Note: This is not a romance, and if for some odd reason it ends up having romance in it, I am NOT making promises of it being slash or het. That's a lot to make a commitment to, and it might not even happen.
Alright, this first chapter won't make sense, 'kay? They usually don't. Heh.
Note: Fanfiction is being incredibly gay and wouldn't do italics and stuff, so please ignore strange tabs and such. I have to go through tomorrow and fix all those. >.
Prologue: Lake of Fire
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A nether realm of the devil and the demons in which the damned suffer everlasting punishment.
The normal and stereotypical depiction of Hell was a place of vile and disgusting abuse and torment, filled with those who have sinned and their agonizing screams. Volcanoes and dagger-like mountains reach for the blood-red sky and rivers of lava and blood flow through the cracks and crevices of said mountains, spewing over the edges in painful waterfalls. Demons ran around, fiery electrical prods in hands, ready to stab unsuspecting victims. Their piercing laughs would echo across the foreboding land and they would dance the dance of the undead, and would do so for all of eternity.
He knew, however, that Hell was a mindset. Hell was everywhere, there was no avoiding it. Hell was what you made it.
He made it home.
It was where he was born, it was where he grew up, and it was where he would spend all of eternity. He learned everything he knew here. It became a place of adoration to him, a place he would always hold close to his un-beating heart.
Now he lay, at the ripe age of seventeen, on his bed of black and red sheets, staring intently at the rocky ceiling with his black and hollow eyes. Posters of bands plastered every inch of his walls. The eyes of Ozzy Osbourne and the faces of the members of bands like Metallica and Slipknot stared down at him.
In his land of misery and apathy, there was one thing that never failed to clear Damien's clouded head. That was music, no matter what form it came in. As long as there were long metallic guitar riffs and meaningful lyrics, it was enough to shed a little light in the world of darkness he so happily resided in. It was with said music that he escaped reality, travelling deep inside the minds of the artist and understanding the words and feelings they were trying to express.
This was one of those moments, where he had the speakers blasting alternations of Iron Maiden and Ozzy. He knew what the pathetic mortals up on Earth thought of his taste of music. They thought of it as 'Devil music.' He would snort every time this phrase was mentioned, for he doubted the accused knew the exact irony of it. Damien knew the music was not intended for the devil, it didn't worship the devil (although there were exceptions, of course, but there always are), but only the devil and his son could truly understand the depth and perception of the music, for there was much more to them than there were to humans and the like. Smirking, he finally realized the mere fact that in that sense, he Idid/I listen to devil music.
He felt a familiar weight and vibration on his stomach, and he glanced down to find the spiny Lazarus curled up on his stomach, tail wrapped around his bony face. The cat's amber eyes closed tightly, the corners of his mouth twitching with satisfaction as Damien ran an affectionate hand through the cat's knotted fur and scratched behind his ears. Lazarus stretched, revealing his eeringly long length, and returned to his little ball of satisfaction to fall asleep once more.
Damien knew he was often ridiculed among the demons, spirits, and the undead for the cat. Not only was it not the most masculine of creatures, but the name 'Lazarus' wasn't the most valued name among the land of Hades (although he was tired of hearing his father complain about some fake Greek God getting the glory of having Hell named after him). But despite being the son of Satan and completely insane at times, he had certain soft spots that were hard to reach. The second the damned cat crossed the barrier into the realm of the dead, Damien knew he had to protect his cat the best he could from the merciless hands of demons. It was an age-old question; do all dogs go to heaven? Yes, if they were Mormon. The same applied to cats and other animals of course, and who's to say the eternally doomed wouldn't appreciate a companion? Misery loves company, right? Lazarus was rather close to his namesake; born to be named Truffle, he developed tumors and sores, eventually being neglected and forgotten by his owner, and poor Truffle became Lazarus, faithful pet to Damien and happier in Hell than on Earth. Even though there were occasional moments where Damien had his back turned to the cat, and Lazarus would slink out of the stony building to be stabbed or tazered by a demon. The poor cat would shriek and hiss in pain and limp back to Damien's side. The anti-Christ's eyes would glow a deep, eerie red, and at the same time he would both heal the wounds of the cat and cause the demon to spontaneously combust, covering bystanders with goo and blood.
It wasn't often Damien felt something, but when he did, it was with a fiery passion. The only things he felt for were music, his Lazarus, and the dreaded boredom. Apathy was a deadly and vile weapon, and was Damien's own torture. He was a teenager. He had ambitions, desires, and urges. Unfortunately lying in bed with headphones on and drowning the underworld out with music and his cat didn't quite satisfy these urges. He craved despair and chaos; he wanted to demolish something. He had an Appetite for Destruction.
Occasionally he'd wander off from his father's rocky palace made from bones and cooled lava, Lazarus trotting close behind, and would blow things up. He'd set hair on fire. He'd burn people. But mainly he blew up things, and that was sometimes good enough for him. Lately, however, these little acts of boredom didn't seem to feel the same. After a while the tortured and the abused would become used to Damien's antics, and nothing felt the same. What he really wanted was to create chaos on Earth.
He had played the idea to his father at dinner one night, between bites of the most bizarre, most disgusting foods imaginable, and his father had cuffed him playfully on the shoulder and said, "Good boy, just like a chip off the old block." Damien rolled his eyes and stared at his plate, turning the food over with a bloody fork. His dad had always dismissed Damien's fantasies like that; he always thought he was kidding and would return to knitting or reading his favorite book, The Valley of Penises. These kinds of things often irked the young anti-Christ, such as his father's sexuality and as a result of his sexuality, his behavior. He had learned to accept the fact his father was a 'gay homosexual,' but it still took some time to get used to his mannerisms and life style.
Perhaps the hardest thing for Damien to deal with was the fact his father brought home a new man every night. Some nights he brought home complete pussys, the kind who wanted to cuddle on the couch and hold hands while sharing their deepest, darkest secrets. Other nights he brought home assholes and dicks. These were the ones who took complete advantage of his father's weaknesses and his eagerness to please and just wanted to have sex in the bed of the devil. The ones he remembered most were Chris and Saddam Hussein. Chris just disgusted him. He had no spine, no backbone. He let others walk all over him and actually enjoyed it. Saddam, however, was a man. He killed. He maimed. He tortured. He was his own boss and really knew how to work others. For this, Damien idolized him, but it quickly diminished when he saw just how crude and horny Saddam really was. He was a sick, twisted little man, and Damien was rather glad he ended up in Heaven.
Perhaps he remembered these two the most because they both meant more to Satan than anything else ever had, and he just moped and whined all day and all night over what he should do. Despite all the quirks and antics of his father, Damien remained loyal and faithful to him. After all, Satan was the only family Damien had, and even he needed family.
Today was one of the days where Damien just had to get out there and piss someone off. He wanted to blow something up. Lazarus seemed to sense this agitation and glanced up at Damien. He smirked and picked the cat up, tossing it off of him and standing up. He glanced around, blinking as if he were confused as to why he stood up in the first place. Glancing over at the stereo it shut off, and he heaved a heavy sigh. He ran a hand through his long, greasy hair and, stepping over Lazarus, left his room.
He walked into the den to find his father sitting on the pink, over-stuffed couch. He wore his cat-eye glasses and read from a magazine. Upon hearing footsteps, Satan looked up and beamed at his son. "Hello there, Damien."
"Hi," Damien mumbled softly, jutting his pale hands into the pockets of his long, black coat. He refused to look at his dad, almost positive he was goggling over the males in the magazine, probably Johnny Depp or Brad Pitt or whoever the hell else living teenage girls went gaga over.
Satan licked his thumb and turned the page. He grunted with slight satisfaction at something on the page. Just out of shear curiosity, Damien asked,
"Who are you drooling over, Dad?"
"Huh? Oh, uh, Matt Lauer," His father responded absentmindedly. "You going somewhere, son?"
"It would appear so, wouldn't it?" Damien replied, still staring at his feet. He often wondered if it was normal to be ashamed of his father, especially one of such prestige and fame.
"Alright, but be back early. We're having Hitler over for dinner."
Damien rolled his eyes and slammed the door behind him. It was just another day in the home of Satan and Son.
Leaping over the small stream of lava, Damien landed firmly on the other side, feet pressing solidly into the rocky surface. With a meow, Lazarus hopped over with ease, and looked up at Damien as if to say, 'Piece of cake.' Damien rolled his eyes and continued on; glancing through the strands of hair that fell in his face at his surroundings. There was a large gathering of demons huddled around something, and Damien knew who it was. It was a family who had died in a car crash; a mother, a father, and two children. The boy was eight years old, and the girl merely three. The demons were laughing hysterically, throwing rocks at them as they huddled together in a weeping mass, the father over the mother, who in turn was doing her best to protect the children. They were badly scarred, and each had devastating wounds, the boy's head almost seemed caved in where the drunk driver had collided into the side of the car. The mother had several gashes all over her body, from where the shards of glass pierced her skin. The father seemed just as bad as the young boy, having been seated directly in front of him. However, probably the worse one was the little three-year-old girl. Her left eye seemed swollen shut (or perhaps it had been completely gouged out, it was hard to tell it was so mutilated), and she seemed to have several broken bones. The car had been slammed into by a drunk driver and had collided into a brick wall. Because of this, the little girl had twice as many scars as her mother, and had a v-shape cut across her neck and chest where the car seat had pierced her tender, sensitive flesh.
The demons laughed maniacally, throwing more rocks and poking them with burning sticks. The family simply cried in pain as more demons came to join in on the 'fun.' Damien simply walked past the scene, completely unphased by it. He was neither excited nor upset, so he didn't even care to bother to stop them. No, this was Hell, and the poor family would have to get used to it.
Lazarus blinked, watching the untimely display and yowled, staring intently at the little girl. He blinked once more and trotted off after Damien, tail and ears drooping sadly. He still wasn't completely adjusted to the misery of the little ones.
Damien slowed as a familiar voice reached his ears.
"Hey, Damien! Wait up!"
Damien groaned and stopped in his tracks. He turned slowly to face Kenny McCormick. A large knife stuck out of his chest, sticky blood staining his otherwise bright orange coat. "Kenny…" Damien grumbled in acknowledgment.
"Hey dude, what's up?" Kenny said casually once he reached the two. "Hey Laz," He added, before giving Damien time to answer. He reached down to pat the cat on the head, only for Lazarus to hiss and swipe a paw at Kenny. "Ow, shit! Dammit, Laz," he cursed, glaring at the cat and then glancing up at Damien, who wore a smirk. "Oh, I suppose you find this funny?"
"Exceedingly."
"Yeah, glad to see my pain humors you," he snapped, sticking his finger in his mouth to suck the blood Lazarus drew.
"Thisis Hell, and Satan is my father," Damien responded, turning around as if that ended the conversation.
"So? It still isn't funny."
"I'm sorry that my upbringing causes me to have a slightly different sense of humor than yours." He faced Kenny once more, and eyed the knife jutting out of his chest with a raised brow. "What happened to you?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah," Kenny responded airily, wearing a sheepish grin. He wrapped his hands around the handle of the knife and pulled it from him with a sickening sound. "Cartman thought he was a knife thrower. Stupid fat ass," he grumbled, throwing the knife to the ground and kicking it away from him.
"I see…" Damien trailed off, raising his nose and eyebrows in mock-revelation. "What do you want?" He asked, finally getting to the point.
Kenny held his shoulders in a shrug, sticking his hands out. "Well, uh, I am kind of young to die."
"You're seventeen."
"I know. I want to be at least forty," Kenny replied with a cheesy grin.
"Why should I do this for you?" Damien asked, rolling his eyes and groaning.
"You do it almost everyday."
He groaned again. "I know, but I don't know why."
"Because the sooner you send me back, the less time I'm down here bugging you."
"Good point," Damien sighed, grinned slightly as he glanced at the blonde. "You'll wake up in your bed tomorrow morning."
"Thanks again, Damien," Kenny thanked gratefully, clasping his hands together. "Hey, uh, Damien? Do you think I could wake up in Bertha's bed?"
"No."
"Bebe's?"
"If you don't shut up you'll end up in that man Garrison's bed," Damien warned, allowing his eyes to glow to prove his seriousness.
"Christ, dude!" Kenny spat, sticking his tongue out in disgust. "That faggy perv is like what, sixty now?"
Damien nodded. "Almost."
"Ew, gross. Scary thing is he'd do me too. Damn. Now if it were Stan's dad, that'd be forgivable. That man aged with grace." Kenny chuckled, obviously entertaining himself.
Damien rolled his eyes, somewhat grossed out by Kenny's statement. He would have been completely sick if it weren't for the tolerance his father, Chris, and Saddam supplied for him. Still, he was slightly disturbed and that was enough for him. With a wave of a hand, Kenny grabbed his crotch and groaned in pain as if someone had kicked him in his prized possessions.
"God damn you, Damien!" Kenny spat, falling to his knees. Damien simply turned and he and Lazarus continued on their way. They passed several more families like the first, all dying of either the same cause or of various ones. Damien grew more restless with each passing minute, and the desire to rebel grew stronger. Finally he shut his eyes and flung his left arm to the side, sending a large boulder flying across the area and landing roughly on a couple who had been murdered in their sleep. Damien chuckled to himself and stared down at Lazarus, who was sitting quietly at Damien's side, tail wrapping and unwrapping around his haunches.
He continued to torture random souls, and would laugh louder each time. It was as if he were getting drunk off the pain of the others. Each 'hit' left him more crazed and maddened, and his acts of torture increased wildly. Damn, it felt good to be him sometimes. If it felt this good to torture the dead, it must feel even better to do it on Earth. He made up his mind. He was going to Earth tonight, but first he had to return home to eat dinner with his father and Hitler.
Damien turned the food over with a fork. Satan and Hitler exchanged a few words in German before the ex-dictator decided to take his leave. Satan closed the door and turned to face his son. "Well you could have been a little more polite."
"Polite to a dictator? Dad, you're such a fag."
"Watch it, Damien. Maybe I won't be so polite the next time you wanna go out."
"Then I just won't tell you when I go to Earth," Damien smirked, glaring at his father who gasped.
"You're not really going up there, are you Damien?" Satan asked, watching his offspring with a surprised eye.
"I plan on it."
"But why?"
Damien rolled his eyes, temporarily vanishing behind his greasy bangs. "It's boring down here."
Satan couldn't hide his grin. "Alright, my son, but I fear that you aren't strong enough."
"Dude, I've been up there before, when I was eight, and back then I was incredibly powerful. I'm about three times that now."
"And how do you plan on getting there?"
Damien groaned. "Walk through the seven circles of Hell until I walk out of the portal," he responded, as if it were the simplest fact. "I've done this all before. I ineed/i to go up there. What happens when I take over Hell, Dad, and I don't know what the fuck I'm doing? Think of it as training."
Satan sighed. "As much as I'm going to regret this, go ahead. It's not like I could stop you anyway."
"Exactly," Damien replied, heading for the door.
He had successfully traveled through all the rings of Hell. He'd been through the ring where the gluttonous went, and Cerberus, the three-headed dog, pranced around and snacked on the souls. He'd gone through the ring of those who performed acts of treason and betrayal towards God, where they were forced to lie on their backs and have fire rained upon them from the heavens themselves. Damien stood on the edge of the portal, Lazarus at his side. He knew where he was going to end up. It was inevitable. It was that little Podunk town, South Park.
Taking a deep breath of anticipation, Damien and Lazarus both stepped through the portal.
The ground opened up, allowing black smoke to billow out onto the ground. Damien planted hands on either side of the crevice and hoisted himself up with ease. He stood straight, allowing Lazarus room to hop out after him. Standing to his full height, he cracked his neck.
Damien shivered, wrapping his arms around him. It was cold, so cold, and he needed a body to keep him warm.
Tada...there's the prologue. The story doesn't have much to it but the plot should start to come into play by the second or third chapter. Alright…as far as my take on Hell, I did research and just added my own ideas and thoughts to it. And as far as having Cerberus in there, yes, he was from Greek Mythology, but he was also adopted into the Catholic religion and the stereotypical idea of Hell as a sort of torture for one of the rings of Hell. Haha, I wrote the last few paragraphs in Mythology, while we were watching a movie on the Underworld. XD Convenient, eh? Muaha.