AN: Hey all! This was written entirely by Authorette Stalker, just to let you all know. Oh, and we own nothing. NOTHING.
Hades
"'Hark!' The herald angels shout,
Seven years till you get out,
Seven years till you are free,
From life's penitentiary..."
(On A Pale Horse, Piers Anthony)
The contract had said that he had seven years from the point that he received payment. Seven years to live, and to enjoy his fame and success. After that, it would be over. The rest of eternity would be fire and brimstone, and utter, stereotypical, Hell.
The first album had gone by in roaring success. It had been like a roller coaster, everyday gone in a scream. Then they'd taken the hiatus--how stupid had that been? It had left them only a short time to record and push out a new album. Things had fallen completely apart. He had lost his greatest asset, his guitarist, to the Hell that had been meant for him during the filming of one of their videos. He had known he was bound for Hell around that time. He should've recognized her disappearance for what it was... At least when he realized that he was still there, still alive.
Of course, at the rate things were going, he was losing success faster than a pregnant Disney star. It was obvious his supernatural aide had been pulled. The five year interlude had practically been Hell anyway. Constant running, hiding, disguises... When the demons finally stopped tailing him, he had a whole new set of problems, not to mention suspicions as to why they'd stopped chasing after him.
As it turned out, the time he had been on hiatus hadn't counted as part of his contractual time. His supernatural aide had been returned, and he was all set to record a third album... But the dark powers had thought it would be a good joke to deprive him of his guitarist, and drummer. They'd only allowed him the singer because they were afraid to hear the bassist's crow-like screeching on the tracks. And even so, he had had to go to the lengths of kidnapping 2D, along with half the collaborators.
Fans had gone wild for the new album's release, glad to have the band back, even if it was incomplete. None of them counted on the last concert ending in a shower of fire and demonic chanting...
Now the infamous Murdoc Niccals stood on the banks of Hades, waiting his turn for the ferryman to carry him across, flipping his token from finger to finger while the line before him grew ever shorter. One thing was for sure--he had never expected Hell to be quite so... Boring.
With a slight sigh he turned to the woman behind him, "So, wot're you in for?" he asked conversationally.
The woman glared at him, "Sshh!" she hissed, putting a finger to her lips. He received a few other looks, mostly annoyed.
"Well, aren't you lot a lovely bunch?" he snapped sarcastically to the collective, "Lighten up, i's only Hell."
More glares.
The bassist wasn't finished. He stepped out of the line, standing on top of a convenient rock so that he could see the lot of them, "Is there anybody here who thinks this's all bullshit?" he shouted.
Quiet murmurs began to echo through the line.
"Anyone?" the Satanist shouted a little more loudly.
A few people began moving out of the endless line to stand before him. Then more. And more, until a crowd had gathered. A few recognized him, murmuring to those who stood next to them. One spoke up.
"Oi, Nerdoc! Still a git even dead, I see." the voice was an older parody of one he knew.
Murdoc couldn't help but roll his eyes, "Ah, Tony--'ow'd that shelf stocking job go?" he asked, not really caring what the former bully said, simply wanting to create a spectacle.
"Got crushed to death by a pallet of soup cans, if you must know." Chopper replied with a disgusted look, "One of yer band's songs were playing when it happened. Course yer fame means nothing now. Playing field's even now, idn't it?"
"Chopper, I've always been better than you, now we'e dead, that 'asn't changed. Now, if you'll excuse me, I woz about to rant."
"You toss, this's 'ell, you don't 'ave any rights!" Chopper shouted back.
"Exactly!" the bassist snapped back, taking his rant anyway, "This is Hell--wot the bloody fuck is everyone doing acting like a bunch of angels? Yer 'ere 'cause you obviously aren't!"
More murmurs, a few nods of agreement. The crowd began shuffling around, a small ripple moving through as a dark figure shoved its way to the front.
The figures eye's were obscured, an icy cloud showing where its breath would be. It was a thin, almost skeletal figure, hunched over and twisted looking, as if it hadn't moved this much in an eternity, "Back in line. There are rules to be observed." the figure of Charon spoke, voice rattling.
Murdoc threw his head back, laughing madly, "There're only rules if you choose to follow them!" his voice was a continuous yell, "We're dead! Wot're you gonna do? Resurrect us?" he laughed again, "Anarchy, my pets! That is wot Hell is all about. And look at you lot, simply towing the line. Even now, yer just going with the crowd, not a single thought in your washed up little heads is your own!" He began walking, hopping off the rock and moving purposefully to another side of the crowd, "Think my lovelies--wot's different now, apart from state of being? Tell me that!" the bassist stood on the bank, scanning the endless crowd. Charon was tangled in a mass of people. Murdoc took full advantage, jumping into the boat and standing on one of the benches, "Think for yer bloody selves," he laughed again, "You write the rules, the depths're the limit! Ciao!" with that he pushed off from the shore before anyone noticed what he meant to do. He heard shouts of sudden anger as the boat drifted away into the fog, moving on across the river. He grinned, taking up the paddle to row, "Suckers."
Now that that bit was done, it was time to cause some real havoc... Beelzebub would have his work cut out for him.