Upon the Venusian torment-scape, with the stormy and green noxious sky above, the lethargic wanderings of shell-capped creature grabbed his attention. It climbed the steep hill with small, tiny hands gripping the porous stones. All of this, to find a hole, a massive pitch black gap that it filled with its wholesome girth. This creature, this almost turtle-like creature, nestled itself on the hole opening. The gas, (acid in the air) burned at its back and scarred it in the direction of the wild movements of the wind.

He himself crawled into a hole. One just for him. The light above, from the many holes of this cavern structure underneath the mountain, was green. Wasteland in tone and color. And he stopped himself from screaming or talking or even thinking, for at the distance he could see the turtle-creature still. From its stomach, like a birth, something emerged with outstretched arms and necks. Demons. Demons who climbed down, who steered away from the gaseous sulfur atmosphere and the stormy weather above and who walked deeper into the cavern. One of these demons (he wasn't quite sure how many, not yet) produced a glass lantern from his being. He lit it (he heard the noise of the fire spark far before he saw it).

"Lead, slave," The demon tossed the lantern at something, presumably, the victim. And this character, small and meek obliged with a shaky nod of his head. He ran ahead, with his candle light by hand, which was a curious invention. It wasn't fire, only partly, and mostly composed of insects, glowing bugs in a glass cage. It's design; angular and sharp and bony. Not designed for human hands or with a human heart.

The tramp tripped, nearly breaking this construction. The demons followed close by, one of them smacked him in the back of the head as if a horse. He ran faster. Tripped less. His noisy foot steps lead them all through the winding path, his breathing and sighing echoed through the small cave. They came to the heart of the mountain. A deep cavern, a large space. The tramp was hunched over, low. The demons walked cautiously. It smelled of rancidity. It felt tingly, burning on his skin, as he watched the demons and the slave behind a pillar. Or stake. It was hard to tell with all the stalagmites decorating the ceiling. The fumes rode up to the wall, burning blue and yellow colored murals, like ocean waves. Further beyond, to a spot the demons were nearing, there was glistening. Sparkling. A mountain of coins wrapped around one side of the cave like a golden snake, tapering along the edges. Gold, minted coins. He picked one up to see what was etched on it. Latin, a strange figure, a strange symbol. He tried to put it in his pocket but it fell through. It made a noise. A large dink. He hid behind the pillar. The glares of the demons were obvious. Their sudden shush, frightening.

Silence.

It resumed.

He peered through the edge of the stalagmite he hid behind.

[i]What's gold to a demon? Wealth to the wealth-less?

Perhaps it was the aesthetics of the gold. The weight of the mound. The virtue of having something, when others did not.

And he looked down, at his feet or where they should have been. And he looked at his hands, as to what he was. He looked up and around, a ghost in this sullen place.

[i]Hell? Why back here? Why this far down?

There was a gust of wind. He thought it was the winds above, storms. Then it came again, with sound too. A voice. The whole cave shook. The topaz encrusted walls quivered, the stones and gems interred into the earth fell like comets. Candy-colored stars. Then, as he looked closer at them, like meteor showers. Deadly.

Three stood tall, the tramp was thin and shaking. All of them bent their knee.

All of them had their heads low, in front of them, to the throne. The diamond, gold, platinum, silver throne. The rainbow amalgamation of all material things. Useless things.

And the throne bearer, king, wriggled in that uncomfortable chair. Sat on his conceit, lived for it.

Whatever [i]thing sat there. It was most certainly conscious, with a mouth so wide and wet that the very action of opening it created a suckling noise. A smacking sound.

"It's that time again." The throne sitter said. He lifted his finger, he wore rings on each one and chains that connected them all like a line of cuffed prisonners. He pointed beyond, to a green, spitting pond.

"Screwhead," One of the demons urged the tramp. "Go grab the tallies."

He nodded his head, in excitement this time, with an almost obscene desire to please with the wide grin on his head. There was more light in this star-lit room. The gems were still reflecting light. He could see the tramp for his full form, the thin and shambly clothes, the golden rings hanging by his neck and weighing it down, craning it like a vulture. Two wide ears, zebra colored skin.

He ran across the cavern and into a pile of gold. If he had any bruises, they'd be lost in his natural pigment.

The other three followed him with calm patience as they skirted past the mounds of gold. Screwhead, however, played in these mountains of gold like a ballpin, throwing and shoving coins into his pocket. One of the demons glared at him. His smiled died. He went on, to the center of the room where a large pool laid, the sickly fumes coming up to his face. It burned, it seemed, as Screwhead looked away. The tips of his dingy hair, dyed by the very presence of the fumes. In his pockets, he produced the golden sticks and extended them out. He crawled to the demons, now hanging by the edge of the pool. They were unfazed. Uncaring. They grabbed the tallies, each having one.

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"Well?" The man at the throne said. "Name your champion."

"And of the Old Man? Had he not that grit of man, noble and cruel?" The shortest Demon asked.

"Grit, mayhaps," He said. "Cruelty, certainly. Patience, too much. He's since died, a victim of his own procrastination. When swift action was necessary, he failed. So now we're picking a new champion."

"Ah," One of the Demons approached the pool.

"His name is Calabrina," He heard the voice behind him. At the sight of the face, he almost shouted.

"Shh, don't waste your time understanding it."

He held his breath and returned to watching the demons. Calabrina, who had on him the two pointy shoes like a jester would, whose wide face highlighted the small features, nose, beady eyes. He was white-fleshed. Bleached.

"My vote is for Floyd, a passionate man like that would make a great champion. A mighty curse bearer." He threw in his lot. The image of the boy flashed upon the pond, then the moving picture of his daily leisure. He was at a bed, speaking to a young woman. The image faded.

Another demon came up.

"Malacoda, the mute,"

Malacoda, whose long and sharp face gave him the appearance of Nosferotu himself. Vampiric in stature, in fashion. He wore what appeared to be drapes, long sleeves of black that contained his whole, thin, body. He lived up to his name and said nothing. He threw the stick.

A wide shouldered person appeared. He had a cane and a long sash across his forehead. His hair was slicked back. His face, rigid, wooden, imposing. And he prayed to a small altar, in a wooden shack. At least, that's what the pond showed. It disappeared, fizzled out, after a while.

"Last one? Teryon, you've been silent." The throne said.

The third demon stood some distance from the pool, looking at something.

[i]At me?

He hid his face behind the stalagmite again. He reappeared after a while, at what he noticed was a crazed creature. Wide eyed, completely white, with two small pupils in his eyes. His head, large, comically so. He did not blink. He did not waste his movements. He had a small hat, red, at the top of his head.

Teryon.

He looked like a sultan, with the baggy-gaudy clothes puffing his body. His eyes dragged around like searchlights, moving pillar to pillar. He hid again.

His heart beat (how did he have a heartbeat? He didn't feel normal, concrete, physical).

Teryon stopped at the pond. The stick plopped on the water. This signaled him to come from his hiding, to watch again as the pool rippled and faded. It turned and splashed and bubbled. The tally rose to the surface like a lost ship, then sunk.

"My vote is for Aenea. Courageous and kind," Teryon said. "For it is only the truly kind person who can sin truly. All else is ignorance. She will win, she has that evil in her to win."

And so it was, each with their tally, each going back to the king, each now with a look of suspicion and a passing glance at his hiding spot.

"So it's done then? When will the competitions be held for our champions?"

"Later. Eventually. There are things that must occur first, that have not yet. That are delayed. But they will, Fate has claimed so much."

"Delayed? Why's that?" Teryon asked.

"Heart-eaters," The man in the throne sighed. "Blights. Abortions of heaven and hell. There's nothing sadder than people who fight against Fate."

The mute, Malacoda, spat.

"Yes, curious, aren't they?" Calabrina said.

Curious and annoying, they all repeated. And repeated. And repeated. Their words, echoing. Their voice, like the tracking sound of bats, sonar. Their heads wandered, they looked in all direction. The observer stood behind a pillar, the corner of his eye scanning for the demons. He felt their gaze, felt their words and their shame and felt them hot on him. Perhaps it was just him seeing this? Speculating? All of this was crazy enough as is and perhaps one of his blood rushed, nervous thoughts had deluded his thinking. So he thought, breathing, staring at the demons, watching them.

[i]Careful, careful...

He hid behind the pillar. And stupid, stupidly curious; reappeared.

Malacoda flashed. Stood in front of him.

He jumped back, the other two approached him. The cavern shook, and the rocks fell.

"Who is it?!" The long, drawn out voice of the man in the throne said. "My sanctum, oh my dear, sweet home."

The person in the throne cried.

"Greedy, greedy!"

It laughed. Laughed and cried.

He walked back and tripped, his back hitting a wall, his heart beating so fast it might as well have been one consecutive sound-beat. He was to die. They all approached him. He was to die. They looked down at him, as he crawled on the floor.

He was going to die.

Malacoda extended his arm, his long sharp fingers reaching for the observer. They were inches from his face. Centimeters away.

And something pull him. From behind.

[i]They got me, it's over.

He felt his shoulder, his whole body turn. Again, he saw the face from earlier. Again, his heart stopped. He who had lead him, who had brought him, who was his shining, smiling guide.

Astyanax grinned, wide.

"I never thought you a voyeur." He said. "You should have left earlier ago, save yourself the stress. Now, look at you? You've gone and horrified yourself."

Astyanax pulled Apollo, dragged him back, into the wall, into the darkness. And he (Apollo) felt it like a shock of thunder. A blunt hit against the temple of his head.

He awoke in a pool of sweat. The bed sheets left the outline of his writhing sleep. He wiped his face, but his arms were full of it too. His body hair clung and stuck to everything like spider feelers.

"What the fuck?" Apollo asked. Dion yawned to his rear, his head was face down onto the pillow.

"What happened?" Apollo asked, to himself mostly. "It felt bad."

[i]But I don't remember.

He looked at his shaking arm, rested it on his beating heart. He was afraid, though did not know why.

Why?

He laid his head down. He looked at the clock. It was midnight, still.

He groaned and felt his chest, to the heart and lungs that raced.

"I feel god fucking awful," He muttered. And he was sure, with a night of nightmares left, that he would continue to feel god fucking awful.

For he was an amnesiac to horror, and as all amnesiacs, he was nostalgic for the pain.