone who doesn't think with their stom­ach. Prudence is the better course here."

The middle head sighed and decided it best to del­egate this chore to someone else; the three heads craned upward and Cerberus unleashed a ghastly howl. The gates opened slowly.

Roiling clouds of steam emanated from the cracks in the brass sidewalks of Dis; the screams of the damned and a thick blood clot of humidity saturated the air. Basket in hand, the demon Mastema, slayer of Egypt's firstborns, walked along, his cloven hooves sending sparks from the metal ground and scattering tinny echoes across the already noisy avenues. His once-perfect flesh remained scored and cracked from his plummet down, while the remnants of blackened feathers and scorched bones dangled from the shattered tree of his wings.

Mastema walked into the Great Assembly Hall, past several of Hell's senators and into the amphitheatre-style council chambers where Gressil, Devil of Slothfulness and Vile Slacker of the Pits, had convened a session. Only Gressil wasn't present; he was slacking off somewhere, much to nobody's surprise. Gressil's calls for a council were a national holiday in Hell, and everyone looked for­ward to propping their hooves up for the day.

That left the chambers relatively empty of all but a dozen damned. Mastema dropped the basket on the central dais of iron, immediately attracting the attention of those present.

"Anyone order this kid?" Mastema asked the assem­bled throng.

"Kid?" a voice asked.

Mastema looked up to see the human-looking Gaap hanging upside down from the ceiling's cathedral rafters. Bat wings unfurled from his human form, and he dropped to the floor with frightening grace.

"What d'ya know," Gaap said. "It is a kid. What hap­pened, Mastema? Miss one of the Pharaoh's firstborn?"

"One, he's not Egyptian," Mastema said. "Try to stay current. And two, I was following orders."

By now, the remaining devils and demons moved to the dais, craning their long necks and clucking to gain a better view of the child. The baby appeared delighted by the attention.

"Right," Gaap said, ribbing a fellow demon with his elbow. "Following orders. I think there's a few Nazis in the Seventh and Eighth Circles still singing that tune."

"The Egyptians invented beer," Mastema said. "I got nothing against them."

"Good point," Gaap replied.

"So," Mastema said. "Anyone order the kid?"

"Ooh, I did, I did." The demon deer Furfur spoke this time, He of the Unholy Venison, jumping up and down with cloven delight.

"Yeah?" Mastema asked, looking into the basket. "If you ordered him, what's he look like?"

"Small 'n black 'n soft," Furfur said, licking his chops.

"Sounds about right," Harpy said, looking inside the basket. She lifted the baby's diaper and stole a peek inside. "Ohhh. Sorry, Furfur. Did Mastema say 'he'? You almost had it right except for that pesky genitals thing. It's a she.

"Darn."

"Well, how am I supposed to tell?" Mastema grumbled. "I'm about as anatomically correct as a Barbie doll."

"And they sent you down to kill the firstborn sons?" Gaap said with a barking laugh.

"Shut up," Mastema replied. "I got most of them, didn't I?"

"What have we here?" a new voice asked. Everyone turned as Vassago, Demon of Prophesy and the Kool Kat of Hell, walked up to the group. His large red wings melted into his back and vanished out of sight; other­wise, he looked human with his charming smile and combed-back brown hair. He was sporting a gray blazer and trousers.

"You order this kid?" Mastema asked.

A grin crept across Vassago's face and he pushed past the others to peer inside the basket. "Well... isn't she a cutie," he said, genuinely delighted. "Who she belong to?"

Mastema shrugged.

"Maybe we should split her," Gaap said, running his scalpel-like claws across the sides of the basket.

"That's your answer for everything," Vassago said, tickling the baby's dimpled chin. She cooed and grabbed his finger.

"Seriously, Gaap," Harpy said. " 'Let's split Hitler,' you said. All I got was his pinky; at least you got a leg."

"I got his mustache," the wolf-headed Mammon said, stroking the stache on his upper lip.

"Looking good, Mammon," Harpy replied.

"Well, I think I should eat her," Mammon said. "As the Demon of Avarice, it would be bad for my image if I didn't."

"Nobody's eating her," Vassago said.

A cacophony of voices broke out in dissent and a few demons began pushing each other away. Vassago decided to end the argument.

"Fine . . . we'll settle this according to the Old Ways, the Dead Ways," Vassago said. A hush fell over the cham­bers.

"Fight to the death," someone whispered. "No! Choose a champion to battle for her meat," some­one else countered.

Vassago shook his head and picked up the child. "Older than that," he replied. He licked her exposed tummy with his snaking tongue. She giggled. "There ... I licked her, she's mine now."

"Since when is that a rule?!" Harpy protested.

"Fine, if you don't care about the Old Ways and the traditions set by the Ancient Ones, then go ahead and take her," Vassago replied casually. Several hands and claws reached out for the child, but it was Harpy that snatched her away by the legs with a triumphant shriek. The infant, however, seemed not the least discomforted being in her iron claws or upside down. A few demons seemed ready to tackle Harpy, however, infant and all.

"Of course," Vassago said, his words smooth, "you are running a risk here."

"What d'ya mean?" Furfur asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Like what if someone else ordered the child?" Vassago asked with a shrug. He began walking away. "Like Belial... or Asmodeus."

"Oh yeah," some of the demons whispered.

"Asmodeus ... I forgot about him," Furfur said. "He's a mean drunk."

"Best you left the girl in my care," Vassago said.

"Thanks, but no thanks," Harpy replied. "She's mine to devour."

Vassago slowly walked away, nonplussed in demeanor but listening carefully to the exchange at his back.

"Stop touching her, Beelzebub. You're getting flies all over her," Harpy said.

"ZZZZzzzzz!"

"Oh, for the love of...! Does anyone here understand what Beelzebub is saying? Mastema?"

"No. And the last time I tried talking to him, he regur­gitated all over me," Mastema replied.

Quickly, the sounds of discord echoed through the Great Assembly Hall, the gathered and growing throng of demons fighting with Harpy for the child. And through the angry voices and the shouting and screaming, Vassago knew the baby would come to him eventually. Only he knew what she was, and only he knew how to deal with her.

Harpy tore through the air, the infant in the iron-clawed talons of her feet. Other demons tried flying after her, but she was faster and more cunning than them all. She darted in between the spires and thorny pinnacles of Dis's cathe­dral roofs, through broken windows and back out again, each time losing more pursuers. Finally, she soared high into the sky, heading for one of the abandoned churches growing down from the cavern's ceiling. Harpy settled into the crumbling niche of a red tower, behind the wail­ing statue of a demonic saint.

Satisfied nobody had followed her, Harpy held the child up with both hands. She smiled, her shredding, malicious grin stretched from ear to ear. The infant girl, however, chirped and cooed, much to Harpy's discomfort. Her large black eyes seemed to suck in everything around her.

"You're too stupid to be afraid, aren't you?" Harpy whispered. "Oh yes you are, oh yes you are," she said in a suddenly playful voice before pursing her lips against the infant's stomach and blowing mouth farts against her satin skin. "Who's a silly little girl!" Harpy chirped. "You are! You are!" Harpy and the child laughed out loud.

The smile, however, quickly vanished from Harpy's lips. "Wait," she said. "What am I doing?" For a moment, she felt displaced, seven leagues from the center of herself. This wasn't her. She should be tearing into the flesh of this infant, not playing with her, not engaging in nonsensical talk.

Harpy strengthened her resolve and stared at the infant with all the cruelty and malice she could muster. She would tell the child the horrible fate about to befall her, the hellish torture awaiting her. Harpy would explain in visceral detail how she was going to skin the screaming baby and suck up her strands of flesh like spaghetti. She smiled at her own cruelty and opened her mouth to speak.

"Cootchy cootchy coo!" Harpy hissed. Her eyes wid­ened and she tried talking again. "Boobiwooboo," she said, her words trapped in babyspeak.

The child obviously approved; she giggled and jumped up and down in Harpy's grasp.

"Stop it!" Harpy wanted to say, but more nonsense spilled out instead. She tried to squeeze the infant to stop her from laughing, but the little girl giggled as Harpy tickled her with nary a scratch from her dagger talons.

"Cotchy coo!" Harpy screamed. She tried to let go of the laughing baby, to watch her plummet, but could not. The young girl was somehow glued to her hands. She tried to shake the child loose, but instead bounced her up and down gently.

I know, Harpy thought, her mind twisting and slipping in panic. I'll corrupt the child! After cradling the baby in her feathered lap, Harpy slid one sharp talon across her own wrist, drawing out her tarlike blood. It boiled and bubbled against the demon's skin, and she reveled at the thought of blistering the child's flesh. The infant opened her mouth expectantly and Harpy squeezed her own arm to force the turgid blood to flow quicker.

White droplets fell into the baby's mouth instead. Harpy shrieked and stared at the ivory blood flowing from her wrist.

Milk! she realized in horror. My blood's turned to milk. Before Harpy could stop the little girl, the child latched her mouth onto one of her calloused nipples and began feeding. Harpy was lactating, and she couldn't pull the defenseless child from her breast.

She shrieked again, a wail that pierced the very cor­ridors of Dis.

Vassago crossed the shag-carpeted floor of his creamy yel­low bachelor pad. A Sinatra record, spinning out the best of the Vegas hits, played softly in the background, and his home smelled of sandalwood and a fresh ocean breeze. A cool wind filtered through the white curtains, and the rapid knocking persisted.

Hell's Suave Playboy opened the door to the tempest and infernal heat of Dis; the glamours filling his house shuddered slightly but held against the realities of the Underworld. Outside his door was Hell. Inside was Hol­lywood, circa 1960s. A golden time, he thought.

"Why, Harpy," Vassago said, smiling at the demon at his door. "How nice to see you."

"Bite me!" she said, thrusting the child in his direction. "You take her."

"Certainly," Vassago replied. He cradled the child and raised an eyebrow at Harpy. "You look . .. radiant. Moth­erhood agrees with you."

"I'm lactating!" she moaned. She grabbed one breast and pointed it at him. Milk dribbled down from her exposed nipple.

"Thank you, but I'm not thirsty," Vassago said.

"Furfur wants a sip!"

"Who wouldn't! Don't dribble on the carpet, dear," Vassago said kindly.

"Wait!" Harpy protested, looking for some trade to make good on giving the baby away, but Vassago closed the door with his foot as he turned around. The door slammed in her face and the smell of brimstone evaporated.

"Aren't you the cute one," Vassago said, stroking the baby's chin. She giggled in return, her Afro still wild and untamed. He sat in a molded chair, its white cushioned pads arched up the high back, and played with her for a while.

"Now," he said, a knowing grin splashed across his face, "do I call you Eve? Or the Serpent?"

The infant girl clapped her hands in approval and bounced in his grip.

"Right, Eve ... of course. The serpent is our domain, isn't it?" he said, and continued to play and laugh right alongside her.

Eve slept on the wide-lipped couch, her tiny fists bunched up at her chest, her face filled with innocent trust. Vassago smiled at her. He may have had his shortcomings, but he genuinely liked humans. They were a delightful species and highly inventive. In fact, after Applegate with Eve pulling a Yoko Ono on Adam and the Garden of Eden, Vassago came to appreciate humans all the more. They were no longer chimpanzees with souls.

The knocking persisted.

Vassago took a moment to compose himself before opening the door. Koka and Vikoka, the twin demon gen­erals of Kali, stood waiting. They towered above the door, their once feral and fearful countenances surprisingly shy and darting. They appeared nervous and uncertain in their posture, which was unlike the twin ambassadors from the Realm of Hungry Ghosts. Koka played with the skulls wrapped around his neck; Vikoka looked even more crim­son and fidgeted with the weighted and bloodied yellow sash around his waist.

"Yes?"

"Hello, Mr. Vassago," Koka said. "We, uh ... we heard you have a human infant?"

News travels fast, Vassago thought. Soon his house would be inundated with demon callers trying to woo Eve out of his charge and onto their dinner plates. "Yes, she is," Vassago said.

"Can she, uh, come out to play?" Vikoka asked, beam­ing with a nasty grin. Bits of hair and flesh from his last meal lay wedged between his teeth and tusks.

"I'm afraid not," Vassago said. He tried closing the door, but Koka gently stopped it with his hand.

"Well, I'm sure as you know, we serve Kali," Koka said earnestly.

"And as you also know," Vikoka added, "we need sac­rifices to keep her sated, lest she awakens in a terrible bloodlust."

"She's not a morning person," Koka confided with a whisper.

"Yes, yes," Vassago said, massaging the bridge of his nose. Each ritual murder was supposed to forestall the arrival of Kali by one millennium and blah blah blah. Western Hell had enough of its conditions and qualifica­tions to distract a demon for a lifetime without throwing Asia's into the mix. It was, after all, the original bureau­cracy. "Yes, well, when Kali rises, I'll be sure to bid her good morning and match her armies against my Legions. Until then, the child stays here. Good-bye."

No sooner had Vassago closed the door than the door­bell rang again. Vassago sighed and opened it; at this rate, it would take hours for the glamours to fully shroud the reek of brimstone again.

The Succubus twins, Lilith and Naamah, had taken Koka and Vikoka's places. They were much more pleas­ant to look at, their naked bodies taut and covered in a skin of oil and dewlike sweat. They undulated against each other, a form of greeting Vassago highly appreci­ated. Why, it almost brought a black tear to his eye, but he remained suspicious. Hell was like a trailer-trash fam­ily reunion on Jerry Springer. If demons weren't forni­cating with each other like country siblings, they were feuding and squabbling . . . sometimes in the middle of intercourse.

The succubae offered Vassago their best lascivious smile and ran their fingers across each other's erect nipples.

"Hiya, Vas," they said in unison, Lilith trying to entice Vassago with her come-hither-and-anywhere-else-you-like look while Naamah stole glances into the apartment. "Ladies," Vassago said, offering them a flat smile. "Remember when you said you'd invite us over to your place for dinner sometime," Lilith said. "No, not rea—"

"Well, I brought dessert," Lilith replied, pushing her smiling companion forward. "There's enough of her for both of us to, uhm . .. eat."

Naamah smiled and sent her forked tongue across her lips.

"Unfortunately, I already devoured the mortal infant," Vassago said.

"Well... pooh. Isn't there anything left?"

"I'd settle for sucking out her marrow," Naamah said with a hopeful smile.

"Sorry. All gone," Vassago said. "Phew!" He unbut­toned his pants to emphasize how full he was.

"Okay, fine," Lilith replied, rolling her eyes. She shim­mied down to her knees, obviously misunderstanding Vassago's pantomime.

"Whoa, ladies!" Vassago said, prying his zipper out from her claws and backing away. "That's not what I meant . . . well . . . okay, maybe later." He jetted out his gut. "I was trying to say, 'I'm full.'" He patted his stomach. "And lo, she was tasty."

With that, Vassago closed the door. He hesitated, and then opened it again. Sure enough, Hecate stood there now, one hand poised over the door to knock, the other hand filing her iron teeth.

"Hi, Vassago, you tricky devil," she said. "Is—"

"No."

"Can I—"

"No."

"But—"

"Go away," Vassago said with a sigh and shut the door. Before anyone else could knock, he quickly erected another glamour to silence the doors and windows. Satisfied at the momentary quiet, he absently swatted at a fly. He paused.

Why is there a fly in my home? he wondered suddenly. In fact, the smell of brimstone should have started vanishing. He shook his head and headed for the couch. A sigh escaped her lips. Little Eve was gone and one of the windows was open.

A flash of momentary annoyance stabbed Vassago, and his human features slipped a touch. The umber of burnt skin and the ghost of long horns shimmered through, but In caught himself. His features returned back to human andVassago went into the kitchen to fix himself a martini. The child would likely find her way back to him soon enough. He knew who had stolen her and doubted they'd last all that long.

"Did you get her?" Lilith asked. Both seductresses walked down the twisting Escher-like stairs into the basement dungeon. Their arrival was greeted by the wailing chorus of the damned so long chained to the walls that they were half-melted into them. The souls of the tortured writhed horribly; a legion of maggots covered their bodies and ate at their eyes and the nubs of their tongues, swelling their throats and stomachs with their squirming mass.

At the center of the stained stone floor was an altar of iron, set between two braziers lit with the dying embers of souls. Presiding over the altar was none other than Beel­zebub, Lord of the Flies and winner of last year's Dancing with the Damned—where unwilling souls were forced to salsa, mambo, and lock pop with Hell's luminaries.

Beelzebub stood over the blood-and-excrement-crusted altar where baby Eve lay. His head was that of a giant fly, his body covered in the torn robes of a defrocked pope, and his skin a thick mass of millions of flies and squirming maggots. From his back emerged two tattered fly wings and stunted fly legs. In his maggot-coated claw, he held a curved iron dagger, the blade dark with rust and caked viscera.

"Bzzzzz!" Beelzebub chanted, ignoring the two succubae until they slithered up alongside him. The demonesses eyed the child and licked their lips, eager for the slaughter. The child smiled up at them, and her ignorance of her fate excited the three devils even more.

"I want one of her chubby little legs," Lilith said.

"Bzzz?" Beelzebub suggested. He stroked Lilith's thigh with his slimy hand.

"But we distracted Vassago for you!" Naamah com­plained. "Zzz! Zz!"

"Fine," Lilith replied, flicking away the maggots that he'd left behind on her leg. "But the last time, you left fly eggs inside us both. We were itching for weeks. This time you wear protection."

"Trojans are good," Naamah suggested. "They complain too much, more so than the Athe­nians," Lilith replied. "So, Beelzebub, agreed?"

"Bzz," Beelzebub said, agreeing to the terms. The flies covering his body buzzed louder in anticipation.

Beelzebub returned his attentions to Eve. He raised his blade, ready for the sacrificial plunge . . . and froze. A beautiful purple and red butterfly rose into the air before them. It fluttered momentarily before rising higher and vanishing. The three hellish hosts eyed one another. Lilith shrugged. The Lord of the Flies prepared a second time to plunge the knife into Eve.

Another butterfly, this one yellow and green, flitted up.

This time, the two succubae backed away from a confused Beelzebub. More butterflies fluttered up into the air, their wings a brilliant collage of bejeweled hues, each prettier than the last. Eve clapped and chirped at the sight. Beel­zebub, however, dropped the dagger and stared at himself. The butterflies were emerging from him. Blue and green bottle flies, houseflies, horseflies, and an assorted other myriad pests were turning into monarchs, blue morphos, goliath birdwings, peacocks, swallowtails of all ilks, and a dozen more species of Amazon flare and brilliance.

Even maggots weren't spared the touch and, within sec­onds, Beelzebub screeched at the butterflies that bloomed from his skin by the thousands. He was aflame in color. He spun and batted at his arms and legs, but the flies con­tinued transforming.

"Stop, drop, and roll!" the succubae cried urgently, but the butterflies continued to fill the air with their kaleido­scopic wings.

Even the maggots devouring the gauze bodies of trapped souls joined the rainbow cloud. The tortured and harrowed cries diminished and for the first time in eons, the souls felt the forgotten sensation called relief.

Beelzebub, however, cried even louder in his fly voice, his own wings betraying him by adopting the mottled emerald and ivory patterns of the marble butterfly. His body continued to dissolve into a beautiful mosaic of color, and the two succubae ran from the chamber, abandoning him to the hiccupping laughter of Eve and the gorgeous swarms that floated above her like painted clouds.

News filtered in slowly, like war reports telegraphed back from the frontlines. First Beelzebub had her, but he was now somewhere in South America or Asia, collecting flies for his new body. Harpy had been charging the other demons for a sip of fresh milk from her teat before her wells finally curdled. Greedy Mammon was said to have taken Eve next, until he was seen running from his palace of gold and bones in a red suit and white beard, crying "ho ho ho" in frightened desperation.

It wasn't until Vassago opened his door, however, that he knew the game was at an end.

Towering well above him was Satan himself, his half-naked body cut to Spartan envy, his skin ruby red, and his long, slender horns swept upward.

From two of Satan's taloned fingers dangled the baby basket. Inside it, Eve giggled in delight.

"Is this thing yours?" Satan asked, his voice slipping over Vassago like warm honey. Curiously, he sounded like Tim Curry.

Someone's a fan of Legend, Vassago thought. "Mine? No, no," Vassago said, taking the basket. "But I approve of the jest," he amended.

"Hm," Satan replied, his attention equally focused and distracted. "See you return her with a little jest of our own."

"Of course," Vassago said as he bowed. He peered inside the basket and took the doll from Eve's arms. It was a stuffed animal ... a bipedal deer with horns. "You gave her a plushy of Furfur?" Vassago asked and cocked his eyebrow higher.

"That is Furfur," Satan replied, obviously annoyed. He nodded to Eve. "It's her doing."

Vassago noticed the large tear across the doll's rump and the stuffing coming out of it, "And the orifice?" he asked.

"I was bored," Satan said. "And it's a lesson to Furfur for being so easily beguiled by the child. In fact, Furfur is the first stop of many today."

"It was all rather funny," Vassago said, smiling.

Satan harrumphed and walked away, the bronze ground trembling with his cloven footfalls. Vassago closed the door, allowing Billie Holiday's voice to flush through the house and a salted breeze to wash away the sulfur. He sat on the couch and let baby Eve play with her Furfur plushy before announcing, "Sorry to see you go, sweet­heart. It's time for you to return home. But first, I have something to prepare. Now," he said to himself, "where's that umbrella?"

The clouds were immaculately white and cotton-candy fluffy. The Golden Gates gleamed and sparkled, the metal burnished to mirror sharpness. Saint Peter, Heaven's DMV clerk, didn't bother looking up from his pedestal; he dipped his quill in the inkwell and held it poised over his giant ledger. "Next!" he cried impatiently, shaking the long white beard that clung to his chin.

"Hey!" one of the spirits cried, "no cutting."

A dozen more voices protested in unison.

"It's okay," Vassago said as he strode past the long line of recently departed. "I'm a demon. I'm supposed to cut."

That managed to shut everyone up. Saint Peter, how­ever, glanced up with a look that proclaimed, I'm perpetu­ ally annoyed.

"Vassago," Saint Peter said; he went back to studying his book. "Is it the End Times already?"

"Hardly," Vassago said with a smile. "Is this a bad time?"

"What do you want?" the saint asked.

"Nothing," Vassago replied. "I'm just here to drop this off." He deposited the basket on the pedestal before turn­ing on his heels and heading back down the line, off to the brass-and-oak-paneled escalators poking up through the clouds.

"What's this?!" Peter shouted after him. "Ask Haniel," Vassago replied over his shoulder. "It's his practical joke."

He of God's Joy (and just a touch too much of a bon vivant to be straight), Haniel stood over eight feet tall with his long golden hair fluttering and his four feathered wings of silver spread out behind him. He stood gossiping with the other angels at the marble-and-gold fountain, Heaven's own watercooler. With casual indifference, he flicked his glorious hair and a thousand people in the world felt a grateful breeze cool their hot skin.

"I can't believe you left the Spirit of Innocence at the Gates of Hell," an angel said, laughing.

"What if something happens to her?" another angel asked.

"She's fine," Haniel said, waving away their concerns with an immaculately sculpted hand that sent a thousand artists into a mysterious inspirational frenzy. "She's the Spirit of Innocence. Nothing bad can happen to her. In fact," he pronounced, sweeping his hand toward an irate Saint Peter as he strode up to them with the basket in tow. "Back already!" Haniel exclaimed. "Who returned her?"

"Vassago," Saint Peter said. He then stopped. "Don't you mean them?" he asked, peering into the basket.

Haniel cocked a perfect eyebrow, and a thousand people across the world gasped at the beauty of the setting sun. He peered inside the basket to find the sweet perfection of the Spirit of Innocence cooing back at him ... as well as a second child, a white boy, lying beside her. The second child was pale and fretful, his face furrowed with a strange inten­sity that suggested he was either about to cry or ... "He looks like he's concentrating," one angel said. "Or about to take a—"

A ripe and snaking fart pierced the air and echoed off the clouds like wet thunder. All the angels across the nine spheres of Heaven paused in their holy works. A million harps screeched to a halt.

"What in the Creator's name was that?" a few angels were heard to whisper. But nobody moved to find out. In Heaven, everyone had a role and the angels were sure that someone would be on top of that little faux pas. Accord­ingly, as cultured agents of divinity, they decided the best course of action would be to ignore it.

Haniel held the strange infant up by the armpits. The baby began wailing, a miserable and uncomfortable cry that squeezed his face like a mouthful of lemons. More flatulence followed and Haniel realized the child was growing heavier.

"His diaper's swelling!" an angel cried, his wrists limp as he shook out his hands. "Jesus! Do something!"

"Do what?" the Messiah asked, sauntering up to the group with his hippie haircut, his golden halo, and his two fingers held up like, at any moment, those artistic paparazzi of Rembrandt, Michelangelo, and da Vinci might ambush him and paint him.

"You were human once," Haniel exclaimed, quickly handing off the child to the Son of God. "Do some­thing!"

The Messiahs eyes widened at the child, whose dia­per was ballooning and browning at the touch of some ungodly stain. Everyone's eyes watered at the stench that reached deep into their stomachs. "I never had children!" Jesus protested, holding the child away from himself and trying to bury his nose into his shoulder.

"Yeah, right," one of the angels quipped before groan­ing.

The diaper had swelled like a brown beachball and the Velcro began ripping open under the strain.

"It's gonna blow!" one of the angels screamed over the bansheelike wails of the demon child.

The ripping explosion was heard up and down the fun­nel of the Nine Layers of Hell. What followed was the panicked shrieks of angels, what could only be described as the Heavenly Choir singing Guns N' Roses . . . off-key. All the demons paused and studied the storm clouds gathering overhead. A few devils nervously remarked how the clouds seemed more brown than purple. Stranger still, the discoloration was spreading like an ink stain in water, overtaking the silver lining of Heaven.

Vassago, however, whistled as he navigated the bronze avenues of Dis and clicked his heels a couple of times along the way. The human-headed snake, Geryon, slith­ered after Vassago, entreating him to stop.

Geryon took a moment to catch his breath and glanced uneasily heavenward. "Vassago," Geryon said. "The river of excrement in the second Bolge is draining ... someone said you took the plug. Where is it?"

Vassago grinned. "I put a glamour on it," he said proudly. "But don't worry. The river will soon fill again." He opened the umbrella hanging from his arm and pointed upward with his thumb. "Their cup overfloweth, and shit has a tendency to trickle down."

With that, Vassago walked home under the cover of his umbrella, leaving a confused Geryon behind. A moment later, Heaven rained its unfavorable bounty down upon Hell.