Well, considering that Lucifer is knocked out cold, taking one of his classic post-suicide-attempt Nosferatuan slumbers, I guess keeping this project going is up to me, your lead and only reporter left standing, Lord Baphomét Seraphina Eveningstar. As much as I’d like to say that things are going well — they aren’t — I would rather complain. The gritty truth regarding this seedy underbelly we all call home (we have no proven method of delivery to anyone else, as far as I know) is that Dis is an utter disgrace, a wastebin filled with everything that wasn’t up to the high Grey Poupon and Evian standards of the Heavenly elite. Like a massive sewer (what you might call a shithole), City Dis, every corner of Hell, and the unimaginable nightmares of each and every Infernal Realm is just a place for rats and trash. A river of trash, harvesting the dreams of rats. Sometimes I act like a rat, sometimes I feel like a rat, and sometimes I eat trash and squish rats.
Anyway, since no one’s going to read this besides you, Lu, I have an idea: Perhaps, sometime around 2008 or 2009, you should conjure another daily caller to be read by scrying page, honoring my first report. Something along the lines of A Month With Moths or A Year With Yellowjackets. Take a week or two to figure it out. I know you like bears. A Week With Bears? I don’t know, it doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, but I know you’d be corny enough to try. Also, if anyone is reading this, I recommend you try amphetamines. They’ve been helping me avoid a schizophrenic collapse while my faggot lover is in his coma. Probably experiencing a somehow pleasurable little preamble to our perpetual unconscious burning of conscience and flesh in the sulfur pits.
To keep up what I hope to be our signature, I carve a distinction for the dying into the cathedral walls: What divides the powers of nobility? A lonely rat?
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