Damnation, Inc

That one brief entry…oh, what has it wrought?

Let me tell you. Since I’m beyond it all now, nothing else matters, and surely you’re still interested. You are, aren’t you?...For if there’s no one to tell, then there is truly no point to it all. Life, and unlife, is merely one sick joke with a sadistic punch line. A footnote to the rising insanity of the world, and there is nothing more insane than my world now.

The measure of hell that is Limbo is never ending, it drags on, like some after-dinner party no one can escape from, as if the guests have been chained to the tables, the wine still pours, the conversation laments on, churning stomachs and minds with droning, meaningless babble. Who would you vote for in the election year?...what should I do about my son’s heroin addiction?...these are the questions of mortals, bland, tasteless, mortals who only think of themselves, for the son is irredeemable, the politicians all corrupt, and in the end, it’s all the same. Nothing else matters.

Limbo is like that dinner party, only instead of conversation, which in my case would be welcome, despite its banality, you hear wailing. Wailing from below; as you’re given the glimpse of Hell that’s sure to be tasted when they judge you, mixing with the wailing from above, and beside you. The wailing of the damned mingles with that of the soon to be punished. Dante had it right, but not epic enough. The circles exist, but their vastness makes his poetry seem like a child’s ramblings. The suffering and the torment all too evident, the demons, well, they come in all shapes and shades, and they’re all to ready to assist in your damnation. They glee in it, glorify themselves to their august Lucifer, who excoriates them if they do not supply enough misery. The fires, sulfur, and yes bitter, bone-gnawing cold are all there, waiting for you all.

For in the end, mankind is not to be saved; you are all too wicked, no matter what church you inhabit, what Psalms you honor, what tithes you bring and rend unto a church even more corrupt than the Romans who created it. Nothing will save you, my friends, Not One Thing. You could pray from now until the all-acclaimed Apocalypse, and your souls are still heading there.

Take it from me, I’ve seen them.

She was by my side for what you would consider a few months, and then, gone to me again. Only this time, it was the pits, and not another town, that she left to wander though. Once again, that terrible, soul-sinking feeling invaded my every thought.

She was gone from me, and this time for good. There was no turning back, no retrieval, from the august pits.

Or so I thought.

Only I was proven wrong. It took much effort, and it mattered very little to me at the time, but I found in my drifting through Limbo that there were snatches of information to be gleaned in the wailing and thrashing that occurred every moment of eternity. Oh yes, there were deals that could be struck, agreements that were processed and made whole in Hell. I learned that there was salvation even in this blackened place; that if one was enterprising enough, had the fortitude and will, they could make their deal and it would be honored. There was always a price, like any used car salesman demons made their deals for their own profits and reasons, and like any salesman, they did not like to be on the worse end of things.

For the only thing in Hell that could be made was deals, and they usually did not go the way the bargainer intended. Demons bet on the outcomes of these deals with souls, they were the currency of the realm. The highest ones of value were the souls of clergy that had fallen from either faith or the pulpit. The demons fought over the right to torment these ones so viciously that Lucifer himself had to be called in to stem the violence, simple out of creating order in his own chaos.

Funny, that. That the Lord of Hell preferred an orderly chaos to anything at all. But I’m getting ahead of myself again, I apologize.

She was gone from Limbo, removed from my side by the same fates that had brought me here in the first place. We had wandered together only those scant months it seemed, but she had been there years. Waiting for me, standing under a streetlamp just waiting for me to return to her. I doubt you can conceive, let alone understand, that kind of monstrous, superhuman patience. And bereft I wandered in self pity again, for noting and no one could possibly console me. The wailing rushed through and out of my ears, leaving me deaf to everything else. That ‘town’ I occupied was the second largest city in Czechoslovakia, and yet given what I was looking forward to wandering in it was a one-room artist’s loft in New York City by comparison. Yes, that small.

We had that time, and the need to feed on humans was no longer an issue, so it was just us, and several others that came and went before us. They were lately of this world, had not made the trip downstairs, so to speak, but after a while we noticed they were gone. We still had each other, what did we care?

Being a ghost was unique, and gave me a better understanding of why people are so easily spooked when they’re children, but fail to impress as time wears on. The novelty gets a bit old after a while, so no one cares. It’s refreshing to be able to make love on a street corner in full un-view of humanity and not be arrested, but that soon wore thin as well. After all, there’s only so many ways one an fuck on a street, despite what you may think, and floating in midair only brings out those idiot ghost hunters you mortal fools keep watching on television. Take my words for truth, they have no idea what they’re doing at all, it’s pathetic, really. Every now and then I get the urge to jump in front of one and say boo just to gage the reaction.

Alone again, save for the all oppressive wailing, I began to listen for certain types, the ones that claimed they were in the wrong place were my favorites, for really, how can you measure you own sins against the multitude? You can’t. It’s truly impossible, that’s why they have judgment in the first place. It’s as biased as Hell itself, but it’s there, to aid the decision making, though it’s really a foregone conclusion, like I said. But through those complaints, I began to hear other words, snatches of them really, on how to make those deals. And on whom to make them with.

Despite what you may think, gentle listener, it’s not Beelzebub that makes the most deals; it’s Abaddon. He’s the one with the plan to suit every pocketbook, as they say in the trades. The real wheeler-dealer. And it was to him that I went in search of the deal of my soul.

To reclaim my lost love from Hell itself.

I knew this would work, I was ready to do whatever it took. My own soul meant nothing to me, I had seen the torments, steeled myself for the agonies to come, I had no fear, save that she would not be near me again. When my time to descend finally came, after what seemed another form of eternity for me, I left Limbo so willingly that it stunned the witnesses.

And the first thing I said to anyone who cared was, “Take me to Abaddon.”

The demon standing before me, a terrifying figure of over seven feet, cloven hooves and barbed tail and all, looked down from the book to see who would make such a request.
“You just arrived,” it replied, for its genitalia were so obscured through the matted, blood-drenched hair covering its groin that I wasn’t sure what sex it was. “What gives you the right to ask this?” The air of its question was imperious, how could I even think to ask for one of the Seven Dukes of Hell?

“I want to make a deal, one he’ll not refuse.” I replied, and I knew in this I was right. What I had the audacity to propose would startle even Lucifer himself.

“You mean that female you wandered with?” the demon laughed, a throaty roar that shook my eardrums. “Why her? Surely she’s not that grand.”

I bristled under the insult to my love’s honor, but could do nothing. “For her, yes. But the gains outweigh the losses, trust me.”

The demons’ grin sloped to a frown. He stood there, considering it a moment. “Trust you, the soul of a vampire not even a century old?” he looked at me with disdain, scratching his elongated ear with a hefty claw. “Very well, but he’ll refuse you, I’m sure.” He turned the book around, I saw with dismay that it was the record of my life, sins and all. With the same claw, he drew a line at the bottom of the page. “Sign here.”

He reached out to my hand, and dragged the claw across the top if it. Blood flowed freely, and the demon held out a quill. I dipped the end of the burnt feather into my own blood and did as instructed. A moment later, after confirming the signature, the demon slammed the book shut, pointing towards a darkened tunnel. “That way, if you will,” he said with malicious flippancy. “To your oh-so-special deal.”

I walked through the tunnel; it was dank and musty, with a fair aroma of misery. The walls were alive with suffering; the air palpable with it. I kept walking on despite a near crippling sense of dread that filled my soul. I walked downwards, that was all I could tell after a while, the dim light in the tunnel coming from small tears in the walls that allowed the light of Hell’s fires to show through. At the end of said downward slope was an ornately-carved set of doors, above which read the inscription;

Damnation, Inc.

I stopped a moment, feeling the weariness creep into me already. I had only been in hell a few hours by your time, and it was affecting me. But undaunted, I knew I had to go on. A few deep breaths, and I pushed the heavy door open, and wandered inside.