Beelzebub was having a decidedly off-day. Hell was having its coldest winter in eons, his most recent plan to enslave humankind was temporarily put on the backburner due to budget overruns and now it transpired that Jesus Christ’s comeback tour was outselling his own Hellzapoppin’ extravaganza by a considerable margin. Normally the evil overlord would counter his mounting depression with some mindless sadistic torture but all the fun had been sucked out of that since Hell had been overrun with lawyers all too willing to countersue.
Walking amid the furnaces he contemplated throwing in the towel. Running Hell wasn’t the great job it once had been. How he longed for the days when he didn’t have to fight unions on a daily basis, the Catholic Church could still be counted on to reach its quota of heretics and any harm he inflicted on his tortured souls didn’t seem peanuts compared to the Patriot Act.
A couple of centuries ago he had almost handed over the reins to Hell to his eldest son, but he’d backtracked at the last minute and fed him to the dogs instead. If he hadn’t done that someone else could have sorted out this bloody mess while the Prince of Darkness sipped hot lava in the porn actress section of the underworld. Maybe he should call it a day, Beelzebub pondered. See how they’ll like that.
So the next morning he officially resigned from his post, packed his bags and was never seen again. After a brief period of confusion and turmoil, an accountancy firm acquired a controlling majority of the underworld and put forward plans to cut costs, maximise profits and increase brand recognition among Hell’s residents. As Beelzebub had foreseen in his cunning move, the place would never be more insufferable.
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