The Idiot’s Guide to Hell, by Aym the Disgruntled, Upon Threat of Samael the Git

I think teenage me was high off sugar when I wrote this???

Angels and demons, though immortal, shave.  They are men, after all.

Michael uses a a straight razor.  He does not like mirrors.

Samael, always hungover, draws 666s in the shaving cream and sings like Tom Waits.  He likes to practice his smirk.

Gabriel, the hip one, uses an electric razor so his skin is cherub-soft.  Metatron has a beard.  Most archangels are clean shaven.  It goes along with the professional environment and hierarchy as old as dirt.

Demons are another matter.  Most follow their fancies, excluding Beelzebub.

Beelzebub never whistles.  His bathroom is spotless and silent.  Like Michael, he does not smile.  He stares into the dusky mirror and makes clean, precise cuts with his sword.  The foam blends with his off-white skin and iced hair, which is sensibly cropped.

He wears moth-eaten gray suits each day, with a pocketwatch and black handkerchief.  Butterflies and larva hitch rides on his tie.  When he descends from his tower, he carries his ledger and cane, a merciless device that sheathes his sword.  Its pommel is a silver spider, for he is Baal Zebub, the Lord of Flies and Souls.  Like gnats, the Departed fall into his web.  He sieves through the good, which are useless to him, and ensares the most wretched of souls.

Samael is the funnel.  Baal the spider in wait below.  When Samael is drunk, he addresses Baal as Lord of Butterflies.

To Beelzebub’s chagrin, the epithet stuck.

No one knows how Lucifer shaves.  Women dream, perhaps, but all who have seen are dead.

Once they shave, archangels require breakfast.  Gabriel is a pill without his juice.  It’s usually fig or pomegranate, but he will settle for cranberry.  At lunch, he drinks lemonade.

The archangels eat together on occasion.  Metatron takes Earl Gray and asks about the weather, which he is genuinely interested in.  Michael drinks Red Bull and watches the sun rise, listening to his brothers.  Before its invention, he chugged coca tea.

Raphael drinks Tabasco sauce.  Only the bravest of souls, and dragons, dare to enter his kitchen.  He and the Reaper trade recipes, as Raphael’s cooking is to die for.

Hell’s coffee machines are perpetually broken, and the bane of Duke Aym’s existence.  Their meeting room is notoriously understocked, and visitors from other pantheons gripe about official visits to Dis.  Gabriel, usually annoyingly upbeat, sours at the lack of juice boxes.

Once, when the Court of the Sanhedrin held council to judge the Damned, Gabriel and Aym staged a rebellion against the lack of caffeine.  Soon Penemue’s Department of Clerks went on strike, Beelzebub’s Accounting department followed suit, and the Damned ran away with the buffet food.  Soon, half of Dis was in the palace, and a party was soon underway.

Demons are not good at taking orders.  Samael’s calls for order were silenced by Gabriel’s horn, and the drunk Messenger blew the Reaper halfway to Abaddon.  It wasn’t until Lucifer entered the Sanhedrin, frowning even more than usual, that the Council and cohorts fell silent.  With a voice like ice, he declared the Court adjourned.  It was the only time in eternity the Judgment had been called off.

Disillusioned with the Empire he fell for, Lucifer retired to Pandemonium to grab drinks with Beelzebub.  The two were so depressed they forgot to don disguises, and were subsequently swarmed by mobs of fangirls.

Demons are scared of two things: boredom and estrogen.  Every action they take is to avoid these, especially emotional women.  It is slash fan-fiction, not binding spells, that is most effective against their advances.  Pink accessories and Disney songs are also very potent.

In the Idiot’s Guide to Hell (penned by Aym the Disgruntled upon blackmail of Samael the Git), restaurants are ranked with negative numbers and vie against each other to be outrageous.  Potential tourists are advised to steer clear of them and instead frequent establishments that serve mainstream fare.  A good way to avoid food poisoning and possible devouring is to avoid restaurants with human pillars of salt by the doors.  These morbid salt shakers are sure indications that only the most twisted of Fallen are welcome here.

The Idiot’s Guide is deliberately written to trick you.  Read its advice and do exactly the opposite.  Street lights in Hell are rigged to cause collisions: instead, cross in the middle of the road and drive on roofs, if possible.  Minor devils enjoy hitching rides on traveler’s backs in a Gogol-like fashion, and for the price of carrying them, you can get the local scoop on Dis.  Several entrepreneurs have started Rent-an-Imp companies that are supposedly doing stellar.

It is almost impossible to census Hell’s profits, as 99.8% of business is conducted on the Black Market.  Any legal dealings are taxed at 66.6% with co-pays of virgin blood.  Only dishonorable demons operate under the law.

Angels interested in day-trips should wear funny hats to disguise their halos and wallow in mud to hide their scent.  To most demons, angels smell like Lysol, and the scent has been known to cause mobs.  Elves are welcome as long as they bring Keebler cookies.  Gods must go through customs, and demi-gods require chaperones.

All of Hell is inappropriate for minors, but Belial and Asmodeus are more than willing to give them an unforgettable stay.  Tour groups to the Court of Lords are welcome, and many nobles will personally incinerate your Bible for you and autograph your hand with the ash.

What about mortals in Hell?  Are you shitting me, child?

There are no mortals in Hell.  Most demons do not believe in their existence.  Daemonic theologians have debated mankind’s existence for centuries, and the general consensus is that Man is an outdated idea created by demons afraid of the Light.

You are a girl?  A human?  You, my dear child, are mad.

Humans are monkey’s tails, and that is the end of that.

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