it went up in flames like a flash-paper bikini when the original Lucifer, the real Lucifer, blew out of town after sticking me with the job. The trouble for the rest of the Council is that I don’t know how fast I want Downtown back in working order.
I say to Buer, “I’m fine with Hellion pride. It’s troubled times, the team’s in last place, and they need a pep rally. Cool. But I don’t want Hell’s capital looking like we’re about to goose-step into Poland.”
Obyzuth turns the blueprints around. I still don’t know what she looks like. She wears an ivory mask that covers everything but her eyes, and a curtain of gold beads covers them.
She says, “Buer’s designs expand and celebrate many of the classic historical motifs of Hellion design. I like them.”
Obyzuth is into the spiritual side of the rebuild and doesn’t usually comment on things like this. I’ve upset her. Good.
I say, “This Nazi Disneyland stuff, it’s too cheap and easy. It’s like something the Kissi would dream up.”
That’s hitting below the belt. Calling a Hellion a Kissi is like calling Chuck Norris Joseph Stalin. Buer looks like he wants to stuff the blueprints down my throat with a road flare. Obyzuth and Semyazah look at me like they caught me eating cookies before dinner. Marchosias raises her eyebrows, which is about an inch from her challenging me to a duel at dawn.
The Bad Dad thing usually works. Hellions are big on pecking orders and I have to remind them regularly who’s at the top. Now they need a pat on the head from Good Dad before things go all Hansel and Gretel and I end up in the oven.
“You’re a talented guy, Buer. You get to redesign all of Pandemonium for the first time in about a billion years. No one’s going to get a chance like that again. Throw out the Albert Speer bullshit and modern up. When God tossed you fallen bastards into Hell the builders were the only ones who saw it as more than a pile of rocks and dust. Do that again.”
I can’t believe I’m learning how politics and court intrigue work. I feel a little dirty. I miss punching people. It’s honest work but I don’t get to do it much these days.
Marchosias shakes her head. She’s skinny, pale, and birdlike, but her instincts are more like those of a velociraptor.
“I’m not sure. In unstable times people need comfort. They need the familiar.”
“No. They don’t. They need to see that whoever’s in charge has balls and vision. They need to see that we’re making a new, bigger, and better Hell than they ever had before.”
Obyzuth nods a little to herself.
She says, “I cast the stones this morning, and although I like Buer’s work, if things must change, the signs are in an auspicious alignment for it.”
“See? We’ve got auspicious alignments and everything. We’re golden. Let’s draw up some new plans.”
I pick up a handful of little crackers from a bowl on the table and pop them one by one into my mouth. Really, they’re fried drytt eggs. Drytts are big, annoying Hellion sand fleas. I know that sounds disgusting, but this is Hell. Besides, if you fry anything long enough, it gets good. The drytt eggs go down like fried popcorn.
Semyazah hardly reacts to anything in these meetings and he chooses his words carefully. He says, “You’ve been dismissing everyone’s ideas for weeks. What ideas do you have?”
“I worry about this place ending up like L.A. All Hellion strip malls, T-shirts, and titty bars. The Pandemonium I remember is more of a Bela Lugosi–and–fog kind of town. When I have to choose between Dark Shadows or fanny packs, I’ll step over to the dark side every time. Have any of you ever seen a Fritz Lang movie called Metropolis?”
They shake their heads.
“You would love it. It’s about bigwigs that kick the shit out of proles in a city that’s all mile-high skyscrapers, smoke-belching machines, and office towers that look like dragons fucking spaceships. The place is clean, precise, and soul crushing, but with style. Just like you. So that’s everyone’s homework. Watch Metropolis. It’s in the On Demand menu.”
That’s right. Hell steals cable. Call a cop.
The three most popular TV shows Downtown are Lucha Libre, Japanese game shows, and The Brady Bunch, which Hellions seem to think is a deep anthropological study of mortal life. I hope watching the Bradys depresses them as much as being trapped here in Creation’s shit pipe depresses me.
“Let’s take a break. I need a drink.”
I walk to the bar and sit down. I make the Council hold its meetings here for a couple of reasons. The first is that Hellions love their rituals, and trying to get anything done is like a Japanese tea ceremony crossed with a High Mass, only even slower. There’s enough ritual hand waving down here to put the Dalai Lama to sleep.
Reason two is this place. It’s Hell’s version of my favorite L.A. bar, the Bamboo House of Dolls. The main difference between this and the other Bamboo House is that Carlos runs the bar in L.A. In Hell, it’s my great-great-great-granddad, Wild Bill Hickok.
Wild Bill already has a glass of Aqua Regia ready for me when I sit down.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“About what?”
“About what. About the damn meeting.”
“I think you’re about to drive them fellers crazy.”
“They’re not all fellers.”
He squints at the Council.
“There’s ladies in the bunch?”
“Two.”
“Damn. I never did learn to tell the difference with Hellions. ’Course they’re all pig-fucking sons of bitches to me, so what do I care if I guess wrong and hurt their feelings?”
I don’t think running a bar was ever Bill’s dream job and he’s not exactly the type to throw around a lot of thank-yous, but I know he likes it better here than in Butcher Valley. Bill died in 1876, was damned, and he’s been fighting hand to hand with other killers and shootists in that punishment hellhole ever since. Taking him out was the least I could do for family.
“Is anyone giving you trouble? Do they know who you run the place for?”
“I expect everyone’s aware by now. Which don’t make me particularly happy. I’m not used to another man fighting my battles for me.”
“Think of it this way. This setup isn’t just about me having a place to drink. It’s about showing the blue bloods who’s in charge. If anyone hassles you, it means they’re hassling me, and I need to do something loud and messy about it.”
He puffs his cigar and sets it on the edge of the bar. There are scorch marks all over the wood.
“Sounds like it’s hard work playing Old Nick. I don’t envy you.”
“I don’t envy me either. And you didn’t answer my questions.”
He’s
