Spawn of Satan

Part II: The Pub of Unknown

Whilst darling bouncy little Pearl occupied herself with histrionic hyperventilation over the presence of Father Dickinson, the Father's master occupied himself with subtly cheating in a drinking contest in a metaphysical pub. Now, this pub was indeed a strange pub, affectionately termed The Pub of Unknown: it was of unknown size and unknown origin; the patrons clumsily followed an unknown dress code, the opening hours were not known to any, not even the barkeeps with the unknowable faces. Nobody knew what ingredients were in the drinks that were consumed or food that was served, nor which material went to make the glasses and cutlery; if there were age restrictions of any kind, they were ignored; no one knew how they got there, or where there was, or how much anything cost, or what the currency was, or if, indeed, there was any sort of currency.

So it was your average British pub, basically.

"He's cheating," Allah grumbled when Satan went away to order the next round of drinks. Now Allah, of course, did not take part in the drinking contest; he was one of the few patrons of the Pub of Unknown who, when asked what he would like to have, always replied, "Your unknown metaphysical equivalent to orange juice or tap water, if you please."

Jesus Christ waved the accusation away, fingers going to his mouth in an attempt to suppress a drunken hiccup. "Oh really, Ally," he burped. "You're too suspicious by far; why does no one forgive and forget in the afterlife? And really, why would His Infernal Majesty cheat on something as mundane as a drinking contest?" Christ was a young, handsome fellow with earnest eyes and a quick smile that everybody couldn't help but be charmed by; even the Devil had been won over in the end (though his wife, a reluctant Fallen Angel who had always liked Jesus since he was a little toddler, could have had something to do with it).

Allah sighed and rolled his eyes. "You're too trusting," he said to the bright, honest-faced man, "It's no wonder you ended up crucified."

Jesus literally turned the other cheek, closed his eyes, and counted slowly back from ten. Everyone, barring his Father, always used that incident when they wished to put him in his place. It had been tolerable for the first century or so, but now it was beginning to irk him.

"Yes, I can see your point," he said serenely. "But the look on everyone's faces when Father resurrected me was so worth it."

There was a crash, followed by a string of blasphemous curses that made Christ's cheeks glow scarlet.

"That is it!" His Infernal Majesty grumbled. "Next time, Shiva gets the drinks!"

Shiva, who was on the other side of the bar flexing his numerous biceps in an effort to charm a pretty blue-haired angel with a considerable bosom, paused in his macho flirting to glare at the Devil, making several rather crude gestures with three of his hands, but the Antichrist ignored him.

"Alright, who ordered the metaphysical equivalent of the Bloody Mary?"

Jesus closed his eyes, a pained look on his face, and Satan smirked inwardly.

"That'll be me," Vishnu said, raising his hand. The red—or was it red?—drink slid easily across the table of unknown wood.

"Piña colada?"

"Here," Buddha said, and Allah turned to glare at him.

"What?" he snapped. "I've achieved Enlightenment now; there's no need to deprive myself any longer, is there?"

"I'm not admonishing you for drinking alcohol," Allah replied stiffly. "I always knew you and your Buddhists didn't have any real self-restraint—you just have to look at your lax beliefs and principles for that; no, I'm scowling at you for not choosing a more respectable drink."

"What's so disrespectable about piña coladas?"

"Well… It's a rather poncey drink, innit?"

"There is nothing feminine about piña coladas!" Buddha snapped, hurriedly throwing away the pink paper umbrella whilst Satan casually slipped the metaphysical equivalent of vodka into the Christian God's unguarded cup (Jesus was far too absorbed in the discussion between Buddha and Allah to pay attention; if he hadn't had been so trusting, he might have kept an eye open).

"Cocktails are quite feminine drinks, overall," Allah noted serenely.

"But at least they are a drink," Buddha sneered in reply, casting a derogatory eye over Allah's orange juice, and Satan bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking at the profound, philosophical conversation his colleagues were having.

"My choice of orange juice in no way undermines the effeminacy of your piña colada! I'm just saying that they're not as masculine, as say… The Devil's rum," he pacified with a nod towards the man in question.

"Sorry about that," the Almighty announced as he returned to sit beside his son. "Gabriel's been harping on about the return of the First Daughter of Pleasure."

"Oh, is that what all of the text messages were about?" Satan queried politely, sliding the Black Russian across to his supposed archenemy.

"Yeah, but I've given him a few tranquilliser darts, so hopefully he'll be out for next century or so."

"Nice," the Devil commented, taking a sip of his rum. "I never did like Gabby; always thought he was a bit up himself."

"You know, you're not actually the first to call him anal," God agreed, his finger tracing the rim of his cup thoughtfully. "He's been getting on everyone's nerves lately; time to demote him, d'you think?"

Satan raised his hands. "He's your archangel, mate."

God merely grimaced. "Don't remind me," he grumbled, groaning when an all-too familiar beep came from his belt.

"Gabriel again?" Satan guessed.

"No, Mickey."

"Mouse?" Jesus guessed.

"Not for another three centuries; which reminds me," he added, turning to his alleged nemesis, "how is your son handling the creation of what will become the Walt Disney Corporation?"

"Oh, you know; early days…"

"Well you better tell him to hurry up; his deadline is only two-hundred-and-seventy-years away!"

"Watch your tone," the Devil warned. "You don't want me raising my Armies of Darkness and storming the Gates of Heaven, do you? Besides, the kid is only four-hundred-years-old…"

"That's no excuse," God dismissed, and Satan narrowed his eyes.

"Don't tell that to the missus, she'll rip your testicles off."

"Yes, but we're immortal, we can always reattach—or wait for them to grow back…"

"Doesn't stop it from hurting," the Devil muttered. "Trust me on that one." He then lowered his eyes to his rival's belt. "Are you going to get that, or…?"

"Oh, fine," God relented, stomping away from the table again. "Don't touch my drink!" he threw over his shoulder without turning his head, thus unable to witness Satan freezing with his arm outstretched at these words.

"How does he do that?" he asked Jesus, disgruntled.

The Christian Messiah shrugged. "He's omniscient, what more can you expect?"

"So, Pyro," Buddha said casually, leaning closer to the Devil and patting his hand affectionately. "How's life been for the past century or however long it's been?"

Satan scowled and drew his hand away; like most of his equals, he didn't really like Buddha; nobody did (with the exception of Jesus Christ, which speaks for itself, really.)

"Nothing's really changed…" he replied casually. "Had to let some of the uglier concubines go to make room for the seven thousand new ones, but besides that…"

"'Uglier concubines?'" Allah repeated, nose wrinkling in disgust. "I'm sorry, I might not have been paying much attention to the inner workings of Hell's Harems, but exactly which ones are what a normal person would deem 'ugly,' or even 'vaguely unattractive,' for that matter?"

"Are you implying I only allow visually-pleasing women into my harems? That's rather offensive, actually."

"Well, don't you?"

Satan drew himself up to his full height. "Al, I think it's time you realise that there is more to a beautiful woman than a nice face and magnificent bosom—"

"Is there?" Buddha asked petulantly.

"Of course not, but that's entirely irrelevant—" And he turned back to Allah. "As I was saying, sometimes beauty comes from the inside; those with beautiful interiors and only just above averagely pleasing exteriors were the ones I got rid of."

"Ugh, men," Jesus rolled his eyes. Every other god ignored him; they were used to his vaguely effeminate mannerisms.

"Oh. So, how are the concubines, then?" Buddha butted back in, and Satan sighed.

"Bloody irritating; they think that, for some inexplicable and unjustified reason that defies all forms of logic, that just because they are a part of my harems, it means they automatically have the right to share my bed—"

The remaining deities looked at one another and rolled their eyes, causing the Devil to stop, looking at them in confusion.

"What?"

"Well, this is just an example of infernal hypocrisy, innit?" Allah piped up. "You're like this every century we meet, whining about the number of concubines you're supposed to spend your days and nights impregnating—"

"A terrible way to spend eternity, to be sure," Vishnu added.

"Do you realise what the impregnating leads to?" the Devil asked in disbelief. "Children—Children of varying colours, heights, and hybrids. And do you know what that leads to? Cannon fodder for my Armies of Darkness. (And don't the mothers whine about that fate, the ungrateful harlots.) And what, do you ask, is the purpose of creating my Armies of Darkness? To storm up and take over Heaven—and why, in the name of God's arse—"

"Oi, I heard that!" boomed an omnipresent voice.

"—would I want to do that?" the Devil continued, ignoring the interruption with practised ease. "I mean, have any of you been to Heaven? Put your hand down, Christ, you look overly enthusiastic and vaguely retarded—Heaven is overrated," he continued, whilst Jesus lowered his eyes in disappointment.

"Now that's just one step too far," God announced his return, placing a hand protectively on his son's shoulder. He fixed his unwavering eyes on Satan, who glared defiantly back. "Mick's just raised up the subject of the FDoP—"

"What's that? 'Fed up?'" Buddha asked, wrinkling his forehead in confusion at the same time Satan calmly stated,

"Take it up with the wife; it's her daughter."

"Yes, but she's yours as well," the Almighty reminded.

"With a smidgeon more respect than is actually due, all things considering," the Devil calmly replied, "I very rarely get involved with child-rearing for fear that… that emotional… things develop."

"Do you mean 'love?'" Jesus asked, and Satan winced.

"Yes; exactly. That is the emotional thing I was referring to; trust you to bring it up," he added with a disparaging glare.

"But surely you love your wives," Jesus pursued.

"How dare you accuse me of such filth!"

"…Well, what about the principal wife, then?"

"That's not love, per se; that's just… an emotional… thing…"

"Anyway," the Lord brushed over, steering the conversation back to the original topic. "As I was saying, this First Daughter business has got all of the admin department in a slight panic, which I personally wouldn't mind, considering how they're all just a bunch of under-qualified tossers with nothing better to do; that being said, the quality of the filing has really gone downhill since the FDoP's return…"

There was a brief silence as Satan allowed this statement to sink in.

"…You want me to spend my night off chasing after a prematurely-deceased chit just so you can get your filing cabinets back in order?"

"Yes; would you mind terribly?"

"Well of course I would mind—"

"Sorry, excuse me," Allah interjected with a disbelieving glance at the Devil, "a night off from what, exactly?"

"Partaking in reluctant fornication with beautiful concubines," Vishnu replied on the Antichrist's behalf (and he most certainly didn't appreciate that input).

"It's a lot more tiring than it looks—" he began heatedly.

"Well, I suppose, if you don't have a lot of experience—" Buddha interposed, but was silenced as Satan's fist closed tightly about his trachea.

"Don't strangle the demigod," Allah put in mildly, sipping absentmindedly on his non-alcoholic beverage.

It took several more of these verbal exchanges, and a narrowly-missed slap from a passing angel, to finally convince the Devil to leave, after which he could be found grudgingly walking along in the vague hope that he would altogether miss his rather inept henchman and the newly-acquired charge, and after half an hour or so of mindless wandering, decided it best that he return home, where the promise of calm and rest awaited him.

He was being, of course, as these characters tend to be, hopelessly optimistic.

"No!" Pearl continued to squeak, banging her hands petulantly on his back, refusing to be slung over the henchman's shoulder any longer. "No! No! No! You cannot make me go to Hell! I'm too small and cute and—"

"—sweet and bouncy to go to Hell," Father Dickinson completed wearily. "Yes, yes, my small, cute sweet, bouncy one, so you've said for the past two hours…"

Pearl stopped her pounding to cross her arms as best she could, scowling at the unfairness of the afterlife.

"Your Infernal Majesty!" he suddenly exclaimed, and Pearl let out a gasp as she found herself suddenly falling with an undignified squeak as the henchman knelt submissively before Her Infernal Majesty.

"Oh honestly, Leonard, what's all this?" Pearl heard a woman's voice ask as she sat up, shook her head, and proceeded to look very cute and sweet and bouncy and lovable. "My ladies have been complaining of a horrendous yet oddly endearing squeaking…"

Pearl squeaked indignantly at this, which probably didn't help matters.

"Oh, it's you!" she heard the woman squeal in delight, and before Pearl could turn around and take a long hard look at the woman addressed as 'Your Infernal Majesty,' she found herself being scooped up and pressed against a warm female body, her skull being covered in adoring kisses.

"My little Pearl!" the unnamed, unseen woman continued to coo. "My darling little baby! Oh, honey, how I've missed you…"

Pearl's blue eyes widened at this.

"Si-Si?" she squeaked, more in shock than anything else.

"Si-Si? Who's that? You've never called me Si-Si before…" the woman who apparently was not Si-Si continued to frown, and Pearl found herself being turned around in the woman's arms until she was looking into a face that undeniably was Si-Si's.

"Whatever happened to 'Mama?'"

Pearl could only stare up at the gently smiling woman in shock, and in the minute or so of shocked staring that followed, Her Infernal Majesty's husband came waltzing in, muttering under his breath as he slung his coat carelessly across the still-kneeling Father Dickinson's back.

"Sweetheart, you wouldn't believe some of the ridiculous things that the Almighty Cretin was saying to me earlier this evening," he told her offhandedly. "Some drivel about our first child returning, which as we know is completely ridiculous, as she's not scheduled to die for another seventy years, by which point she would have successfully taken over the human world under my name, thus converting every one of those miserable transient-living bastards into worshipping at my—"

"Hornie!" the woman that looked like Si-Si but was apparently not Si-Si exclaimed excitedly, turning on her heel and holding the slack-jawed Pearl out happily. "Hornie, look!"

For a moment, Pearl and the Devil merely stared at one another in mutual amazement.

"…Pearl?"

"Papa?"

Satan cast his eyes ironically heavenward before lowering his gaze to look at the girl once more.

"Oh, bugger."

-x!x-

AN: Te he he…