Asmodean, Belial, Whatever

“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!”
“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!”

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