Selfish Beings. J Morris L
had progressed a long way and he anticipated a great improvement in his long game.
A glance at the clock on his wall told him the meeting would be starting in moments. Mastema dismissed the golf-ball embedded messenger and walked to the changing room adjoining his office. Most of the Lords preferred either black robes or baring their upper bodies, covering the lower with fur loincloths decorated with flayed flesh belts, skull buckles and other such nonsense. Mastema found the exposed red abdominals and fuzzy underpants look disgustingly clichéd. He liked suits. Nice suits.
Mastema had been lucky enough to stumble in to a tailor of sorts decades earlier whilst slumming it in one of Perdition’s less exclusive drinking establishments. The elderly man had helped design dress uniforms for the Gestapo and elements of the SS before his eternal soul had been sent to Hell. What Mastema had, in essence, was a wardrobe of Hugo Boss originals.
He selected his most sombre-looking black suit and an exquisite silk shirt of a slightly lighter hue. After changing, he examined himself in the gilded full-length mirror in his suite. The black attire contrasted nicely with his deep red complexion and complemented his void-like eyes and sharp features superbly. Mastema deemed the overall effect to be both professional and dashing as he left at a leisurely pace for a meeting that he was already late for.
Like all of Perdition, the Soul Reaper Tower was nothing like the imagery the foolish Mortals associated with Hell. Mastema had not set foot upon their world for centuries but he had heard the rumours - a pit of fire and despair that looked like an angry and palsied volcano was consulted as the interior decorator, it was absolute nonsense. Perdition resembled nothing more than a vast, sprawling city, with a variety of stone in every colour and type imaginable used to build it. Beyond the ever-encroaching city limits was a boundless desert of black sand. An immense fire burned in the sky but only to provide heat, light and to make up for the lack of a sun. It was majestic more than threatening and at night it smouldered with a soft glow that was almost romantic. The tower itself was a marvel of differing shades of marble, gold edging, glass and dark woods stained and polished to a sheen. If the stupid Mortals had any idea what Perdition was really like then Mastema and his fellow Lords would have had no trouble meeting their demanding and never-achieved quotas.
All eyes were on Mastema as he slammed closed the black marble doors of the Board’s chamber. No gathering of the Lords could begin without the entire Board present and Mastema’s tardiness had only prolonged the other members’ fear and anxiety at the meeting’s purpose. None of the waiting Lords commented on his late arrival; the visual daggers they threw his way were indicative enough of their anger. Like everything Mastema did, his belated entrance had been on purpose. It showed how unconcerned he was at the request; he was superior amongst his so-called equals and held none of their fears.
Let them scramble when Abaddon shouts, he thought. I come when I’m good and ready.
With a faint sneer on his lips, Mastema looked around the burnt oak table and found his usual place was already taken. The smile at his one-fingered salute to the hierarchy of Hell was quickly wiped away as the cost of his display became apparent. The only available seat was next to Samael, Bringer of Death and Destruction, a Lord who possessed the strength of a thousand demons, the IQ of a semi-retarded brick and a homicidal rage viewed as excessive, even by Perdition’s standards. There was also the issue of Samael’s stench. The strength of a thousand demons apparently brought with it the body odour of a thousand pairs of unwashed feet. As far as Mastema was concerned, Samael could keep that particular blessing. Sighing, he ignored the glares of his fellow Lords and with great resignation took his seat next to Samael.
‘Nice loincloth,’ Mastema said as he proceeded to lean forward and block the Demon’s view of the Chairman.
Samael could have easily backhanded him out of the way, several miles out of the way in fact. However, such an unprofessional display during a meeting would have brought severe penalties from the Chairman. Samael instead let out a low, threatening growl and Mastema grinned at the brute’s enforced impotence.
Abaddon, King of Demons, Voice of Lucifer and Chairman of the Board, stood before the gathered Lords in a resplendent blood-red robe with gold trim, a surprisingly calm look on his stony face. His anger at Mastema’s late arrival was gone, replaced with a quiet appreciation of the subtle way he had forced the mighty Samael to kowtow to protocol. It was a paltry display but against a great and powerful opponent. Such rivalries between Lords were expected and encouraged. In any case, if Samael’s grimace was any benchmark, Mastema would be feeling pain and punishment enough soon after the gathering. The Chairman signalled for silence with his hands and rose to address the Board. There were far more pressing matters than Mastema’s lack of respect and punctuality.
‘My fellow Lords, I have called this meeting on behalf of none other than Lucifer himself to address a grave and growing concern. Humanity is expanding at a phenomenal rate and the ratio of souls we are claiming is in no way matching it. Needless to say, Lucifer is extremely displeased with the situation and, by extension, with us.’
Abaddon took a quick account of the assembled Lords and the undivided attention he received from all pleased him. Although he was certain the Board would understand the gravity of the situation, their silent confirmation was a welcome reassurance.
‘Asteroth, our venerable Treasurer, has been going over the figures for some time. I will not overburden you with the statistics and his explanations of data-models but, even in his best case scenario, the situation is dire. Assuming half of the souls we are not claiming are going in to Limbo, which is to say the least highly optimistic, we are losing souls to the Hated One at a ratio of almost three to one.’
The assembled Lords visibly began to show distress at the news; if in the best case Hell was gaining one soul to Heaven’s three then Lucifer’s anger was well and truly justified. Mastema saw glances between the opposing factions of the Board and knew the blame-gaming and scapegoating was only moments away. In the interests of keeping the meeting brief and making his afternoon tee time, he decided to step in and redirect events.
‘Esteemed Chairman, if I may offer an opinion?’ he asked.
Abaddon, wondering which of the other Lords Mastema was about to artfully try to heap the responsibility on, nodded his permission.
‘This news is most regrettable and whilst I, and without doubt my fellow Lords, fully understand Lucifer’s anger I believe perspective is important. We play this game with the souls of humanity on behalf of our Master, yet it is the opponent who owns the board and who made the pieces. The Hated One has churches, cathedrals, magazines and missions. We have nothing of the sort. They have books that explicitly tell people what they can do to avoid Perdition’s grasp and over hundreds of years those have painted such a bleak picture of us and our realm that no mortal in their right mind would consider walking our path. I’m sure we have all seen frescoes and paintings of how they view Perdition, all volcanic rock and flames. I wouldn’t want to visit a place like that, let alone spend an eternity there.’
The surrounding Lords nodded their heads in agreement. Whilst they all detested Mastema, his attempt to fault the situation rather than themselves was most acceptable.
‘Humans have free will and an untold number of decisions to make in their average lifespan,’ Mastema continued. ‘Only a few of which lead them down our path. Even then, almost all of those must be committed in extremity. The Bible and other religious texts show them in such black and white morality that any fool with half a brain can steer well clear of us. I say the game is rigged and we need to renegotiate the rules of claiming. Was it not after Lucifer made the wager with the Hated One and we left the so-called Paradise that the Bible was given to man? Surely that is cheating, or at the very least an unfair advantage, and either we have won by default or the rules should be changed to even up the playing field.’
The Demon Lords roared in agreement as Abaddon barked a harsh laugh. He motioned for Mastema to sit down and them to be quiet.
‘Ah, Mastema,’ said the Chairman, once he could be heard, ‘it is said that a poor builder blames his tools; so instead you fault the parents of the architect. Do you not think our esteemed Master foresaw