08. Nostalgia

08. Nostalgia (Job Revisited)

Deep in the heart of the infernal city of Pandemonium lies The Abyss, the most infamous nightclub in the whole of the Underworld. Its doors open every Friday afternoon at five, and from seven o'clock, the air around it is saturated with the best rock, metal and industrial music produced by man.
Inside, the stage is surrounded by the biggest and best speakers ever built. Cables snake around the speakers, up the walls, and along the floor under reels of gaffer tape. Heavy metal fences separate the mosh pit from the dance floor and enclose the area kept for the orchestra and chamber choir called for by Hell's unique brand of operatic metal.

At the other end of the hall, where the music is just quiet enough to shout over comfortably, is the bar. If you can name it in any of the tongues of men, angels or demons, they can mix it, with the possible exception of the Pangalactic Gargleblaster, on which they're still working.

The whole thing is owned and managed by a creature who calls himself DJ Sammy (any resemblance to the mortal DJ of the same name is entirely coincidental), and, like in so many soap operas, a lot of life in Hell plays out within its black-and-crimson walls.

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The fallen angel slammed his empty bottle on the table.

"So, I wozz all like, eat th' apple, Eve! And she was all like, but God'll own my ass! And I wozz like, dass okay, you eat it an' you'll be like him! And she was all like, okay!"

The other occupants of the table snickered into their respective drinks. The figure on the left of the tale-teller punched him on the arm in a friendly manner.

"See, Sammy, dat's why you're an angel an' I'm jusht a demon!" the figure slurred, one hand pointing vaguely to the small horns poking out of his dark hair. The tale-teller shook his head dramatically and waved away the compliment.

"Nah, it wern' that good, Balth." Sammy waved the bottle at one of the other figures. "Wern' as good as what you done to that Wossissname, mi'lord!"

The young man seated on Sammy's right raised an enquiring eyebrow at the person the angel had indicated.

"Wossissname?"

"Yeah, can' remember 'is name," Sammy tried to clarify. "Wha' was it? Joe?"

"Job," declared the indicated figure, grinning widely. "Ah, good times!"

The young man on Sammy's right furrowed his brow.

"Don' remember him," he said.

"Nah, he was a-fore your time, Billie-" The figure was interrupted mid-flow by the appearance between him and Billie of a man in a leather trench coat, laden with an assortment of beverages.

"Oi, budge up, Sam!" the newcomer declared, and the interrupted figure obligingly moved his chair six inches to the right. The newcomer deposited the drinks on a spare bit of table and began the complicated procedure of distributing them to the gathered people.

"Right, coke and lemon, that's yours, Billie-"

"Cheers, Luke."

"Sammy, Budweiser..."

"Ta, mi'lord!"

"Bloody Mary for Balthazar..."

"Thankye."

This went on for some time, until all the drinks had reached their respective owners.

"And, finally, pints of Cobra for me and our beloved Overlord and Master!" Luke slid said pint in front of their beloved Overlord, who eyed it suspiciously. After ascertaining that it wasn't going to do anything unexpected, he gulped half of it down in one and continued.

"Now, where was I?"

"Before my time," offered Billie.

"Ah, yeah. Okay, so there was this bloke called Job. Very holy guy, got a whole book to himself. And he was gettin' my back up one day with all his holiness and whatnot, so I say to God, 'That Job dude, he's really not all that.' and God's all like, 'Oh yeah? Why not?' and for some reason I said, 'Bet I can get him to curse your name!'. Yeah, so from then on, it was kinda a bet. See if I really could get him to curse God. Killed his kids, maimed him, give him burns and boils in embarrassing places, kinda thing. Usual stuff."

"So, d'ya get him to curse God?" Billie asked. Satan frowned.

"Y'know, for the life of me, I can't remember!"

"And that means 'no'," Luke mumbled through his beer. Curiously, Satan didn't smite him on sight for daring to doubt him. Instead he leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head and smiled nostalgically at the ceiling.

"Ah, Job. Good times, that. Wonder if he remembers me..."

"Doubt it."

"Wanna bet?"