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[2/?]

Lucifer quickly straightens out and regains most of his sangfroid, though he cannot suppress a downward curl of the lip.

“Do not trouble me without warning, Agent.”

The Prince of Hell bristles with offense, gnashing ten thousand mouths full of teeth, but continues its address anyway.

“I am only here to report that I did as you asked… and your suspicions were correct. There is a revolt against you on Earth by those who claimed to be your loyal servants. They seek-”

“-To subvert our contract. I know. I can feel it...”

“What is to be our response?”

“Our response?”

Satan turns only slightly towards the floating mass of gibbering corruption that calls itself a Prince and shatters it with a flash of his yellow eyes. Fragments of spirit scream upwards as inky black meteors, retreating to a safe palace somewhere in Dis where they can lick their wounds and reform. An affront like this must be addressed personally.

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[3/?]

“But how?” whispers Lucifer to himself when he is certain no one else is in earshot again.

How indeed. Satan is suddenly aware that he has not meddled personally in the affairs of mortals for almost two millenia, delegating the bulk of temptation to lesser creatures so that he might better administrate Hell which he had found in shambles following his brief departure to deal with Christ. His various demons and subordinates have done well in continuing his work on Earth but Hell? Has anything really changed in Hell?

Evil incarnate climbs a flight of stairs, hoof after hoof until he can see himself, his true physical self which thrashes endlessly about and gnaws rabidly on Judas. In the end times he will be forced back into this body and brought back into combat with the capital A asshole in the clouds. All the suffering and insanity this creature experiences now will be impressed back into him instantly. He suspects the experience will obliterate him, making the final battle more of a euthanization than a battle of equals. It might be possible to subvert this fate but to do so would be to violate the terms of his contract with Heaven and grant license for the destruction of both himself and of Hell. He’d have to be mad to revolt… or have a damn good plan. Just as one would need to be to revolt against him. The Morning Star grimaces with personal disgust as he finally admits it to himself.

Vampires were a fucking mistake.

>>45582928
>The soul who was severed from heaven
Do angels really qualify as having 'souls'?

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[4/?]

>We retreat from the cold 9th Circle by moving upward, leaving Satan and the behemoth of his destiny to their thoughts. Through endless miles of molten magma we reel the camera back to the layered rock that makes up the thin outer crust of this Earth and from there we accelerate past the fossils and cocoons of creatures long forgotten. Onto the surface we blast with the force and velocity of an ICBM leaving the silo , seeking the warm embrace of the sun as surely as a missile seeks Moscow. But there is none. We’ve come full circle and emerged onto the bleak and frozen landscape known as Michigan in winter.

>Fast forward out of the boonies and we’ll hang briefly over Detroit, focused on a building with a facade thats a hundred years old, originally designed in the mock-imperial style that was so popular in Europe at the time but facelifted so frequently over the decades that the original architect would never recognize it today. Pillars were added and removed, walls punched through and replaced with stained glass, then again with modern paneled windows. Twice in the last fifty years it has nearly burned down and been restored. Sold, bought, rented, sold again, given a new addition, partially demolished, and then finally defaulted upon and abandoned for two decades before coming into possession of the current owner as a consequence of the city’s own default. A place where legends of American music left their mark and hobos murdered one another with lead pipes, this is the opera house called the Faustenhallen.

[5/?]

Backstage at the Faustenhallen, a new set of musical talents prepare to perform for a nearly full house. They call themselves the Dickwranglers. Though they were the only band this week unable to sell all their tickets this is by far the biggest audience they’ve ever played for. According to their agent, Bill Schritt, nearly full in the Faustenhallen means that approximately 2,500 people have packed themselves into this “rehabilitated” opera house to get drunk and listen to what Pitchfork calls “extremely decent gothic noise rock tinged with elements of Peruvian speed metal”.

Jay “Baller” Bhala, the band’s vocalist and primary song writer hated that review. It glossed over his lyrics on “West Virginia Tunnel” and “Break-down” in favor of vague thematic comments and namedropping meaningless, probably made-up “genres”. Fucking music critics and their fucking taxonomy, acting like fucking music is the same as hunting for shiny new species of fucking beetle in the fucking Amazon. Like you could pick up a dive bar in Michigan and find something like the Dickwranglers clinging to the underside, give them a latin name, and toss them in the bell jar before calling it a day. Fucking music critics. Fucking hipsters who read them. He peeked at the crowd earlier and witnessed a tide of handknit beanies, made from fucking alpaca wool to cover the fucking bald spots of their early fucking thirties. FUCK.

A big swig of off-brand bourbon and he collapses into an anachronistic office chair in front of a massive mirror meant for long dead opera singers where he begins the pre-show staring contest with his insecurities.

[6/7]

Down the hall, in a much more spacious room intended for members of an orchestra, the rest of the Dickwranglers prepare in their own ways. The gangly drummer known as Gerald “Jerry” Pisto occupies an entire fainting couch and then some, his double-jointed arms and legs dangling off in opposite directions. His eyes are closed but the constant clenching and unclenching of his hands in time with an intensely hummed series of drumbeats betray the small handful of amphetamine tablets he swallowed before the show. Watching him from under a Cro-Magnon’s brow is the overgrown hunk of meat and gristle that the band calls a bassist, Peter “Dickass” Delisle. Clutching a pick in hands inherited from an ancestor who had a lucrative career in blacksmithing, Dickass mock performs in time to Pisto’s beats, pausing from time to time to push back a rebellious brown bang that resists staying in line with the rest of his meticulously slicked back ‘do.

As the boys practice, Alexa “Voodoo” Beaulieu sits a short distance away and meditates with her guitar in her lap, running her fingers up and down its neck with no particular musical intent. While Jerry tries his best to look like a grunge transplant from the 90s and Dickass is happy to walk around in too-tight band merch all day, Alexa’s clothes look like they were recovered from the corpses littered around a plane crash and reconstituted into the collection of rags that she wears like a molting second skin. Her mouth hangs open as incense rises toward the ceiling, burning sticks of which are positioned around her in accordance with a specially drawn chalk mandala. Their scent, noxious as cheap perfume, infuses into her long dreads and the peeling septuagenarian fresco painted on the ceiling, depicting astronomers observing the motion of the planets in dual homage to the eminences of science and Vivaldi.

Desecration, perhaps, but it’s just one more layer of damage added to that left by nicotine hungry musicians of decades past who tromped through here with their woodwinds and violas right up until the city really began to die. In this “rehabilitated” venue where the 50 mirrors that flank each wall are shattered, with the gilt scraped from their frames and obscenties are etched into every remaining surface her behavior might be viewed as comparatively respectful…

As the both the hour of infernal fate and their performance approaches, the latest transients of the Faustenhallen must now spend their remaining time wisely.

Select one, roll 1d100 for “intensity” and I’ll take the best of 5.

>Jerry and Dickass attempt to compose a new song.
>Jerry gets paranoid.
>Dickass breaks something.
>Voodoo tries to recreate an old Haitian ritual she learned from her grandmother “for luck”.
>Jay breaks out his drug stash.
>Jay attempts to commit suicide.

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>>45583061

I'm a QM, not the pope.

Nobody's responded yet but I already have to go and take care of something. It won't be longer than 15 minutes hopefully.

Rolled 90 (1d100)

>>45583239
As far as we know.


>Jay breaks out his drug stash.

Rolled 24 (1d100)

>>45583171
>Jay breaks out his drug stash.

Rolled 3 (1d100)

>>45583171
>>Jay breaks out his drug stash.
Time to do an 8-ball.

Back, going to start writing but additional votes/rolls are allowed for at least ten minutes or until I finish.

Rolled 16 (1d100)

>>45583171
>Jay breaks out his drug stash.

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>>45583117
>what Pitchfork calls “extremely decent gothic noise rock tinged with elements of Peruvian speed metal”.

>not corrupting the youth with Christian rock paying lip service to Jesus while being powered by the pounding beat of SATAN

Voting is closed. The post will be ready shortly.

>>45583626
> roll 1d100 for “intensity”

Is that a good thing or a FUN thing in this context.

>>45583626
>shortly
Please wait warmly.

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>>45583754

Fun thing, sometimes an important thing. Not yet though.

>>45583325
>>45583329
>>45583373
>>45583508

From the moment he was punted from his mother’s womb, Jay Bhala has believed his life will be an epic journey. He told his father he was destined for greatness and his father told him it was just so, that his would have a divine life and then set about making it so by deploying the full financial might of Bhala Investment Securities to grant him the best of everything.

Even when dear old dad was arrested for fraud 4 years ago and died in prison just in time for the family fortune to finish evaporating into the vaporous form of “legal expenses”, Jay never relinquished a firm belief that his life was a blessed one. Of course, sometimes expectations didn’t match reality. He struggled to create his beautiful art. Rarely if ever did he hear divine inspiration, even as he was so certain that he should. And so he explored ways to facilitate the communication.

Part of that creative process was getting drunk as hell and semi-legibly recording whatever came to mind on the nearest surface for examination alter. The other parts were cocaine, heroin, a limited quantity of PCP, and anywhere from one or two to a fistful of mushrooms. Unstable and suppressing jitters about their largest ever show, Jay decides on all of the above and a fistful please. Thank you.

Jay?

Shit, I think we lost Jay.

Flash to Satan, still troubled and drinking a murky brew from the Styx. It tastes of barley, hops, and dead people. Mostly dead people but it helps him forget. Here, in the deepest solitude in all of existence, a little forgetfulness is as invaluable as- the fuck is that?

[1/2]

Satan tries to make sense of the flashing, multi-hued entity that seems to be clinging to the walls of his inner sanctum of sanctums. A spy from heaven? Some new kind of rave demon? Growing to an enormous size, he reaches out and plucks the thing from the wall. It bites his thumb ineffectually in response but Satan is more surprised than mad. A human soul, flung so far from its body as to land here… It wasn’t unheard of for humans to sometimes reach divine places or the underworld, usually through the use of ritual meditation. But this far down is unheard of.

The Lord of Loathing holds the soul before his nose. He was just wondering about how to get to the surface without being summoned; this could save him the trip.

“Human, I would make a deal with you.”

Select one and roll 1d100 for intensity, though it is not necessary:

>God, is that you?
>Try and wrest yourself from the grasp of this delusion
>You’re not the real Bob Barker!
>Die
>write-in (must be sufficiently IC)

>>45584008
>You’re not the real Bob Barker!

Rolled 39 (1d100)

>>45584008
>>You’re not the real Bob Barker!

Rolled 46 (1d100)

>>45584034
I forgot

Rolled 40 (1d100)

>>45584008
>You’re not the real Bob Barker!

Rolled 12 (1d100)

Rolled 64 (1d100)

>>45584008
>>Die

Rolled 43 (1d100)

>>45584008

Rolled 20 (1d100)

>>45584008
>>You’re not the real Bob Barker!

i think saying god is that you to satan will end in suffering

Rolled 43 (1d100)

>>45584008
>Die
We've lived free, now it's time to...

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>>45584034
>>45584051
>>45584062
>>45584081
>>45584167
>>45584200
>>45584326
>>45584346
>>45584347
>Intensity Roll: 64

On a psychic wavelength on which no human has previously tread, Jay broadcasts a high intensity signal:

“You’re not the real Bob Barker!”

Satan can hear him but he sounds like a dubstep remix of a rooster thats been set on fire. In short, unpleasant.

He frowns. The human appears to be completely insane. Though that does explain the instability, he would have much preferred a competent agent to do his bidding. Of course, insanity opens up alternative options. Unfortunate but pleasingly viable options.

“Jay Bhala, come on downnnnn”

The purest essence of Jay Bhala is ejected from its spiritual casing and tumbles down to the frozen surface of hell below, splattering into fragments on the impenetrable floor of the lowest circle. Satan pushes himself in, taking the singer’s place. It’s cramped and constantly warping due to the insanity but it doesn’t take long for him to begin to rise.

The man who was Jay Bhala comes to in his dressing room, face down in a puddle of his own drool. He coughs, something he hasn't done since he walked behind Pontius Pilate. He knows that he’s an artist, he knows that he’s about to play a show. He also know he needs to harvest about two thousand souls for the purpose of waging a campaign against the sneering undead.

Select one, roll 1d100:

>Go see the rest of the band, teach them to play the Damnation Song.
>Get out into the venue, mingle among the crowd, try to secure the exits.
>Experiment with your new body.
>Seek evidence of vampires

>>45584439
>>Experiment with your new body.
Do they still do that Jewish thing.

Rolled 97 (1d100)

>>45584439
>>Go see the rest of the band, teach them to play the Damnation Song.

Rolled 27 (1d100)

>>45584439
>Go see the rest of the band, teach them to play the Damnation Song.
Good news everyone!

Rolled 75 (1d100)

>>45584481

Rolled 38 (1d100)

>>45584439
>>Go see the rest of the band, teach them to play the Damnation Song.

Rolled 94 (1d100)

>>45584439
>>Experiment with your new body.

Rolled 94 (1d100)

>>45584439
Metal is the Devils Music

>>45584806
>Go see the rest of the band, teach them to play the Damnation Song.

forgot my vote

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>>45584483
>>45584481
>>45584494
>>45584498
>>45584509
>>45584523
>>45584806
>>45584828
>Intensity level 97

You've got places to be and souls to harvest but a little curiosity only killed a cat. You do a quick inspection and find that not only are you disappointingly average but they DO still do that Jewish thing. Crazy bastards.

Something pokes you in the chest and you reach into your… what is this, some kind of military uniform? Maybe a mourning outfit of some kind? It’s too damn constricting.

You pull off your suit jacket and toss it on the ground. Then you REND your collared shirt, sending buttons pinging off the mirror and the walls of the dressing room. Its defeated form is tossed limply onto the body of its comrade.

Bare-chested, you now feel presentable. Searching your memories a little more deeply, you remember that your bandmates are in a room down the hall. You make your way there and stick your upper body in to confirm their presence. You’re met by three very unamused stares.

[1/2]

>>45585140
“Uh, hello fellow…” -you search for the right word- “Minstrels?”

“Jay, how fucking high are you right now?”

That would be the one named Dickass.

‘High’, a slang term of some sort according to your memories. You are frequently in this state, you are an artist… You make an educated guess that this is some sort of synonym for inspiration.

“I am, a-ha, extremely high right now, fellow… instrumentalists?”

“Just great. You know we have fifteen minutes left before the show, right?”

The one called Gerry sits up, rubs his face with a freakishly long hand while fishing in his shirt pocket with the other. It emerges with a small orange cylindrical container, from which he shakes out a few pink tablets of some kind.

“You need to sober up, man. Take one of these. Hey!”


Dickass has reached over and snatched one of the tablets.

“Hey! That’ll be ten bucks, please and thank you!”

“You were going to give him one for free.”

“Fuck you! We need him!”

You need to set this right before it escalates into violence.

“Please! We’re all… MUSICIANS here.”

“Why do you keep using that deep voice, Jay?”

“It’s part of my new performance now, please. I’ll take one of those.”

You stride across the grimy parquet floor and snatch a tablet from Gerry’s hand, dry swallowing it. It’s quite bitter.

“There. Happy now? Listen, I have a new song in my mind that I think we should play tonight.”

“Tonight? Are you flippin’ insane?”

That’s Alexa.

“Obviously, but you all continue to associate with me. Now, it goes like this-”

[2/3]

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[3/3]

Whisking away her guitar, you play a few chords of a song whose name is so long that if it was listed in a book it would crush the Bible flat. The book itself would burst into flames from the knowledge but that’s beside the point. The band is mesmerized.

“I’ve never heard anything so dark.”

“That’s the most unholy music I’ve eva heard. Let me try.”

Gerry swallows another pill and cracks his fingers.

After a short montage, the band has learned the individual threads that most be woven together to produce a song that will shift a humans entire being.

The gelatinous man known as Bill Schritt appears at the door. You don’t like him.

“It’s time!”

>The moment of harvest is nigh. For the song to work, you must infuse it would a fragment of your unholy essence. It will return of course but the essence chosen will affect the end product, much like how a certain seasoning alters a recipe. Select one and roll 1d100.

>Essence of Forbidden Knowledge: Lost knowledge is your sword.
>Essence of Hatred: You have no need for swords, you have violence.
>Essence of Greed: Temptation and vice allow you to get what you desire from others.
>Essence of Art: Your creations are but a vain candle beneath the sun of creation but they burn defiantly hot.

>>45585193
>>Essence of Art: Your creations are but a vain candle beneath the sun of creation but they burn defiantly hot

>>45585193
>Essence of Forbidden Knowledge: Lost knowledge is your sword.
WHO WANTS TO KNOW THE SECRETS OF THE UNIVERSE? IT'S A LITTLE DIDDY THAT GOES SOMETHING LIKE THIS.

>>45585193
>>Essence of Greed: Temptation and vice allow you to get what you desire from others.
Tempt ALL the vampires?

>>45585193
>After a short montage,
Director-sama sure is cheap.

Rolled 36 (1d100)

>>45585220
thought i rolled for it boss!

Rolled 10 (1d100)

>>45585240
Forgot again

Rolled 3 (1d100)

>>45585271
Didn't we all.

Rolled 65 (1d100)

>>45585193
>>Essence of Hatred: You have no need for swords, you have violence.
ARISE MY CHILDREN

>>45585414
>>45585271
>>45585240
>>45585220

>4-way tie
>current most inspired roll:65

Shall I roll for it or do you want to deliberate, anons?

Rolled 15 (1d100)

>>45585477
I'll change my vote to Art.

The devil's hipsters.
http://www.scp-wiki.net/are-we-cool-yet-hub

>>45585551

Okeydoke. Writing.

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>>45585604
>>45585551
>>45585414
>>45585401
>>45585370
>>45585271
>>45585240
You lead your motley troupe of would-be minstrels onto the stage. Your human skin sweats beneath the heat of the stage lights but you stare directly into the crowd as you approach the microphone stand. There is murmuring and a smattering of adoring shrieks from women and men smitten by your shapely pecs.

Here you can see ‘them’ floating over the hipsters on the balconies, haunting the bar, or standing in the audience. All the spirits this accursed place has snagged and accumulated over the years, like so many sins on a soul. Their presence makes you feel… at home. You find yourself growling into the mic.

“Alright, Detroit. Tonight… you can all go to HELL!”

The crowd cheers enthusiastically and you nod to your bandmates.

“One!-two!-three!-four!”

[1/?]

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You snap off a piece of your being, the portion which granted fire to humans, back when you wore the guise of Prometheus. It brings a passion to your voice and technical mastery to your bandmates. The crowd is in ecstatic awe, frozen except for a handful of persons who you spot fleeing the premises. For them to resist, they must be…

You leap down from the stage, parting the audience like the Red Sea. The humans minds are becoming malleable, open to the weak psychic suggestions this mind can broadcast. The microphone reaches the end of its cord and you snap it free. It continues to amplify your voice. You slide in a verse about bringing the damned their due and the crowd reacts by surging with your will towards the fleeing vampires. They dogpile onto the ones that have yet to escape, only to be shredded in droves by the claws and superior strength of their would-be victims but they do succeed in slowing them down. That’s all you need.

On the stage, the auras of the musicians have become stronger. Voodoo’s fingers shred the edges of reality, creating invisible emissions of dark matter that latches on to the free-floating ghosts around the room, tying them together. Every strum of Dickass’s bass brings the human’s precious little hearts a closer to stopping and Gerry’s drumbeats build in frantic intensity, harkening the climax that will turn spin this human straw into gold.

[2/3]

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[3/3]

A few more vampires escape but those who cannot shriek fearfully as they eviscerate an endless tide of humans, only adding to the growing stockpile of souls in the center of the room. The Damnation song will take them too but the process will be more… painful.

At the height of your performance, on cue with the denunciation of God and his pathetic son, the heart of every human in the room bursts violently in their chests. Their souls swarm upwards to join the fat bundle above. The vampires also clutch their chests but do not die immediately. Instead their heart rate increases until it reaches resonance with eacy part of their body, imploding each one piece by pierce, organ by organ. It’s torture right up to the part where the brain breaks down. Then they usually throw in the towel and give up, surrendering their souls. But a few…

You pick up a still beating vampire heart from atop a pile of dust and take a bite of it. Your human body swells with temporary power and you dash back up to the stage. Everyone in the audience is dead and Voodoo has collapsed on the stage, her fingers stroking the strings even in unconsciousness. Gerry continues to drum madly, each beat forging power from the mass of souls, a percussive solo of unholy drug fueled virtuosity. Dickass is the only one who has stopped playing altogether and he has stooped to one knee, drained in much the same fashion as Voodoo.

“What the fuck…”

His aura is confused… but you can trust him.

Select one and roll 1d100:

>Explain yourself to Dickass
>Help Voodoo by feeding her a piece of vampire heart
>Attend to the souls
>Gloat

>>45586410
>Explain yourself to Dickass

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>>45586410
>>Explain yourself to Dickass

Rolled 66 (1d100)

>>45586410
>>Explain yourself to Dickass
Its much better then anything youve yet experinced huh? But there is still more to come.

Rolled 30 (1d100)

>>45586445
Dammit

Rolled 71 (1d100)

>>45586410
>Explain yourself to Dickass

Rolled 68 (1d100)

>>45586410
>Explain yourself to Dickass
Surprise!

>captcha is victory
Very fitting.

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Rolled 96 (1d100)

>>45586410
>filename

>>45586445
>>45586491
>>45586503
>>45586517
>>45586521
>>45586569
>>45586897
“What the Hell might be more appropriate!”

You have to shout to be heard over the finale of Gerry’s solo.

“All those people, I could feel them… beating in time with my music. Like I held their hearts in my hands. Did they really…”

“Yes, they had to. There is evil upon this Earth, Dickass, and that isn’t a bad thing. Evil is the font of art-”

“I felt it. That’s what it was, I felt the evil coursing through me…”

He sits down upon the floor, legs crossed. His eyes stare off into nothingness as he relives the last 6 minutes in his mind. You smile. Humans haven’t changed too much… and you can explain about the vampires later.

Right now the souls are being battered with increasing intensity and the mass is now half its original size and spheroid. Gerry is entirely in a trance. You watch as the he concludes with a series of movements so quick that this weak brain struggles to track the movements of his limbs. For him to strain yours so, you can hardly imagine what he is putting his own through. Marvelous.

The mass, once large enough to crowd the room, has been pounded into something the size of a baseball. It crystallizes and you speak at last the words that bind. They wrap themselves around the mass in the form of blood and gilt. It’s not the most beautiful mass you’ve ever made but it’ll do.

You touch the mass to each band members temple in turn, shrinking the size of the crystal by a fourth each time.

[1/3]

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[2/3]

>The band has learned the following songs:

>Damnation Song: Harvests souls used to gain new songs.
>The Night Riff: Turns the band invisible but must be performed in secrecy
>Bolts of Zeus: Unleashes a localized lightning storm
>Resolution of my Heart: Drives those who hear it to think powerfully suicidal thoughts
>Conviction of my Groin: Seduces the ten closest listeners

>Trait gained:
>Technical Mastery: Your players are extremely difficult to interrupt and play with an otherworldly passion. +7 to all intensity rolls for music

>Souls until next song:
>0/5000

>Bandmember Enhanced:
>Dickass
>Loyalist: More likely to follow your orders and succumb to your influence.

Even when it’s all over and Voodoo is back on here feet, Gerry never really stops playing. He never really stopped even when the song did, he just keeps pounding on in a steady devolution away from any kind of rhythm. When Dickass attempts to remove him, he continues to flail his arms until he falls asleep in the hotel, hours later.

Dickass and Voodoo are both disturbed and thrilled. They’re not terribly moral people and Voodoo’s main concern when she came back to was getting clear of the crime scene so she could play again. And again. And again. In your hotel room they are more than eager to embrace the dark roots of artistry.

[3/3]


The darkness, you think, is strong in these three. The darkness and the vanity. No wonder the egos in so many rock and roll bands causes them to disintegrate. If they weren’t so interested in what you have to say right now they’d probably be at each others throats. Perhaps it was more than an accident that brought you to them.

Once you’re certain that Dickass and Voodoo are willing to embrace you, you confess your true identity. Dickass finds this awesome but Voodoo is wary. She’s obviously been taught about you, probably through some old family traditions. You sense the mixed lineage of.. Yes… Massachusetts upon her. A battleground state if there ever was one.

As you prepare to wish them a both a good night (you’re evil but not impolite) there is a knock at the door.

“I’ll get it.”

Dickass walks to the door at a leisurely pace and checks the spy hole.

“It’s Bill.”

“Let him in,” says Voodoo before you can speak up.

The manager bursts into the room, a broad grin splitting his equally broad face.

“Had a heck’uva night out there, huh guys? Really killed it!”

He winks at you, practically glowing. You snarl back at him.

Select one, roll 1d100

>Get the fuck out.
>Attack him.
>What are you doing here?
>Glower at him. Glower real hard.
>Sing a few bars of the Damnation Song for his pleasure.

Rolled 68 (1d100)

>>45587311
>>Glower at him. Glower real hard.

>>45587311
>>Glower at him. Glower real hard.
This glower killed a Prince.

>>45587311
>Sing a few bars of the Damnation Song for his pleasure.

Rolled 56 (1d100)

>>45587311
>Sing a few bars of the Damnation Song for his pleasure.

Rolled 94 (1d100)

>>45587311
>>Glower at him. Glower real hard.

>>45587311
>>Glower at him. Glower real hard.

>>45587454
>>45587433
>>45587431
>>45587377
>>45587343
>>45587502

>Intensity: 94

You push every ounce of malevolent power you can out through your eyeballs. The optical nerve is a poor conductor but maybe if you tweak it just slightly-

For a split second you experience the equivalent of x-ray vision, seeing through walls and bodies. Everyone around you just sees your eyes flash yellow in the direction of the manager. He laughs.

"Really now? We're not in Hell anymore you know. You can't just-"

Bill Schritt clutches his enormous stomach and runs into the bathroom. Some of the most horrendous retching you've ever heard follows and when you go to check on him, he's dead. Face down in a toilet bowl full of his own ejected viscera.

"Ver-ah rock and roll." comments Voodoo.

"But who's going to manage us now?"

Another knock at the door. Expected this time, at least by you.

"Go ahead," you tell Dickass, "Open it. He's not going to stop until he gets his say."

A second Bill Schritt enters the room, about ten feet from his own corpse.

"Do you know you gave a man on the other side of the building stage 4 rectal cancer by doing that? I had to heal him on the way up."

"I'm sure the Sky Chief planned for you to do that. Say what you're going to say so I can kick you out of here."

"As a messenger of the almighty, king of kings, creator and savior of mankind-

"Get on with it or I swea-uh I will boot you myself."

"-I've come to tell you that we have an interest in seeing your current mission succeed and are willing to accept a certain level of collateral damage necessary to eliminate the forces of the one called Dracula. And if you'll accept me as your manager, I'll gladly provide-"

Select one, roll 1d100:

>Murder him in cold blood
>Have Dickass toss him from the hotel balcony
>Simply tell him no (firm but polite)
>Capitulate and accept his assistance
>Give him a message to take back to God (Write-in)

Rolled 5 (1d100)

>>45587866
>>Give him a message to take back to God (Write-in)
so are we still on for poker night?

>>45587866
>Give him a message to take back to God (Write-in)
ur a faget

>>45587866
>>Give him a message to take back to God (Write-in)
Go 'manage' a virgin again.

Rolled 66 (1d100)

Rolled 71 (1d100)

>>45587866
>>45587866
>"Really now? We're not in Hell anymore you know.
>we

Is that supposed to imply he was also in hell at some point.

Rolled 14 (1d100)

>>45587866
>>Give him a message to take back to God (Write-in)
Still up for poker tuesday?

Rolled 30 (1d100)

>>45588051
Nah. I mean presumably god sends somebody to hell once in a while to carry a personal message but it wasn't intended.

>>45587933
>>45587950
>>45587991
>>45588051
>>45588078
>>45588086

You cut the chubster off.

"I don't think we'll be taking you up on that. But give the Big Hakuna my hateful regards. Tell him to wear his good boxers on Tuesday; I'm gonna wipe that faggot on strip poker night."

"Hmmph. I'll... relay that."

Before your eyes the fat man morphs into a winged infant with unsettlingly grown-up eyes. Then it vanishes.

"Hol-"

"You better hold that in, Dickass. I don't want him coming back."

"But who's going to manage us now? You?"

You cringe. This was just starting to be a nice break from Hell and you'd rather not start managing anything again for a while. In fact, this sounds like a good thing to... delegate.

You pick up the phone and dial triple sixes, followed by a two digit extension.

>roll 1d80 for who you call

>>45588337
I'll roll for which roll I take after a sufficient number come in.

Rolled 41 (1d80)

>>45588337
To Hell's call center.

Rolled 37 (1d80)

>>45588359
>meta-rolling
Xzibit pls.

Rolled 29 (1d80)

>>45588337
Mammon. He'll know how to manage money and make us famous.

Rolled 65 (1d100)

>>45588337
Whatever dark and hellish forces still roam the Earth, preferably ones with great mortal influence and power, that AREN'T vampires. Or barring that, a human politician who sold their soul to us for power, Man Upstairs knows we've got a lot of options to choose from.

Rolled 7 (1d100)

>>45588359

Rolled 77 (1d80)

>>45588337
What's 'sufficient.' This doesn't make sense.

Rolled 71 (1d80)

>>45588359

Rolled 4 (1d6)

>>45588370
>>45588391
>>45588432
>>45588543
>>45588546
>>45588576

Determining winning post.

>>45588586
2 of those are d100's

take those out 77 wins.

>>45588586
Did you really draw up an 80-name roll table.

>>45588646

It's alright, I'm going to play it loose with the rules here. Besides, 65 is an interesting outcome.

>>45588370
>>45588391
>>45588432
>>45588543
>>45588546
>>45588576
>>45588579

For this job, it seems appropriate to contract a minor demon. Someone not too invested in the workings of Hell but with enough experience to manage a human rock band at least. And a useful talent to boot.

You punch in 65.

"Surgat speaking, who is this?"

The voice is smoother than an aristocrat rolled in KY jelly infused silk sheets.

"Satan."

"O-oh. I see. Can I ask what this is about? I'm very busy in Korea right now and..."

"Just steal whatever you're going to steal and be here by tomorrow morning. Wear something nice and I'll explain then. But not before."

"What? This is a secure line. Why not?"

"Because I need to sleep."

You return the phone to its receiver.

"You too, go sleep."

You shoo off Dickass and Voodoo who are all too willing to comply. Stupid frail human body, you haven't had this much fun in ages...

>End Thread

>>45588869
>>End Thread

Shouldn't this say

>Roll credits

Or something?

>>45588869

Sent the thread to the archive. As always, your votes are as precious as a soul gem to me.

http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive.html?searchall=Satan+and+the+Websters

>>45588850

I cheated, used a wikipedia list and counted through it. Liked what I found, pleasantly underfluffed.

Would have kept going but everyone in the world wants to talk to me all of a sudden.

Next thread when I feel like it, check the twitter @qmsimmons for news.

>>45589041
Thanks for the run Simmons.

>>45589021

Probably, probably.

>>45589148

No problem. Glad you're still around for my ill-timed weekday runs, Sleepy.

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>>45589041
You know we still haven't namedropped 'Websters' anywhere in the quest except the title.

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>>45589271
Also Satan surely has an army of rock band managers already, being a genre clearly spawned directly from his testicle.

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>>45583171
I don't see how composing a new song or getting paranoid would have summoned Satan.

>>45589271

That's a great chick tract panel.

I kept meaning to write it in but got side-tracked. It'll either get addressed in the next thread (whenever that happens) or never, becoming a running gag.

>>45589302

Like his testicles, Rock and Roll is descended from Satan but not on his mind very much. He's tied himself up in work for the last two millenia and kind of let everyone else do the Earth stuff for him. He takes the odd look to make sure everything isn't burning down too early and tries to keep Hell running. Or he did. Most of his cultural touchstones existed during the Roman Empire.

>>45589355

It's surprisingly easy to summon Satan with music. Some claim it's like ringing his doorbell.

Drug-induced paranoia can summon things pretty easily though, take it from me.

>>45589271
I started making an edit of this years ago, but never finished.

>>45589414
You sound like a cool guy to be around, Simmons, this your first quest?

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>>45589414
What were the odds of the real Bill not dying in that scene, the angel ending its possession, and Satan not needing to recruit a new inhuman manager?

>>45589493
>A second Bill Schritt enters the room, about ten feet from his own corpse.

The angel incarnated (didn't possess) as Bill Schritt and could have done so ad infinitum. So no 'real' Bill or rather, they're all real and inseparable from the angel.

At least one hypothetical outcome to that scenario ended with you killing several dozen Schritts before consenting to receive or acknowledge his message. I'm both disappointed and relieved that it didn't turn out that way.

>>45589480

This is my... third Quest? Fourth if you count Orc Bouncer Quest which was a one-shot. Other two were Exterminator and Awakening, the former of which is on hiatus and the latter of which is dead.