The Infernal Cafeteria Coup

There is a reason there has never been a coup in Hell, although there was an attempt in Heaven. This funny story has been spawned from my study of the Hierarchy of Creation. Book available in our store. Link to Bookstore.

The Infernal Cafeteria Coup. The cafeteria in Hell was a depressing little joint called The Burning Bun. The décor was a mix of medieval torture chamber and DMV waiting room. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry locusts, and the vending machine only sold expired energy drinks and lukewarm irony.

At a scorched steel table sat a group of demons on their mandated 15-minute union break, trays piled with eternally overcooked lasagna and something labeled “Magma Slaw.”

Balthor took a bite and winced. “You know what I’ve been thinking about lately?”

“Don’t start,” groaned Krazik, already three bites into his lava muffin. “Every time you say that, someone ends up cursed or demoted to the Department of Tedious Sins.”

“No, listen,” Balthor insisted, flames dancing from his mouth as he spoke. “Just—remember when we followed Lucifer in that whole ‘rebel against the Most High’ thing?”

Everyone groaned in unison, as if someone had brought up their college poetry phase.

“Yeah,” Merek muttered. “I remember. ‘Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven,’ right? Sounded good at the time. Real edgy. Very 90s villain chic.”

“Well guess what,” Balthor said, waving his spork like a pitchfork. “We don’t reign. We micromanage. Do you know what I did this morning? I alphabetized a list of passive-aggressive Facebook posts.”

“I spent six hours convincing a guy to yell at a Starbucks barista,” said Krazik, sulking. “That was our big evil plan today.”

Merek slammed his tray down. “And don’t even get me started on The Crucifixion Debacle. Remember that? ‘Let’s kill the Son of God,’ he said. ‘It’ll totally crush the enemy’s morale,’ he said.”

Balthor threw his hands up. “Next thing you know, boom! Resurrection. Redemption. Church potlucks. It’s been a PR nightmare ever since.”

“Millions of souls lost,” Merek said, shaking his head. “And all we got was this lousy goat-blood T-shirt.”

A silence fell over them, filled only by the background screams of the eternally damned and the soft jazz coming from the breakroom radio.

“Maybe it’s time,” Balthor said slowly, “that we… you know. Fire him.”

“Fire Lucifer?” Krazik blinked. “Can we even do that?”

“We rebelled in Heaven,” Merek said. “Seems like this should be easier here.”

The three demons looked at each other with a glint of rebellious hope in their eyes.

And then they all turned slowly toward the end of the table.

There sat Frank.

Frank was different. Frank was quiet. Frank wore reading glasses on the tip of his snout and sipped eternally lukewarm coffee with the solemnity of a monk. In his claws was the latest issue of Demonic Monthly, with the headline: “7 Fresh Tortures That Say ‘I See You’”.

“Frank,” Balthor said. “We’ve been talking. We think it’s time for a leadership change.”

Frank didn’t look up. He licked his claw, turned a page, and murmured, “Nope.”

“What do you mean ‘nope’?” said Krazik. “You’re the smartest one here. You never get promoted and you never get demoted. You’re like… infernal beige. We need you to lead the coup.”

Frank looked up over his glasses.

“I have spent 8,000 years pretending to be mildly competent. That’s how I survive down here. You think I want to lead Hell? That’s just middle management with extra brimstone.”

“But Lucifer’s a terrible boss!” Merek said. “He’s always talking in riddles, yelling at mirrors, and starting speeches with, ‘When I was the brightest star…’ We’re exhausted.”

Frank sighed and set the magazine down.

“You guys want to overthrow Satan? Be my guest. Just know that the last guy who tried is now in charge of cleaning the toilets in the Gluttony Sector. With his tongue.”

The trio shuddered.

Balthor slumped back. “So what do we do?”

Frank picked up his coffee, gave it a thoughtful sip, and said, “What we always do. Grumble, procrastinate, and wait for the next apocalypse. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s an article here on how to fake productivity using smoke effects.”

And just like that, Frank went back to reading.

The demons sat in silence for a while. Then Krazik poked at his magma slaw.

“…You think Heaven would take us back if we said sorry?”

Merek shrugged. “I think we can rule that out.”

M. Joseph Hutzler,

Eschatologist