On that red night, when Satan had shot himself, he had not woken up. When Mammon’s personal assassins killed him, he had not woken up. When Asmodeus had torn him limb from limb, Satan had not woken up. When Azazel had returned and riddled him with bullets, Satan had not woken up. It’s been a year since that night, and despite many, many deaths, Satan has still not left Winchward Beach. What has become of his true body? What will become of him?

‘Shaken, not stirred,’ Satan tells the bartender.

‘You ordered beer,’ replies the man. ‘From the tap.’

Satan gives a mirthless chuckle. ‘Oh, now you people give me attitude.’

The bartender pours Satan’s drink and slides it onto the bar. ‘Just stating facts,’ he says.

‘You’re not real,’ says Satan without looking at his drink. ‘How’s that for a fact?’

The bartender grimaces. ‘Hey, words hurt.’

‘Look!’ Satan suddenly shouts, pointing to his forehead. ‘Horns! BIG HORNS! Why does nobody ever bring them up? Mortals don’t have horns!’

The bartender shrugs. ‘Everyone’s different. I’ve got a cousin with six fingers on one hand.’

‘Your cousin doesn’t exist.’

The bartender seems taken aback. ‘Okay, questioning my existence is one thing, but you stay away from sixer! You know what?’ He grabs Satan’s drink and dumps it into the sink behind him.

‘Pour him another,’ says the voice of a child.

Satan turns on his seat to see Asmodeus in his dormant form strolling up to the bar. The jumpsuit-wearing boy carries his head in his arms. He’s barely taller than the stools lining the bar. Satan’s throat tightens. If he’s dormant, Asmodeus wouldn’t be here to attack. Satan knows this, but the mere presence of the boy still unnerves him. Asmodeus has a different air about him than Lilith and Aosoth did. It’s an oddly familiar sensation, like déjà vu.

‘What do you want?’ Satan asks as the bartender obediently replaces his drink.

‘I want to play a game,’ Asmodeus replies in that creepy child voice of his.

Satan takes a sip. ‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ he says.

‘If you don’t play I’ll tear your fingernails off.’

Satan thinks for a moment. ‘Right.’

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Winchward Beach’s most renowned casino is that of the Golden Pitchfork, a towering complex of slot machines and playing cards. Today, Satan had made the unwise decision to have a drink in one of its many bars, and now he’s here, under Asmoedeus’ thumb. The demon leads him from floor to floor, hall to hall, of flashing neon lights, jingling coins and rowdy patrons. A poker table erupts into a brawl after one fake player accuses another of cheating. A drunken man shouts at a blackjack dealer. Hundreds of slot machines spin their colourful symbols. Satan decides he’ll build a casino when he gets back to the Sheol. It seems like a good time. Eventually, Asmodeus stops at a roulette table. He nods to the croupier, then turns to Satan.

‘Have you played roulette before?’ asks Asmodeus.

Satan shakes his head and slips a hand into his jacket pocket. Asmodeus studies him for a moment. He knows what’s going to happen.

‘It’s quite simple,’ he continues. ‘Just follow my lead.’

Come to think of it, Satan finds that he hasn’t much questioned why he knows so much terminology and information from the Winchward Beach world. So many technologies, social customs, places and things, exist here but not in the Sheol. Perhaps it’s a stem of Archey Billiard’s knowledge of the world. He was a part of it, after all. Satan shakes the thought and lets Asmodeus take the first turn. The demon boy chooses red first. Satan decides to one-up him and take both red and black. He’s pretty sure that’s not how it works, but it wasn’t like either of them were going to play by the rules in the first place.

The wheel begins to spin. Satan realizes all the numbers are sixes.

‘Killing you isn’t our concern anymore,’ says Asmodeus. ‘We’ve already beaten you entirely.’

The ball lands on red. Both Asmodeus and Satan win money, apparently.

‘What is your concern now?’ Satan asks.

Asmodeus places his head on the table. ‘Beelzebub and Lilith. They’ve become an infestation in the construct. We want you to remove them.’

‘Why exactly would I do that?’ Satan asks.

‘Revenge. Beelzebub and Lilith humiliated you. Both of them betrayed you before you could betray them. You are a failure of a Satan.’

Satan laughs and pulls a revolver out of his pocket. He shoots Asmodeus’ head off the table, splattering the wheel in festering black ichor. Asmodeus’ body reacts, beginning to bulge and break, tendons snapping and bones splintering. The boy’s spine erupts from his neck hole, shooting out ten metres in the air. Mighty spiked ribs burst from it, joining together to form a cage. Lanky, clawed arms of yellowed bone materialise after, followed up an elongated skull of unsightly proportions. The ruined flesh body this skeletal monster had grown out of stumbles about, struggling to regain control of its muscles. Black blood flows from its neck like waterfalls, coating the floor in a gleaming coat of darkness. The casino’s patrons and staff melt into black goo, becoming one with the vile ocean. The smell is unbearable. The furniture rots, shrivelling up like dead leaves. Walls and ceilings collapse, bent and broken by the brutal force of Asmodeus. The skeletal creature, Asmodeus’ true form, cackles as flesh forms over its bones. Red and black, with giant, engorged eyeballs. It flops to the ground, creating a tidal wave of black goo. Satan looks at the abomination, then at the single gun in his hand. Maybe he had come underequipped.

‘You only invite suffering into your life,’ Asmodeus gurgles. ‘Help us, or perish a thousand times more whilst your true body rots and your servants abandon you, revolted by your own madness and idiocy.’

Satan can feel Asmodeus’ anger and disgust like a miasma wafting through the thick and humid air. It’s a tangible, psychological force. It’s all psychological in the Beach, anyway. None of this is real, despite how it feels.

‘What’s your problem?’ Satan asks the creature.

‘YOU ARE UNWORTHY!’ Asmodeus roars back, his grotesque form quivering.

Satan checks his bullets. Five left. He should have brought something with more ammo. There’s a lot of things he should have done. A lot of regrets that would have been easily preventable with a dash of foresight and planning, but no. Satan just has to rush into every battle like it can be fought with brute strength alone. Not this one. He won’t make another dumb mistake. Satan pockets the revolver and runs.