"You are aware that the more exciting things only ever happen on the lower levels?"
Nike didn't bother to acknowledge Lorenzo's words, keeping her gaze focused on the serpentine queue of lethargic souls waiting for processing and registration. She took the Starbucks coffee cup he offered her, but still didn't bother looking away from the masses of blank-faced people awaiting admission into the place she'd called home for the past 1,300 years.
"Then it's a good thing I don't come up here for the adrenaline rush," she told him, leaning forward to rest her forearms on the observation deck's cool metal railing. She took a sip of the coffee, then wrinkled her nose as the bitter liquid assaulted her taste buds.
"I thought I made it clear that I needed Peppermint Mocha to help me get over the loss of the Pumpkin Spice blend," she told him in annoyance, only gracing Lorenzo with her full attention now that the sanctity of her morning brew had been defiled.
"They're back to their regular menu now that the holidays are over," Lorenzo responded with a shrug as he took a swig of his own drink, and Nike scowled down at the standard white cup in her hand. The only bearable aspect of Christmas had been the short period of actually decent coffee; now she was left with an overpriced caffeine source that any self-respecting Columbian or Ethiopian would surely scoff at.
"Fine. So did you come all the way up to A Level just to revel in the loss of one of the few things that has ever brought me joy?" Nike questioned mournfully, melodramatically tossing her cup of liquid abomination over the railing. She held the back of her hand against her forehead with a forlorn sigh for an extra touch of flair.
"No, although that was certainly an added benefit. Something's going on with the boss. Last night Bryan came running back to my room crying-"
"Was this before or after you fucked him?" Nike casually interrupted, more because she enjoyed mocking Lorenzo's hyperactive sex life than because she was genuinely interested.
It was commonly known among the higher levels of Hell's bureaucracy that Lorenzo was into boys. Not young boys, of course-pedophelia was not and never had been condoned in hell; even demons weren't that evil. No, Lorenzo had a particular taste for the 18-25 age bracket: a group that Nike, and really anyone outside of the demographic, would still consider boys.
"Before. But that's not the point," Lorenzo responded, waiving away her question. "Something's going on with the boss, and I think we need to-"
Nike turned away from Lorenzo at the sound of the observation deck's glass doors sliding open, and it took her a moment to recognize the figure who stepped through the threshold.
She'd already encountered Ruben twice since they'd both returned from their respective vacation days, but she still hadn't gotten used to the new meat suit he'd picked up in London. The thick dark hair, glasses, and cardigan made for a very bookish and unassuming appearance, which Nike was entirely sure the ever-scheming demon had intended. To those whom he did not know personally, Ruben would now appear intelligent but unthreatening and naive-effectively cloaking his true ambitious and ruthless personality.
Clearly Ruben had taken Lady MacBeth's advice to "look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't" to heart. Of course, Nike recalled with a slight twinge of discomfort, the Thaness of Cawdor's treacherous words of wisdom hadn't boded too well for King Duncan…
"Ruben! You've arrived just in time to hear Lorenzo's new theory," Nike called as the young man entered the room, and she came forward to loop her arm through his and lead him towards the balcony. "He has discovered-you won't believe this," Nike gushed with blatantly mocking excitement. "Our very own Lorenzo has discovered that the amount of tears shed by each of his boyfriends can accurately predict the boss's well-being," she cried, fanning back imaginary tears of pride.
Ruben lifted his steaming tea mug towards Lorenzo with a smile, wordlessly congratulating his fellow demon on a job well done.
"Will the two of you quit joking around and just listen to me?" Lorenzo exploded, his Spanish accent thickening as it always did whenever he became flustered.
Nike supposed the accent (and the rage) was one of the side-effects of Lorenzo's obsession with his father, Hernan Cortez; Lorenzo had possessed a retired Spanish soccer player in a misplaced desire to embrace his conquistador roots. Nike had opted for a Nigerian beauty as a tribute to her own West African origins, and had quite enjoyed the high cheekbones, smooth dark skin, and athletic build...while Lorenzo's daddy issues had only gotten him a beer belly and a lisp.
"You've both been gone for the past few weeks-nice job taking your vacation days at the same time and leaving me here stuck with all the work, by the way- so you haven't been around to notice all the changes. But something is definitely different about the boss. First there was the despondency and depression, and now… Well, you guys were here when that started, but after you left he only got worse. And then, last month with Bryan, that's when things got...weird."
"That's when his boyfriends started crying before they had to endure two minutes alone with him," Nike explained in a stage-whisper to Ruben, who snorted into his tea.
"This is serious," Lorenzo shouted, giving a petulant stomp of the designer loafers he'd had imported from Barcelona (Lorenzo refused to wear or ingest anything not designed, produced, and/or shipped from Spain; he went topside every morning to pick up Starbucks for Nike, but always made a pit-stop in Madrid for his own drink).
"So the boss no longer cries himself to sleep. I see no harm in his self-esteem returning to a healthy level," Ruben commented, apparently deciding to humor Lorenzo for at least a moment. Oddly enough, Ruben's acknowledgement of Lorenzo's point, when spoken in his new upper class London accent, legitimized Lorenzo's argument in a way little else could have. Nike smiled to herself as she considered that Ruben's new speech pattern might soon become Hell's Helen of Troy; Nike was sure anyone would sail a thousand ships for that rich baritone in a heartbeat.
"It's more than that, though. It's not as if he felt down for a while and has now returned to normal."
"What is it, then? What's wrong with him?" Nike questioned, deciding she might as well take this seriously; Lorenzo seemed quite agitated, and teasing him about it was no fun if Ruben had given up the game. Plus, as the King's three most senior advisors, if there really was a problem, it was their duty to find a solution and assess any damage that had already been done. The longer they avoided an issue, the more shit they'd end up having to clean up when all was said and done.
"It's hard to explain. He's very...well, he's very distracted. Constantly on his phone, on his laptop-"
"Hang on, you're upset because the boss likes to play Candy Crush and update his twitter during your reports on the D Double-H P?" Ruben asked incredulously, and Lorenzo practically bounced up and down in frustration.
"No, no, no, that's not what I'm saying! And the boss actually quite enjoys my reports on the Demon Health and Happiness Project; just last week we had Jonas install a nacho cheese dispenser next to the fresh tortilla chip oven on U Level, and since then the torture efficiency down there has improved exponentially. But that's not the point!" Lorenzo suddenly shouted after a few moments of pleased contemplation, having gotten considerably off track .
"I'm saying that there's something wrong with him. It's not just that he's constantly looking at his phone, trailing off when he's in the middle his own sentences. He's forgetting to attend important policy meetings because he's so busy typing away at his computer, he's misinterpreting even the simplest reports from up top because he spends all his time thinking about something else. And, last week, he even turned down the chance to wipe Netflix off the map," Lorenzo finished, and Nike felt her stomach drop at that last sentence.
Sure, the other offenses had been pretty bad; the King of Hell had an entire plane of reality to run, and if he started to slack off, his carelessness was bound to start showing in potentially detrimental ways. For example, if he misinterpreted just one statistic, the lives of hundreds of demons up top could be in danger-there was a reason only the best and the brightest became the ruler of hell.
But Lorenzo's last point about Netflix had erased any doubts Nike had possessed about the severity of this issue. Every inhabitant of hell, even the mindless zombies of A Level who roamed about waiting to be processed just below where the three demons currently stood, knew about the King's undying abhorrence for Netflix. The King had even gone so far as to create an entirely new and separate torture network, 1-4 Levels, for all supporters and consumers of Netflix that were unlucky enough to find themselves in Hell under his reign.
As HBO's number one competitor for television distribution, Netflix was despised and reviled by all of hell's inhabitants. The online streaming and DVD ordering service may have begun as a means of easily accessing a variety of television shows, but Netflix had recently begun creating its own Emmy-Award-poaching original series-thus intruding on HBO's territory. The mere mention of the recent success of shows like Orange Is The New Black and House Of Cards was more than enough to send any demon on a hateful and potentially violent rant. And no one had been more adamant about a need to annihilate Netflix than the King himself.
So the fact that he'd neglected to destroy the enterprise when he'd had the chance, that he'd decided against returning the domain of quality television under the rightful ownership of HBO, was the most unsettling news Nike had encountered since she'd heard that Sarah Palin might become Vice President of the United States.
"Something needs to be done," Ruben announced in a grave tone, his shoulders having relaxed only marginally after they'd tensed at Lorenzo's final statement.
"We need to find out what on his phone and computer could be so damned interesting that he'd turn into someone so decidedly unlike himself," Lorenzo advised, and the other two demons nodded in solemn agreement.
"So, who wants to be in charge of hacking into the King of Hell's personal phone and laptop?" Ruben asked dryly, and Nike's finger immediately flew to her face.
Ruben quickly followed suit, but Lorenzo hesitated for just a moment too long.
"You can't be serious! I've been here working my ass off and actually looking after the King, while you've been out stealing the bodies of Cambridge coeds and taking cruises along the Mediterranean," Lorenzo whined, pointing to Ruben and then Nike with an envious pout. "I shouldn't have to do it!" Lorenzo protested, but Nike shook her head.
"Sorry, Lorenzo. We're bound to abide by Hell's official rules when it comes to distributing responsibility. We can't go against the most well known and well respected law instigated by the King himself."
"She's right," Ruben added. "There's nothing we can do. It's clearly written in the Declaration of the Rights of Demons, under the 6th Amendment: nose goes."