Back to the Mephisto, Part Two
“Absolutely,” said Satan from between the bosom of a flat-chested giantess. Mephisto’s father, Satan, the High Prince of Hell, the Great Adversary, Sous Chef of Souls, and tenor to Hell’s second best barbershop quartet - Three Men and a Hitler - lounged upon a divan with a diva in his lap. She nestled possessively into his formidable mane of chest hair, her forked tongue periodically stabbing the air in irritation at their interruption.
Honestly, given their shared disposition towards giantess-demon-snakething threeways, Mephisto hadn’t doubted that his father would see reason. It’s often said that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and in the case of Satan that tree had been reduced to ash shortly after a snake got its metaphorical hands on the cardinal fruit. They both knew the value of maintaining the city’s plumbing and, because in Hell water was something to be warned about in travel brochures, how important it was to have lube on tap.
No, it wasn’t apprehension about visiting his father that had made Mephisto reluctant to come to the Palace of Eternal Infernity. It was what inevitably followed. Satan peeled himself away from the giantess, to a rumbling sigh of dissatisfaction, and plucked a carrot stick from an opulent platter of vegan nibbles. “You know, while you’re here you should pay your mother a visit. She gets so lonely up in her tower, and you always were her favourite.”
“That’s because she ate my brothers,” Mephisto pouted, which was something only the topic of his mother could bring him to do. He was usually so stoic and dashing.
Satan gnawed thoughtfully on the carrot stick, then on a wayward nipple, then on both at the same time. Finally he said, “Well, son, it’s in her nature. Just like this is in ours. Remember that behind every great tyrant is a great tyrantess, and I’d just as soon have her not eating me. At least in any lasting manner.” He waggled the nub of carrot at Mephisto, who was beginning to hate the stuff.
“Fine. I’ll talk to her.”