‘Do we even need seven hells?’ the newcomer asked.
The question brought immediate silence, something even Satan struggled to achieve in board meetings some days. The Devil’s meetings were notoriously raucous and debauched – as was appropriate – and genuine, soul-sucking silence like this rarely presented itself.
Do we need seven hells? The newcomer’s question. A bold play. Keen to impress and climb the corporate ladder, Sofitel thought. Maybe this one had visions of filling Satan’s shoes someday. Sofitel hoped the newcomer was patient. This Satan’s tenure had barely begun; and best gig in the underworld, retirement was a long way off.
Who is this upstart? Sofitel wondered. Intrigued, she studied the newcomer as she plucked a bottle of Dom from the nearest chiller. Wavy grey hair framed his swarthy, chiselled face, while green eyes burned below beetled brows. The tailored suit screamed of a privileged mortal existence, but that could be a feint. Strange he still wore his suit. Everyone else in the room was in varying states of undress. Sofitel had retained her skirt and bra, but her dress was missing and Brendan from Accounts had adorned his afro with her knickers.
Sofitel’s eyes strayed to the stack of papers in front of the newcomer. The top page was blank, giving no clue as to what devilry might lie beneath.
Sofitel ached to ask the obvious question but that wasn’t the way things worked. Thankfully, Satan was feeling playful.
‘Do we even need seven hells?’ Satan echoed, his voice reminiscent of a TV-voiceover-guy. He was proud of that voice. He practised it often. Sofitel thought it naff, but one didn’t say such things to the boss.
Satan continued. ‘Are you thinking we need more … or less?’
The newcomer’s lips moved. It looked like he was about to say the “F-word”. Fewer. Sofitel’s hands tingled in anticipation. Satan revelled in these petty taunts. But correcting the boss’s grammar was a one-way ticket out!
‘For the sake of argument,’ the newcomer said, ‘let’s say seven hells seems excessive. Efficiencies could be achieved by—’
The riotous clamour that ensued was justified in Sofitel’s view, and not only because the newcomer had sidestepped Satan’s trap. This upstart dared to wade into her territory. She was CEO! Satan’s 2IC! Outrageous!
Before she could pitch a lobster at him though, a serf entered, bearing a Krispy Kreme box. He laid the box before Satan then scurried away.
Satan opened the box. ‘Ah, doughnuts,’ he said, beaming. Satan glanced at the newcomer. ‘Tell me, newbie … iced or glazed?’
Again, Sofitel’s eyes went to the newcomer’s wad of papers. He’d done his homework on a potential restructure of Hell, but had he done his homework on what was really important to Satan?
A bead of sweat dribbled down his cheek. He had a fifty-fifty chance of the correct answer, true, but his hesitation sealed his fate. He’d be booted before the cheese platter arrived.
Her position safe, Sofitel quaffed her bubbles in one gulp.