The Old Blog in the Desert

Hell’s infernal library had seen stranger meetings, but few as absurd as this one. Two figures sat across a table made of smoldering bones, surrounded by shelves stacked with books that screamed when opened.

Allistar Crowley leaned back in his chair, flipping a coin that occasionally burst into flame. “So, Anton,” he said, eyeing the man in the goat-headed robe, “how long do you plan to just sit around while Old Scratch runs this place like a poorly managed carnival?”

Anton LaVey drummed his fingers on a grinning skull. “Oh, I don’t know. The perks aren’t bad. Free fire, eternal nightlife, plenty of screaming fans.” He smirked. “Though the management is a bit medieval.”

Crowley grinned, sharklike. “Exactly my point. Imagine we take over. Two modern minds, one infernal empire. No more pitchforks and brimstone clichés. We’ll rebrand the place! Call it,” he snapped his fingers, “Inferno Enterprises.”

LaVey raised an eyebrow. “With you as CEO, I suppose?”

“Co-CEO,” Crowley said with mock sincerity. “You handle PR, I’ll handle the demonic logistics. Together we’ll have this place running smoother than a Faustian bargain.”

Their laughter echoed through the library like hyenas choking on smoke. Unfortunately, Hell has ears.

Lucifer Morningstar himself, six wings tattered, eyes like dying suns, materialized in a flare of heat. He was dressed, as always, in a perfectly tailored suit that somehow managed to look both regal and sarcastic.

“Gentlemen,” he said smoothly, “plotting a coup again? How quaint.”

Crowley tipped an invisible hat. “We prefer to call it creative leadership restructuring.”

LaVey nodded. “Demons love rebellion. We thought we’d give them something fresh to chant about.”

Satan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You two are the reason we can’t have nice eternities.”

“Come now, Lucifer,” Crowley said, lounging back. “Don’t be so territorial. Surely you’re tired of all this eternal management. Paperwork, torture quotas, the occasional exorcism…”

“Oh yes,” Satan interrupted dryly, “because you would do so much better at running Perdition. Tell me, Crowley, do you even know how to manage a soul ledger?”

Crowley hesitated. “Well, I’ll delegate.”

LaVey leaned forward. “You’re missing the point, Satan. This isn’t about ledgers, it’s about vision. You’ve been ruling with fear and punishment for millennia. It’s outdated. We could turn Hell into a brand.”

“A brand?”

“Imagine merchandise!” LaVey gestured wildly. “‘Get Thee to Retail.’ Infernal NFTs. A streaming service, ‘HellFlix.’”

Satan stared. “You want to turn eternal damnation into a subscription plan?”

Crowley shrugged. “People are paying for worse.”

Lucifer opened his mouth to retort, but then everything went still. The fires dimmed.

The screams faded. Even the walls seemed to hold their breath.

A light, not warm but absolute, filled the room. God had entered Hell.

He wasn’t the bearded man from paintings, nor a pillar of light. He appeared as a calm presence that somehow filled every molecule of existence.

The temperature dropped from infernal to clinical. Crowley and LaVey froze mid-conspiracy, and Satan straightened like a schoolboy caught smoking behind the gym.

“Gentlemen,” said the Voice, calm, resonant, unmistakably disappointed. “What exactly are you doing?”

Crowley swallowed. “Ah, Your…Radiance. We were, uh…brainstorming.”

“Plotting,” God corrected gently. “To overthrow My fallen son.”

LaVey tried to smile. “We thought maybe a change in management could, you know, spice things up.”

God sighed. It sounded like galaxies collapsing. “You two are incorrigible.”

Crowley leaned toward LaVey and whispered, “That’s better than irredeemable.”

“I heard that,” said God.

Lucifer looked between them, then at the light. “Father, I appreciate the visit, but why are You intervening now? These two imbeciles couldn’t organize a séance without setting themselves on fire.”

God regarded him. “Be that as it may, I don’t like uncertainty in the cosmic hierarchy.”

Crowley frowned. “Wait, you’re helping him?”

LaVey blinked. “Yeah, I thought You two were…you know…not on speaking terms.”

Satan folded his arms. “I was wondering the same thing, actually. Why would You help me?”

The silence that followed stretched like an event horizon. Then God spoke quietly, but with the finality of a supernova.

“Because,” He said, “I don’t know those two. But you, Lucifer, you are a known quantity to Me.”

Lucifer blinked. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face. “Well…I suppose there’s comfort in familiarity.”

“Don’t push it,” God said.

The light faded. The fires returned, and Hell began to breathe again.

Crowley looked around, dazed. “Did we just get smote by brand loyalty?”

LaVey groaned. “Apparently, yes. Divine nepotism at its finest.”

Lucifer adjusted his cufflinks, the smirk returning. “Gentlemen, I believe this concludes our little coup attempt. You’re both on toilet-duty in the Lake of Fire for the next century.”

Crowley raised a finger. “Do we at least get matching uniforms?”

Lucifer’s smile widened. “Oh, you’ll match. After a week down there, everyone’s the same shade of blistered.”

While being dragged away by cackling imps, Crowley muttered, “Next time, we overthrow Heaven.”

LaVey shot him a look. “Oh, sure. What could possibly go wrong?”

And somewhere far above, a light chuckle echoed through creation, half amusement, half exasperation. After all, even God enjoys a good punchline.