The executive demons, who manage the daily operations of Hell, are the most important and famous of Satan's apostles
Hopper paced back and forth across the stern boardroom.
“I’m fucked...” he kept muttering to himself. “I’m absolutely fucked...”
The centennial review wasn’t supposed to feel like it arrived too quickly. It only happened once every hundred years, for devil’s sake! In theory a century should be plenty of time to prepare. When he’d been mortal a hundred years had seemed like eternity. Yet here he was again, feeling as if the review had snuck up on him from out of nowhere.
Hopper sighed. “No wonder Beelzebub quit...”
He gazed out the wide, glass wall of the fiftieth floor boardroom that overlooked the magmatic landscape of Hell. Rivers of viscous, liquid fire oozed across blighted, rocky terrain, glowing a deep, solar vermillion. Hopper almost missed digging trenches along the riverbank. Those had been simpler days, simple work accompanied only by the sound of the bubbling river’s fiery sizzle - like the hiss of a steam engine.
At first he had been overjoyed by his promotion. Head of Torturous Conditions, working directly under Satan himself! It was every demon’s dream job. His mother would have been so proud of him, had she not ascended to Heaven (Yuck!).
Over time, however, Hopper had come to hate his job. It had been fun at first, tormenting those ridiculous 15th and 16th century renaissance snobs. Forcing the church officials who had tried Galileo to listen to Bernard De Ventadour’s “Can vei la lauzeta” at max volume on loop for a century had been particularly delicious.
Something on earth had changed around the 18th century, however. For the first time in the history of Hell a sizable proportion of the population had rated their experience in eternal damnation favorably. At twenty three percent it hadn’t been a majority, or even a plurality, but it had been enough for Satan to lambast Hopper, in front of all of the other executive level demons no less, wringing him out like laundry for over twelve hours before finally relenting. Needless to say, Hopper had been the laughing stock of fiends for years to come afterward.
The review following the 19th century hadn’t gone terribly well, either - something about a “gilded age” as described by some busybody named Twain. The 20th century had admittedly gone alright, minus that tailbit toward the end - “Reaganomics,” his assistant had called it.
And now, here he was again. Another centennial review. Dread began to fill his stomach, thick like tar.
The door to the meeting room burst open to reveal an attractive, raven-haired gentleman in a dark suit. He was broad shouldered, lean, and a bout of stubble and lack of tie graced him an iniquitous air, reminiscent of the hangmen of old. Satan sauntered into the room with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator, followed by a variegation of colorful demons in business attire - all but Lilith, who instead had chosen to wear a rather fetching silk gown that ran a low neckline and matched her glistening, bloodrop eyes.
The executive demons took their seats around the ovular, teakwood business table at the center of the room. Satan, of course, sat at the head, presiding over his council of twelve - six on each side.
The King of Hell turned to Hopper and affixed him with a saccharine smile. “Dreadful morning,” he purred. “Thanks for being here early, Hopper. Now, tell me the bad news!”
“Ah, uh...” Hopper stammered. “Well, um, to begin with some bad news, we’ve seen a more than sixty percent increase in admissions to Hell.”
Satan’s smile widened. “That is positively monstrous! What else?”
“We’ve, uh, had pretty horrifying success in expanding the variety of tortures this century. Data entry and retail have been particular bête noires for people recently.”
“Ah yes,” Satan mused. “I have heard of this ‘retail.’ I’m told you’ve introduced a new category of torturer for this one. Something called a ‘Karen,’ I believe?”
“Ohh, yes, sir,” Hopper said, standing up straighter. He could do this. He could get through this meeting. “We’ve elicited a lot of misery by having demons act as Karens, yes sir.”
“BAH!” one of the demons suddenly exclaimed, causing Hopper to jump. “Stop dilly dallying around and get to the point!” He slammed a meaty fist on the table.
Hopper tried to ignore Leviathan’s outburst. The lug tended to take up way too much space anytime he spoke. Hopper supposed he’d be that way, too, if his physical manifestation was ten feet tall and wide as a freeway.
Satan met Hopper’s eyes, spearing him with a piercing, avian gaze that saw right through him. “Yes,” the King of Hell said. “I do believe Leviathan is correct. We should be getting to the point. Tell me, Hopper, how miserable are the denizens of Hell?”
Hopper paled. “Um... about that, sir... Uh... I’m sorry to say that this year ninety six percent of the population reported being either ‘content’ or ‘very content.’”
Silence. The other demons in the room stared at Hopper, wide-eyed. There was a snicker in the corner, though Hopper didn’t see who.
“...Ninety six percent?” Satan said.
“Y-Yes sir.”
The Devil’s eyes had gone dark, like a black ocean swallowing Hopper, pulling him into the abyss. “What the hell do you mean, ninety six percent of them are content? Excuse my pun.”
“I-If you’ll excuse my saying, sir, um... earth has gotten kind of dystopian lately.”
“Dystopian,” Satan repeated dryly. “We make some people carry stones back and forth across a field for eight hours a day. We force our denizens to live in tiny shacks next to rivers of lava, Hopper. What do you mean earth is dystopian?”
“W-Well, sir, the humans invented this thing called Amazon. They’ve got these warehouses where people package stuff for fifty or so hours a week and don’t have bathroom breaks. And there are these places, sweatshops I think, where people work like a hundred hours or more a week for cents on the hour...” he trailed off.
“Amazon?” Satan said. “Like the forests?”
“It’s a packaging and shipping company, sir. Or at least that’s how it started.”
Satan didn’t look angry. In fact, the King of Hell seemed rather puzzled. Maybe Hopper had a chance of getting through this meeting, after all.
“Okay...” Satan said, frowning. “Tell me more.”
“There’s a lot of stuff like that,” Hopper said. “Like, uh, right now the humans are trying to colonize space, and-”
“Space?!” Lilith interrupted. She scowled disdainfully. “There’s nothing in space! Just rocks and big balls of toxicity. What are the humans doing up there?!”
“They send people up to mine metals from asteroids, ma’am,” Hopper replied. “And some people go to Mars. I think they’re trying to colonize it.”
“Mars?!” Leviathan exclaimed. “The red one? Isn’t that whole place radioactive?”
Hopper nodded surreptitiously. “And they have to buy oxygen by the hour in these things called Tesla Tanks,” he continued. “And they have to moderate their breathing while working because extra tanks during work hours come out of their paychecks-”
“Wait,” Satan said, halting Hopper with a raise of his palm. “Okay, I’m hearing that labor on earth is getting bad. That’s just one part of life, though. What about their houses? In the last couple of reviews they got refrigerators and air conditioning. Surely their houses are quite nice, by now! Surely they must abhor the houses here in Hell?”
“M-Most of them say they’re just happy to have houses at all here, sir. On earth they live in these tiny, single room lofts called apartments, and if they don’t pay their monthly dues on time then their own electronic security systems lock them out. And their cars, sir, they require paying monthly subscriptions for services like heating, and...”
He continued to answer questions for the next hour, regaling the demons with anecdotes of social media induced anxiety and horror stories of people making customer service phone calls and getting bounced from robot to robot, finally ending with being told to just visit the website, which in turn said to call the support line. Some of the demons gasped audibly when Hopper described how the Americans had invented their own form of purgatory on earth, a place called “the DMV.”
When he concluded his report he watched the other executives anxiously. There were murmurs among the demons, a few hisses and angry snarls, insults traded between them. Finally, Satan spoke up.
“Earth does sound quite terrible right now, doesn’t it?” he mused. “I have to admit, Hopper, I was ready to give you the Prometheus treatment, but hearing what you have to say, I honestly don’t believe it’s your fault. Torturing people must be bloody impossible when earth has become such a shithole.”
“S-So I’m not in trouble?” Hopper asked.
“Oh, no!” Satan exclaimed. “Not at all. In fact, I’m going to help you sort out this mess.” He stood. “Okay, then. Meeting adjourned. Come along now, Hopper.”
“Sir?”
“We can’t rightly be Hell if earth is so much worse,” Satan explained. “So we’re going to fix this debacle.”
Hopper hesitated. “F-Fix it, sir?”
Satan turned toward the door. “I should have thought our next course of action would be obvious, my friend. We’re going to pay a visit to God.”
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