“What have we here?” Belial Asmodean pulled a red, scaley hand over his forehead. It was unusually hot this time of year. The odd stucco ceiling overhead seemed to bleed into his cheap glass of scotch-whiskey as he stood over Judas, cooing over an old broad. “New friend? I’ll bet half of the souls in my collection she willn’t last a day!”
Judas shrugged.
Dolly spat.
Asmodean’s bulbous hairless eyebrow rose, “Has spirit, though, I’ll give her that!”
“What do you want, Belial?”
“Just passing through,” he took a pull from his own flask, “Is she keeping the place unusually warm this year, or what?”
“She’s in a mood!”
Dolly stood, “She? Who the hell is she!?”
The two gargoylish looking men unconsciously ducked, “For the love of Icarus’ wing, keep your blasted mouth down!”
“Why?”
“She’ll hear you!”
“Like I give a flying fuct! Who is she?”
Belial Asmodean whispered, smoke billowing from his flaring nostrils, “Y’know? The Devil! And she’s in a mood!”
Dolly smiled, “Take me! We’ll see if I can’t make it worse!”