Werewolf the Podcast: What the Hell is going on in Hell? (Episode 239)

Belphastus arrives in hell to be met with the Duke of Hell himself, the Demon Astaroth.

Lucifer is worried that hell is going into someone else's control.

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Transcript

BELPHASTUS

MY GRAND ARRIVAL IN HELL

(as told by Belphastus the Unclaimed, Temporary Aspirant to the Throne, Visionary, and Man Who Deserved Much Better Than This, or so I thought.)

Right.

So there I was: arms raised, robe flapping, chanting the ritual words (some of which I had definitely pronounced correctly), standing inside the finest chalk-pentagram Leicester's discount hardware shop could provide chalk for. 

Hal was holding the candle at entirely the wrong angle — I told him several times, but no one listens to genius while he's working — and the nameless demon-pigeon was flapping about complaining that Lucifer had definitely left Hell, so this was my moment.

Then came the flash.

The tremendous, bone-shaking, earth-rending flash I had expected — well, it didn't exactly happen. 

What I got was more of a… pop. 

You know the pop, like when you accidentally leave your eggs to boil dry on the cooker? 

And then:

Hell.

Or so I assumed.

The first thing I noticed upon arriving was… nothing.

I don't mean 'nothing interesting,' I mean actual nothing. Difficult not to notice nothing. True nothingness.

Pitch darkness. 

Blacker than black. 

A darkness so absolute it felt like it had opinions about me. And those opinions weren't dark and unwarranted, they were like proper bastardising black ones.

They weren't positive opinions. 

You may have gathered that by now yourself.

It were the kind of darkness that had never met light and would consider it deeply rude if introduced.

I cleared my throat.

'Hello?!'

The darkness did not reply.

Which was unsophisticated of it, frankly.

I had envisioned stepping directly onto the basalt steps of the Throne of Hell — Lucifer's throne! — with magma fountains spurting tastefully in the background, infernal choirs warming up, demons gasping at my magnificence.

It might well have looked like that, but I couldn't see nowt as it were like proper black.

It were different underfoot than stone, though. My shoes made a pathetic, lonely scrunch on what felt suspiciously like… gravel.

Gravel.

In Hell.

Probably not gravel, eh? Probably the crushed bones of... of... something right evil.

I hadn't studied all those books — well, skimmed em, really — to end up in the Netherworld's equivalent of a poorly lit car park. 

It had to be bones. Had to be.

I shuffled my foot experimentally. More gravelly bones, I hoped.

I took a careful step, hands out, trying to feel for anything throne-like. Or even torch-like. 

Or just anything. Where's the big fuck off sign saying?

WELCOME, NEW RULER OF HELL. PLEASE SIGN HERE.

There were only silence. 

And the peculiar sensation that the darkness itself was… sniffing me for evilanality. I know it is no word, but it is now. 

I can do that sort of thing. You know invent words 'cause I am the lord of Hell. Once a find that bloody throne thing. 

The darkness was laughing at me whilst judging me.

Judging me. 

Possibly it were filing a complaint.

Where were that blasted pigeon demon? Even he were gone.

'Right,' I said, loudly, to establish my dominance type of thing.

'I am Belphastus the Unclaimed. Future Prince of Hell. 

'Perhaps even King. Regent? Co-Manager?'

'Titles negotiable. Point is, I demand a... throne!'

Nothing.

Nowt came back.

Not even an echo.

In fact, the sound of my voice vanished so quickly that I got the distinct impression that the darkness was eating my words. 

Which is terribly harsh and probably violates some metaphysical workplace guideline. I hoped the dark got indigestion.

Then a thought struck me — the horrifying kind:

What if this wasn't the throne room?

What if I had arrived… somewhere else?

Missed like.

Hell has layers. I've read that once.

Well, Hal read it to me once. 

Very slowly using his selection of various people's fingers to guide himself along the lines of text. 

He had six fingers and two thumbs on each hand. He said they came in handy. Handy... what a wit the new lord of Hell is, eh? Ya bastards.

Had I missed the throne room then? Hmmm!

What if the throne room was the next circle over, and I was standing here in the outer darkness like an idiot waiting for a welcome party that wasn't coming?

Maybe there were a bus to it from here, but I couldn't see the bus stop. Because... it were dark.

'Oh, this is bastarding typical,' I grumbled.

'Absolutely bastarding typical. Centuries of myth, a thousand years of fear, and they still can't put up a sign.' 

'THIS WAY TO THE THRONE.' 

'NEW RULERS PLEASE CHECK IN WITH RECEPTION.'

'Take possession train, replacement bus available at Pandemonium Corner.'

'Anything?' I yelled into nothing, hoping... well, that anything would answer.

I tried taking another confident step.

Which was when the gravel moved.

Not under my foot — no.

Beneath me.

The ground itself shifted like something enormous had just rolled over in its sleep.

I froze.

The darkness rippled.

And a voice — a voice so deep it seemed carved out of the underside of existence — whispered:

'…oh. It's you.'

My spine attempted to exit my body through my anus. As you can imagine, not a wonderful experience to... erm... experience. 

I blinked, trying to see who had spoken to me, but I couldn't cause, as I said, it were DARK!

So I built up my best Kingly voice type a thing.

I imagined myself as King of this realm and fought to gain that tonality that King would have.

But fucked it up when trying to actually speak.

'Um,' I squeaked, pathetically. 'Yes?'

The darkness sighed.

'Wrong entrance, Belphastus.'

'Well, we've all made that mistake in the throes of a passionate moment.' I joked. 

Probably not appropriate, but I was a bit on edge and trying to calm myself down. 

I am British after all, an innuendo is the mainstay of our humour, closely followed by sarcasm.

A pause. From the speaker of... like evil-sounding words.

A very long judgmental pause.

Wow it were a long bastarding judgmental pause.

'Again.' The voice finished, ignoring my faultless quip.

And that is when I realised —

I was not alone, and the thing I were talking to had no sense of humour.

So, I was not in the throne room. Bastard

And worse than that—

I was already being looked down on.

By something that didn't appear to have eyes.

I straightened, adjusted my robe, and attempted dignity.

'Well,' I said, 'I meant to come to the wrong place.'

My brain caught up with me at that point. The sentence I had spoke was right stupid. 

'I mean, this is the right place that I came to wrongly.' 

I paused, thinking about what I'd just said.

No that were complete bollocks.

'I came to the right place because I wanted to come to the wrong place first before it were the right place for the place I needed to go.'

That were out of my mouth before I'd thought about it.

When I did think about it... it were un understandable. Fuck it. Act like it made sense. Who's going to question the new boss of Hell?

The darkness laughed.

And let me tell you — if you've never heard darkness laugh, count yourself lucky. 

It sounds like a heavy coffin lid being closed on your future career prospects and maybe your testicles whilst still attached. Not pleasant to most folks. 

That was not what I expected.

In all my scheming (brilliant), plotting (ingenious), and general villainous forward-thinking (underrated), I had pictured myself arriving in Hell with at least a bit of flair. 

Maybe a red carpet. A skeletal mariachi band. Lucifer's throne waiting, empty, with my name practically glowing on it.

Instead, I have been standing in pure void for at least thirty seconds, which is thirty seconds more than any aspiring tyrant of Hell should tolerate.

I clear my throat.

'Hello?'

The void does not echo your voice.

It swallows it like your mum swallows...

*cough*

'I weren't going to say it. I have some self-respect, you know,' I shouted, 'as the new king of Hell.'

I was going to say it.

That's when I realise I am truly not alone. 

Something is here. 

Something were watching me. 

Something were waiting like a big... sort of... waity type thing. 

I could feel it—it were like cold fingers brushing the back of my soul.

And then a voice—smooth, rich, and deeply amused—spoke:

'You may come closer, Belphastus. I've been watching you blunder around for quite some time.'

My entire spine again attempts to leave my body through my anal orifice. This time, the were a little thrill to it. Which is concerning. 

I built up my courage. After all I was the new King of Hell and I had to act like a were.

I would demand to know who was in my presence. That would set this conversation on the right foot.

'Wh—who's there?' I manage, attempting to sound assertive. 

It came out closer to asthmatic ferret.

An asthmatic ferret, aye. But I like to think I sounded like a right dangerous asthmatic ferret.

That voice chuckled. 

The sound vibrated in my bones.

'Who am I?'

'Ahhhh. Not a simple question to answer, little one.'

Condescending, but I will let it lie.

'Oh... child… You truly have no idea where you've landed, do you?'

Well, no, that's kind of why I'm trying to find out, ya knob head.

I thought. 

Notice I thought it. 

I did not say it. 

But whatever it were that were listening. It must have heard my thoughts as I had the feeling that the gravel beneath me was no longer crushed bones but rather loose... faeces. 

A figure materialis-a-did. 

Not by the introduction of something as offensive as light, but by... tother thing... an introduction of an implication. 

The presence that arrived were so overwhelming that my mind kept trying to form a visual and failing, like staring at a nightmare wrapped in a migraine.

It were looking at me, even though I still couldn't see it... proper.

'I… demand you tell me your name,' I... demanded, because apparently I enjoyed being a stupid bastard.

Silence. 

Then:

Laughter. No, not with me, but right at me. I was right. Whatever it were it were a bastard.

'Very well. I will tell you who I am. Listen closely, little Belphastus.'

Oh, he were right patronising whoever it were. 

Little Belphastus. 

I were of average height, I were. 

For a fourteen-year-old... Girl.

'I am Astaroth...'

A realisatory explosionary red flag went off in my head. Resulting in me thinking. 

Ah, shit, that's not good!' A perfunctory thought that did not have the real gravitas that that perfunctory thought needed.

'..Grand Duke of the Infernal Court.'

Pause

'Keeper of Secrets Forbidden to God's Creatures.'

Pause.

'Regent of the Throne of Hell in Lucifer's absence.' 

Can you guess? Yep pause.

'Advisor of kings, corruptor of prophets, scourge of sanctified minds.'

Long, bloody, unneeded pause. I was kind of getting the idea that I was deep in evil do do with a proper evil doer.

Each title dropped like iron into my chest.

'I am the spirit the Goetia catalogued in despair.'

Another pause, but at this point, it did not matter. I had already kind of got the bastarding idea. 

I get it. Your Billy Big Bollocks, I thought.

I definitely did not say it out loud. 

Although I did think that maybe I should not have even thunk it.

A Laugh.

'I am the one the grimoires begged mortals never to summon.'

I was getting distracted. Bored even. 

'I am called the Great Impurity, the Whisper Behind Apostasy, the Crowned Blasphemy.'

Did Hal turn that gas ring off on the cooker? 

At least the damp in the flat meant that it would be right hard for it to burn down.

'I am older than your languages and hungrier than your fears.'

Shit! I had the dentist at two today. They'll bastarding charge me for that missed appointment. 

'AHEM!' Came the voice to get my attention once more.

Oh yeah, the sense of dread had returned, with my attention. 

Attention is a difficult thing to maintain for one as evil as myself. I do have EDHD, Evil Definite Horror Disorder.

Right, back to the old shitting myself with fear routine. Oh no, it were me spine I were shitting out, weren't it?

And action.

I can feel my knees wobble and loosen with the aforementioned bowels.

The voice continued. Softening into a terrible purr:

'I have been depicted as angel, accuser, oracle, serpent, judge, monster. All are correct. But all are insufficient.'

I am sweating buckets. 

I didn't know spirits could sweat. 

Am I just a spirit here? 

Or am I me and bodily me?

These are things I should have considered before coming. 

Pause.

'I am the...'

I'd had enough. I knew he was a proper evil, hard bastard.

'Okay...Okay... I know who you are. Astaroth, proper evil duke of hellishness thingy. Bad ass bastard who does not stand for anyone bastarding about.' 

The thing paused and started to listen

The bastard.

'Erm... That description works as well.'

'R-right, I get it.' I whisper. 'Good… good introduction. Very thorough. A bit long, I have to add.' 

'I mean, after the Grand Duke of Hell, you kind of have done the legwork.'

'And to be honest, the PowerPoint presentation was a step too far in evil intent, but I appreciate the effort.' 

'I mean that attention to detail tells me that you are a double-hard bastard in the world of evil hard bastards.' 

'Like top boy. Or is it top thing?'

Another dreadful pause. It were right dreadful.

A pause that were filled with mirth and intention to add more dread to my mortal soul, which were already dreading stuff.

'And in your case, Belphastus… I am also known as Karen.'

I blink.

'K… Karen?'

'Yes.'

My mind whirls. Karen?

Who the fuck is Karen? Oh!

'Karen wee wee pants Pants McGreary from when I were in Mrs Donovans' special year 5 class at school?' 

'The one who blew snot bubbles from her left nostril and who would eat glue?'

'We don't use the term special any more, Belphastus, and that was not me, no.'

'Although I can tell you that Karen has her own very successful business these days breeding budgerigars.'

'Okay. Sorry. Well done wee wee pants.'

A dreadfully dread-filled pause.

'Karen?' I tapped my chin, racking my brain to think of this mysterious Karen character.

'Ah! You mean Karen Cockspittle at the Fishmongers.'

'Got one eye and a hair lip. Has such a bad lisp that she once got fined by the health board for saying the place name Entwistle above the fresh mussels.'

The silence that followed told me no.

'Hmm... Not her then.'

'Karen... Karen... Ah... Of course... Thee Karen.'

'Karen, the bane of man.'

'Karen bitch of the Kitchen. Devourer of souls. Wronged so many times by males that she treats them all like... Like... Like...'

I couldn't come up with a great description of how she treats men, but this one felt valid.

'Like SHITE!'

'As in… shift manager Karen? McDonald's Karen? My Karen?"

'Indeed.' 

'That Karen.'

'Although I think you are being a tad judgmental.'  

'If you had been mistreated by men in the past the way she had, then you would not have a high regard for... men.' The word men was spat.

'I possess her every Monday to Thursday. I've learnt a lot from her, to be honest. She is somewhat... Vindictive.'

'She's a bastard.'

'SHE'S THE ONE WHO CUT MY BREAKS SHORT?'

'WHO MAKES ME CLEAN THE TOILETS?'

'THE ONE WHO TOOK MY CHIPS WHEN SHE THOUGHT I WASN'T LOOKING AND STILL CHARGED ME FOR EM.'

'THE ONE THAT CALLS ME... ' This was the darkest of all the dark points. 

'SHE'S THE ONE WHO CALLS ME... LOVE!'

His resulting laughter were like thunder in molasses.

'You were particularly slow on fry duty.'

My soul screams.

Everything suddenly makes sense. The emotional terrorism. The icy stare. The way she could appear behind me without making a sound. The clipboard. The bastarding clipboard.

'Oh my god,' I whisper. 'My manager Karen is the Regent of Hell.'

'Correct.'

'And I called her—called YOU—a petty tyrant in a polyester shirt.'

'Also correct.'

Long silence.

'So… what now?' I squeak.

Astaroth leans closer—not physically, but cosmically—and says:

'Now, Belphastus… you will explain why you think you are worthy of the throne that I currently occupy. And do make it good.'

My bladder contemplated treason.

Luci

I do not like surprises.

This is not a moral statement. 

I have presided over plagues, fallen empires, and at least three popes who thought they could outdrink me. They couldn't.

Surprise is not new to me. I like a... good... 

*laugh*

'...Evil surprise.'

But confusion—true confusion—that is a rarer and much more irritating thing.

Simon de Montfort has realised something is wrong.

I feel it the way a spider feels a tremor in the web. 

A hesitation. A shift in the ritual's weight. 

The moment when a human intellect—an unusually sharp one, admittedly—moves from confidence to suspicion. 

That moment is dangerous. 

That is when plans unravel.

Michael is still speaking. 

Of course he is. 

Michael always speaks as if the universe were a lecture hall, and he is disappointed with the attendance. 

His voice presses against the walls of the office, too clean, too ordered. It scrapes at reality like a blade that insists it is only a ruler.

And Simon—clever, arrogant, brilliant Simon—has stopped nodding.

Ah.

That's new.

I lean back in the chair I am absolutely not supposed to be sitting in and fold my arms. 

To anyone else, I look relaxed. 

To the cosmos, I am a held breath.

Something is wrong.

Michael should not be here like this. 

Not summoned so cleanly. 

Not constrained so politely. 

Angels do not like leashes, even symbolic ones, and Michael least of all. 

If he were truly acting of his own accord, there would be fire by now. Or trumpets. Or at the very least, a smiting.

Instead, there is… theatre.

I do not trust theatre unless I am the one directing it.

Simon's thoughts are loud now. 

He is circling the idea he doesn't want to touch: 'I may not know what is going on.' Not an easy thought for the great Simon de Montfort occult expert.

Good. 

Clever boy.

That is when I decide I need information.

Not heavenly information.

Heaven lies worse than Hell ever did. 

Heaven lies by omission, by footnote, by inconvenient translation. 

No—this requires someone who can move unnoticed, unimportant enough to be ignored by powers who only look up.

I clear my throat.

'Trudure,' I say mildly, to the shadows. 'I need eyes below.'

The little black cat that sits on my lap as a black furry puddle wakes and regards me with green eyes.

No summoning circle for this demon.

No sulfur. 

Just a cat, because Hell has learned that no one questions cats.

She blinks at me. Once. Patiently.

'Yes,' I tell it. 'Now. Go see why Hell feels… wrong.'

Hell felt strange to me at this moment. 

To you mortals, a good description of this feeling would be like when the label at the back of your favourite comfy jumper started to itch your neck for no apparent reason.

The cat yawned. 

Demons these days. 

No work ethic. 

Then she dissolves into shadow and absence, slipping back through the cracks between worlds like a thought someone almost remembers.

And I wait.

I am not patient.

Waiting is not something I am famous for, but I do it well when required. 

I let Michael's voice wash over me while I think.

If Michael is not trying to usurp me, then someone powerful enough has learned how to bend angelic rules without breaking them. 

That narrows the list to a very small and extremely irritating selection of beings.

If Hell is unattended—

No. That cannot be true.

Hell is never unattended.

I drum my fingers once against the arm of the chair and stop myself. 

Habit from when I still had nerves.

Across the room, Wil is watching Michael like a man watching a storm he intends to slap one day. 

Eleanor looks like she might kneel. 

Monty looks like he wants a cup of tea and a biscuit.

Simon looks like a man who has just realised the map he is using may have been drawn by his enemy.

Good.

I smile faintly.

Whatever is happening, it is not simple. And anything that isn't simple is usually mine to deal with.

The cat will return soon. 

It always does. 

Hell has excellent return policies.

Until then, I watch the Archangel Michael speak truths that are technically accurate and spiritually incomplete, and I wonder—

—for the first time in a very long while—

Who, exactly, is trying to sit in my chair?

And whether they have any idea what it costs to keep it.

I get up and start to pace, to the shock of those mortals present. 

Michael smiles at me. Smug bas... idiot.

I normally do not pace.

Pacing is for generals who have lost battles and gods who pretend they have not. 

I consider. 

I stand very still and let the universe adjust itself around me.

Michael's presence still hums in the walls of Simon's office like a headache made of sanctimony. 

Something is wrong. 

I don't mean morally wrong—that would be tedious—but structurally wrong. 

The pieces do not fit. 

Michael is unaware, which is rare.

Simon is not confident. Which is rare.

And worst of all, Heaven is being… vague.

I click my fingers once.

'Trudure,' I say, softly.

The little black cat must not be ready.

Of course.

One does not summon a demon-secretary so much as suggest productivity and wait for the inevitable eye-roll. 

Still, I wait.

Waiting is not something I enjoy.

I examine the room instead. 

The Professor's wards are competent. 

Annoyingly so. 

His books whisper, but they do not gossip. 

Michael stands in the centre of it all, all righteous angles and borrowed authority, speaking as though the universe owes him an explanation.

It doesn't.

I feel it then—a tiny pressure change, like a draft through a crypt.

Trudure returns by simply being there, licking one paw with exaggerated care.

'Oh, good,' I say. 'You're back.'

She does not look at me. She cleans between her toes.

'You know,' she says, 'most rulers thank their clever spies.'

'I am not most rulers.'

'No,' Trudure agrees. 

'Most rulers don't get overthrown,' the cat says

I close my eyes very briefly.

'What did you see?'

She rolls onto her back, exposing her belly in a gesture that has fooled no one in the history of creation.

'Oh, things. Places. Conversations.' She yawns. 'Hell's been lively. You should visit more often.'

'Trudure.' I have a warning in my voice that she should comprehend.

'Yes, yes.' She sits up, tail flicking. 'You want to know why the architecture feels wrong. Why the air tastes like an accounting error.'

My smile tightens. My anger is building.

'Speak.'

'Well,' she says lightly, 'there's a living mortal in Hell.'

That gets my attention.

I open my eyes.

'Say that again.'

'A mortal,' she repeats. 'Alive. Breathing. Ambitious. Annoying.'

My thoughts move very quickly now. 

Mortal ingress is rare but not unprecedented.

Accidents happen. 

Cultists trip.

Lawyers who sell their souls at the bar exam can often fall into Hell, but are no threat. 

'Who?' I ask. I demand.

Trudure resumes her grooming. She is enjoying her position of power in this moment.

'TRUDURE!'

'Okay, okay.' Says the little cat.

'You remember him. Scruffy. A sorcerer person full of bitterness and resentment. Belphastus.'

The name lands like a dropped glass.

Belphastus.

'Who?' I don't rem... I now do.

'Oh,' I say, very carefully.

'Yes,' Trudure continues, enjoying herself now. 'And he's not lost. Not screaming. Not bargaining. He's… talking.'

My stomach, which I do not have but keep the feeling of for nostalgic reasons, tightens.

'To whom?'

The cat looks at me at last. 

There is a little concern in those little red eyes, although they glow just enough to be rude.

'Astaroth.'

The room becomes silent at that name.

That takes me a moment to process. 

Astaroth. 

Regent. 

Keeper of the Throne. 

The thing I leave in charge when I step away because nothing else is sufficiently terrifying to deter the ambition of the other denizens of that realm.

'And,' Trudure adds, almost kindly, 'they seem to be getting along.'

I stare at her.

A mortal. Speaking to Astaroth and not screaming.

Not dead.

Thinking.

That is very bad.

Astaroth does not converse. 

He audits. 

He ends discussions by unmaking the participants. 

If he is talking to Belphastus, it is because he finds him interesting.

Or useful.

Or amusing.

All three are unacceptable.

For the first time in centuries, something like cold runs through me.

Belphastus is clever in the way that rats are clever—good at finding cracks, excellent at surviving disasters they have no right to survive. 

And Astaroth. Well, he does not play games unless the board is soaked in blood.

If those two decide—

No.

I cut the thought off before it finishes forming.

I straighten my jacket.

Trudure tilts her head. 'You look… concerned.'

'I do not swear often,' I say.

'That's true,' says the smiling little cat.

'It's bad for the brand.' She continues.

We pause and contemplate.

I exhale once.

'Shit.'

The word feels heavy. 

Dangerous. 

The universe twitches, offended.

Trudure's ears flatten. 'Wow,' she says. 'You are worried.'

She is not used to me being such, so this frightens her. 

'Yes. I am.'

I spin, already stepping into the fissure that leads home.

'Tell Hell to prepare,' I say. 'And Trudure?'

She is no longer playing the fool. 'Yes, my liege?'

'If Astaroth smiles…'

The little cat grins, sharp and feline.

'…run.'

And then I am gone, tearing back toward my throne, because whatever is unfolding below, it is no longer a misunderstanding.

It is a coup.