Chapter Text
[1]
"Alright, alright. Let's get talking" –Sweater song (Phoneboy)
If he had to define his first day in hell with one word, “surreal” would be the word that would best fit with what his brain (He wasn’t entirely sure how the nervous system of someone with a TV head worked, and he wasn't going to try to find out himself) was trying to make of all his experience in those first hours of not-life.
To go from an honestly traumatic experience to the warmth of nostalgia wasn’t exactly something Neuman had expected. He could as well be dreaming, he thought he still was. Maybe he was still hallucinating as he laid on the floor of his apartment with his head split into two. Well, maybe that wasn’t possible, but it was a better alternative to whatever this was.
A reddish sky with two strange satellites as the only source of natural light. Anthropomorphic creatures, amalgamates of just any one he could think of, each one more extravagant and colorful than the previous one. Oh, and the unstoppable libido. Blood and lustful panting depending on which corner you looked around, almost drowned out by the music that had started playing without any radio being on. There was a strange harmony between the grotesque and seductive, one more prevalent than the other. If that chaos was the so-called hell, it was very different to what he had read the few times him and Al had decided to spend their time at the public library.
Or maybe the Divine Comedy was only a more imaginative interpretation of what hell really was. Because if the punishment for having caused the death of some people and having stolen so much in life was to live in a world where there was no law to protect anyone, you might think it’s a representation similar to the circle of Sloth and Wrath People fighting each other, just without the slimy river or lazy beings submerged in diry water, forced to drown for all eternity. Imagine: Phlegyas existence could be real, which would make the Aeneid more than just a Latin chronic written by a roman, but something that would put into question whether there really is more than a god. He remembered fragments of the work where other deities are mentioned, like the famous Persephone, whose existence Virgilio acknowledges through his Erinye servants. It’s not like he would prefer that scenario over the one he has now, no matter how interesting it would be to see how many gods could coexist in a single hell. His mind could only wander uninhibited in his attempt of assimilating where he was now. And to think about how different hell was to what he had read was a little shocking to be honest.
(“Oh! I remember the poem well” Alastor face lit up remembering it, “Isn’t it interesting how Dante Alighieri organized hell similarly to what we have? More than the order of each circle, it’s almost like he himself had gone down to the other side”.
Vox thinks it could only be a coincidence, almost right, but nothing more than that. Alastor agreed, but it still didn’t stop being interesting.
“An almost romantic song Who else would dare to travel to the most remote corner of the human filth in the search to save his soul?” Vox raised an eyebrow hearing him. “I don’t think there’s anything romantic in that. Maybe when Beatrice decides to guide him through heaven? She’s his divine grace, his muse. His love being the one who guided him to God is the closest thing to romantic there could be”.
But Alastor shook his head, leaning on the TV demon as his eyes seemed to make fun of him for such a thought. “It’s not the type of romance you see between two people who feel something for each other. Or in this case, of a man towards a woman who was never his, so sad that she died and then only a year after he married another woman who couldn’t even reach to his beloved's ankles, no. The introspection, navigating through hell to heaven to discover himself when, at least in my mind, both worlds are part of his I portrayed in two places: hell, filled with human vices that Dante rejects; Heaven, the idealized world where he purifies his soul. They're two faces of the same coin in his subconscious. You need to understand and accept or your sins to reach enlightenment. That, to me, is romantic”)
“Oh, you don’t look so well” Al pointed out, still without seeing him, which he couldn’t understand how he could notice with his back towards him (there are still many things he didn't understand anyways). “I understand, it happened to me too when I got here in 1933. It feels like...”
“Floating in a body that doesn’t feel like yours?”
“I would rather compare it to a bad trip after drinking too much whiskey on a good night at the Bourbon bar, maybe”.
“You used to say I was a bad drinker” He remembered, because of course he wouldn’t forget anything about Al even if he wanted to. “My hangovers were more painful than yours, and you would always complain because the medications would run out because of that.”
“Well, were you planning to develop resistance to the pain medications? It wouldn’t kill you to learn how to control your drinking. What’s more, your kidney would thank you.”
“Well, if I’m already dead, I don’t think that matters” He could hear his... Friend? Chortle. He seemed to be amused about treating death as if one were talking about the weather
Seeing that the most casual thing he witnessed after waking up was a corpse being devoured by a couple of people could well be a worrying normality.
“Touché.”
Al turned around for the first time during this conversation. Reddish hair, deer ears, and tiny antlers sticking out of its skull were the first things he dared to look at. Perhaps, ignoring those particular additions (besides his crimson eyes and the claws on his fingertips of the same color), he could recognize Al's silhouette in him. There was something inside him that believed it was so, like a shiver full of static that recognized his lifelong friend who had a different body than the one he got used to before he died. And it was still hard to accept, but he knew that there is no such thing as coincidence. Nobody could make a perfect copy of Al, even less so of his voice calling his name with the warmth that only he could convey.
It was very likely that this new sixth sense was what allowed him to clear up his doubt. He let himself believe it, especially with the static purring approvingly, as if it were Al himself rewarding him for his trust.
He's still not entirely sure how it works or what it actually is, but it's the closest thing he has to something he feels safe with, aside from Al's steady presence and his static-distorted voice as his living anchor.
“You look paler than what I remember.”
One of Al's ears (Ears!? I thought they were just a style choice) moved subtly at the comment. Even so, he didn’t seem bothered. He hoped he wasn’t, Neuman didn’t mean to be rude or unkind to his undead friend. He was just curious. An understandable curiosity, considering he had been thrown into a new world without a guide on how to survive it. Maybe that would explain the patience with which his friend seemed to talk to him.
("Oh, but you looked so disoriented that it was too funny to pass up the opportunity." Alastor grinned from ear to ear, showing complete satisfaction at Vox's embarrassment over the memory.)
“Well, old friend, I wondered about that myself when I first ended down here. To be honest, at first I thought my skin had faded from all the makeup I used... You see, a couple of years ago, news started circulating that the very brand I used to lighten my skin (along with talcum powder, of all things!) had a high lead content. Imagine: if I hadn't died from a gunshot to the head, I might have died from lead poisoning!” Canned laughter echoed in the room, like the punchline to a morbid joke. "But then... well, have you seen your face? The skin color you had in life is certainly not compatible with the color of Hell. Although I'd like to think that's the case for me. For personal reasons more than anything else. It's not as if this world isn't governed by pure irony in all its splendor."
To be fair, the fact that his head was replaced with a television after being hit by one upon dying must’ve been the pinnacle of comedy for the entity that decided to give him this appearance. It also gave Al a point. It was pretty ironic, or at least a mockery of their lives on earth. There might well be a middle ground.
“Speechless?” Al asked “You usually know how to continue a conversation, I guess you still have your head in the clouds.”
“I don’t even know where to start” Because he didn’t. One couldn't expect Neuman to accept his new reality so easily, when he was still completely ignorant of the ground he stood on. "Is this Hell? Because if it is, how did you end up in this place? I understand why I did, but you..."
“Yes, this is Hell.” Al stopped him with a motion of his hand “I'm here because I deserve to be here, plain and simple. Did you think I would end up in Heaven?”
“Why wouldn’t you? If I had to pick out someone aside from my father who would deserve to go to heaven it would be you.”
“Hmmm” His humming was barely audible through the filter his voice seemed to have. Perhaps the same thing that made his voice sound more like that of a man than the one he knew when they both breathed on the same earthly plane. “No! While I'm flattered to hear you say such lovely things about me, believe me, I've done my part to end up here. Hell is my second home now!”
Hearing a fake audience applauding from the radios (why so many?) after he'd finished speaking sent chills down his spine. It was as if he were at a small, private show where his friend was the host and Neuman his guest. A man he'd rescued from nearly being beaten to death and decided to take into his home.
Until that moment, he realized, he had overlooked that detail. Al's house, which was actually a tower with an elegant antenna on the outside, was a strange mix between a real home and something unsettling. It could be a neat, immaculate apartment, almost melancholic and smelling of good, freshly ground coffee in the mornings, or it could be filled with taxidermy figures (chimeras of creatures he didn't know and, sometimes, even human ones) and radio models from the 1920s placed in every corner. Or at least, the space between the living room, with its warm fireplace, and the kitchen, where he was still busy with his own thing. Preparing something, if the rhythmic sound of vegetables being chopped (there's food in hell?) gave him a clue.
“I hadn’t noticed. Isn't the wallpaper the same one as our old apartment?”
“You noticed” His friend hummed in approval “You know? After so long living down here one only wishes to have a little piece of their old live, a place you remember fondly”.
There was something about his smile that had softened when he said that last part, which made Neuman feel something in his chest.
Now that he looked at it more closely, he was starting to notice many familiar details. Not just the wall, the carving on the furniture, the way the kitchen seemed to be laid out, even the curtains and the floor reminded him of the 505 in New Orleans, where they had once lived together. Where Al had burst in as if he owned the place and gradually made himself at home. Even if the materials of some objects were of better quality or not exact copies of those from back then, this place, the sanctuary where Al resided, was the closest thing to what he could remember from all the extravagant things he had ever seen. Hell, even some of the taxidermy pieces resembled the few that Neuman had managed to salvage after his friend's death!
Had Al missed it that much too? No one tries to recreate a specific place if it hadn't meant anything to them. But Al and Neuman were friends, of course; he had to expect that even someone as unwavering as Al would want to remember something about him. He felt honored, for lack of a better word, that the place he barely managed to pay with his salary at the printing press had resonated so deeply as to mean something of great importance to someone else (to someone who mattered to him even after years, decades of his absence).
“Even after you told me we should get a better pattern for the floor? You made me start saving for almost a year for that.”
“The floor was objectively horrible” he insisted. “But it was the pattern you picked, because I thought: Why not let the owner pick something in the house? Either way, if you made a bad choice I was going to make fun of you for the rest of your life.”
“Oh, and you did. You never stopped saying that pine wood was the worst of all despite how cheap it was.”
“And I was right. And not to mention you decided to use the industrialized version instead of parquet. The wood scratched easily and you could get splinters easily. And I should've known. Your chairs were falling apart, I’m surprised how long they held up until I got you some more appropriate ones.”
This had happened several times, actually. And yet, stubborn as he was (an attitude they both shared), he decided not to spend a single penny to replace the floor until the following year because otherwise he'd be admitting it was his fault. It was, but he'd never say it, least of all to Al, who always seemed to look at him with a smug expression when he started complaining about the splinters in his feet from forgetting to wear shoes at night.
It was incredible to know that something as simple as the silly argument about his apartment floor could now be fondly remembered, brought up as a topic of conversation between two people who hadn't seen each other for years. It made it personal, so casual that it made it feel like the time apart hadn't existed at all. He allowed his body to relax, lulled by the comfort of the sofa where he still lay and the warmth of the fireplace. Again, if it weren't for his old friend's new appearance and the red light filtering through the window, he could pretend it was just another weekend in New Orleans, with Al happily cooking something from his mother's old recipe book. The radio playing his favorite program, or perhaps just some background music, that sounded like home.
"Ella Fitzgerald?" was the first thing that crossed his mind as he began to pay attention to the music. Upbeat jazz with a woman's voice he recognized immediately. And Al seemed pleased he had guessed it.
“Vote for Mr Rhythm helps lighten up the mood, don’t you think?”
“Of course you’d be a fan of that song.” He couldn’t resist letting out a friendly sigh. Ella Fitzgerald released that song after Al's death, but he must have guessed that wouldn't stop it from reaching the very depths of hell.
“Since you seem to be in a better mood, will you come and help me already or will you leave me doing all the work?”
It was a friendly voice, it was his voice. He was back to being the person he knew, without that filtered voice he'd used after their chaotic reunion. There was a hint of playfulness in the question, but Neuman, who knew him so well, knew better. In his eyes, Al radiated genuine affection and concern.
You'd think that after an unexpected reunion with the person who mattered the most to you in your life, your body's first reaction would be to run to them and hug them, never to let go. There would be rivers of tears and a freeing sensation that would shake your body from the inside out. It made sense, didn't it? Certainly, that was something he longed to do, even though his body remembered that Al hated physical contact.
Neuman didn't cry. Perhaps because his tears had dried up many years ago. Heck, he could even attribute it to his mind suppressing those feelings in order to focus on the present. The warm smile of his friend, the one he remembered seeing inside a coffin, seemed as bright as it was reassuring. It was what was preventing him from screaming, from tearing off the annoying antennae he felt on what was now his head, and from losing himself in the bewilderment and lingering fear that comes from having died and imagining the nothingness that would follow.
Instead, he stood up, with a shy expression he hadn't worn since becoming a presenter, and stood beside Al, who was watching his every move. The kitchen looked almost identical to how he remembered the one in New Orleans, so it was as if he'd stepped into a fragment of the past for a moment. The same number of cabinets, the knives arranged by size hanging on the wall, even the open spice drawer he remembered fondly had all the jars labeled the way his friend liked them. Eerie, because he knew this wasn't his small kitchen from back then, but the similarities were still there. Like a higher-quality copy and paste. It was missing those details that made it both of theirs: the soot stains in the corners from that time he tried to flambé a stir-fry he was making to impress Al, but it almost burned the kitchen down ("I still don't understand how you got the stains to stick to the ceiling. I didn't know whether to laugh at you or applaud the spectacle"); the light scratches on the island from that time they'd had to do without the cutting board because it had gone missing (and which later turned out to have been accidentally left at Al's house); that small dent in the door of one of the cabinets because Al lost his balance and dropped one of the pots he was planning to make gumbo with... They were trivial things, but that's what gave it life and made it theirs. This? It was like staring at a blank canvas, and he was finding it hard to process.
At least Al allowed him that brief moment of mercy, remaining silent and letting him adjust to his surroundings instead of letting out barely concealed chuckles and the occasional jeer at his disheveled appearance. He didn't stink anymore, of course, that was the first thing Al made sure to take care of after wrinkling his nose at the smell of vomit; but he was more than certain he still looked awful. He greatly appreciated the consideration, because he knew he wasn't one to dwell on trivial matters. He gave him a moment's respite before focusing, his eyes shifting from a grayscale for an agonizing moment before regaining color, much to his relief, as he looked at the cutting board.
He didn't know what to expect when he saw what was on the counter. There were green peppers, still uncut, and next to them other vegetables like tomatoes, celery, and onions. Ordinary, fresh food, and certainly the opposite of what he expected from something that had come from hell. Not that he had any expectations about the food in this place or anything like that, but when you think about food in the afterlife, you don't expect something so ordinary. Or pleasant to look at. He wasn't sure what he was expecting; he didn't know whether to be disappointed by the discovery either.
“Surprised?” Al laughed ”I decided to forgo my own culinary cravings for today and cook something more familiar. Can you get the shrimp and clean them? I left them in the sink.”
"There’s shrimp in hell?" was the first thing he managed to say after the initial shock. Indeed, there were freshly washed shrimp there, and Al was already handing him a smaller knife to remove the waste from inside.
“Technically? Yes, but these come from Earth” He explained "If you wanted to try one born from hell, believe me, it wouldn't have the shape or taste of a regular shrimp."
“Do they taste that bad?”
“Some have a very... Peculiar taste I'd rather invest in smuggling real food than fill my taste buds with sulfur and ash, thank you.”
He also had no idea what sulfur tasted like, and he was okay with not finding out. He decided to trust in Al's taste, who had always been the one who knew best about these things. So, instead of asking more questions, he let his body settle into the routine he thought he'd forgotten, holding a shrimp on another cutting board that Al had inadvertently handed him.
It made him wonder if having him cook with him was premeditated, a way to keep his mind occupied with a familiar and relaxing concept. Intentional or not, it worked: again, it was like traveling decades back, to when they moved around a cramped kitchen, their own little world. Al was the head chef, and Neuman his assistant and apprentice. With his memory almost intact, he was able to remove the dirty guts from the shrimp and peel them just as his friend had taught him. It was relaxing and it demanded his whole attention, exactly what he needed at that moment.
No questions about the world he had fallen into, no questions about what happened to Al all these years, how he ended in this place or what his non-life would be. There, in the kitchen of a worrying apartment, time had stopped for a moment. His nausea had dissipated, as if he had never felt it in the first place.
Ella played in the background, like a song in the background Al was humming, who went back to doing his thing. And Neuman felt that he could be a young man again, with strength in his bones and without so many worries that accumulated over the years. The trumpets were a balm and the swing relaxed his shoulders, along with the rhythmic tapping of the knife on the wooden board; that allowed him to melt into that calm after so long being reluctant, letting his paranoid soul give way. And with an unaware smile, he began to sing along with Al as if nothing had happened, both of them reunited.
—In my heart, you started a song...
[2]
"Oh, I just want your lips to taste, I just want my lips to taste like you" –1987 (Phoneboy)
Days passed, and then a couple of weeks, before Neuman dared to step outside the apartment once again. Al never reprimanded him for it; on the contrary, he acted empathetically and allowed him to settle into his home as he wished.
And what a peculiar home it was! A radio tower adapted so its owner could live in it A veritable fortress of pleasing earthy tones and decorations each more extravagant than the other had become their safe haven. It took a whole day to walk the place from top to bottom, memorizing every corner and mapping every room until he could learn it by heart. He prioritized his favorite activities such as cooking and his radio station, both of which were the largest spaces in the place. Apart from a couple of locked doors, the whole place could be considered the epitome of cleanliness. It was distributed to Al's liking, that much was clear.
That said, even if their new refuge was pleasant, over time one begins to want more.
("Human beings will always be greedy, after all." Alastor nods at Vox's comment. "Well, isn't that how humanity has progressed so far? Always seeking more, even if it's at the expense of others. In retrospect, greed could be the root of almost any sin.")
From the window of the guest room (or just his room, since no one actually visited Al), the great city where he had fallen into shone almost as brightly as that winged satellite that he had recently discovered was the sky. Neon colors juxtaposed themselves, attempting to eclipse the decay of a lawless land, as hypnotic as it was overwhelming.
The desire to go out grew with each passing day, as he gazed at those lights that beckoned him to explore the world outside the building.
So when he brought up the idea of going out to Al, he didn't seem surprised. It was almost as if he'd been waiting for this moment, watching Neuman stamp his feet in the air from his seat as he poured himself a cup of spiced coffee. He didn't speak at all, but he let the radios play the opening of Duke Ellington's "It Don't Mean a Thing," a lively tune that nonetheless showed Neuman wasn't being subtle at all.
(“Devils, no! It was obvious you were anxious.” Alastor comments calmly, reverently caressing Vox's screen; his shadow, on the contrary, seemed to mock him from the safety of his master. "You wouldn’t stop moving from one place to another, and your antennae—Devil knows how adorable they were!—kept throwing off so many sparks I was afraid you might accidentally start a fire." Although the fearsome radio demon found it a fond memory, Vox, on the other hand, thought he might die of shame right then and there.
“Sure, why not?” was his reply after a sip of coffee, his voice had changed again and the radio filter returned ”I'm not here to hold you hostage, my friend, you're free to go exploring if you wish.”
“Wait. Seriously?” Being honest, Neuman was expecting some resistance “You're not worried?”.
“Not at all!” To his surprise, his microphone let out some laughter to mimic the good mood of its holder (Fuck, he still hadn’t gotten used to it) “Go have fun I have a couple things to tend to, you know, there’s always some responsabilities in this place. Should I wait for you for lunch?”
That’s how he ended standing outside the building, with curiosity about the outside world wishing to be sated. A crimson sky and screaming everywhere heralded yet another ordinary day, one he was beginning to get used to.
The red ceased to horrify his retinas after a while of exposing your eyes to that perpetual, starless sky. Even if it was still too saturated for his liking, as long as you don't look up, it's tolerable. That, and he learned he could dim the colors simply by wanting it. He supposed it was because his body was now basically a walking television, only with the ability to see colors instead of the black and white that still existed when he was alive. Be that as it may, it was useful, and he wasn't about to waste the resource he had at his disposal.
That said, the same cannot be said of the smell. The worst part wasn't the sticky dampness seeping into your skin, most likely the product of the sinners' unbridled lust in Hell, indulging in carnal vices in broad daylight and in public spaces. The steam rising from their bodies would make any sauna owner blush on a good day, nor was it the incessant noise of gunshots, screams, or desperate moans. The worst part, without a doubt, was the smell. It clung to your tongue and nostrils like mud, and clogged your throat with the retching you'd try to stifle. And Neuman had smelled some unpleasant things throughout his life, but never anything as pungent as this. Bodily fluids, sulfur, and rotten fish; perhaps the putrefaction of decomposing bodies or the yellowish grease stuck to the asphalt if he happened upon a massacre. It was a mixture of several pestilent aromas that overlapped until they became overwhelming.
This didn't mean the whole city was terrible, since he hadn’t had the chance to explore what hell had to offer beyond the safety of Al's home and a couple of blocks around it. There are certain areas where the stench is less intense, especially the five blocks surrounding his friend's apartment. As he understands it, his presence made sinners think twice before trying to be consumed by lust in the waters where he dwelled. Al once told him that, depending on the district, some smells will be more prevalent than others. There are places where there won't even be a stench of bodily fluids since sex isn't practiced outdoors, being reserved for other, less carnal activities like commerce or trafficking of all kinds: weapons, drugs—well, there were absurd quantities if you knew where to look. The aroma there will be closer to gunpowder or various chemicals.
("Though the sulfur scent always lingers, no matter where you go," Alastor couldn't help but comment, "It must belong to Hell itself, since it seems to remain even in other cities.” And the other demon would have to agree, having traversed every corner of the Circle of Pride during all those long years of ascent to achieve what he had. It's like an acidic tinge rooted in the upper part of your sinuses, which no matter how hard you try to mask it, will remain.
"And how did you cope back then?" Vox scrunched his face—or rather, his pixels—he still hasn't the slightest idea how his facial anatomy works, even now. "The first few weeks, I felt like I was suffocating out there." The memories of those early days enduring the overwhelming stench were still vivid, but Alastor had always made it look so easy.
He smiled at him affectionately for his complaints, almost as if he were dealing with a small child. If his screen ended up flooded with a pink filter because of the delicate gesture, Alastor didn't make fun of it for once.
"To be honest, my dear friend, it took me almost six months to be able to walk down the worst streets in the city without wanting to wear a mask to mask the smell. So I'd say you were doing well.")
Smell or not, Neuman's curiosity outweighed any disgust any stench could generate. As if he were the first man to step onto the moon, he made his way along the least dirty sidewalk he could find (no easy feat, let me tell you), and blended into the chaotic world that was the city. He mustered all his strength and his best face, the one he practiced in front of the mirror in his dressing room before starting a show, and tried to appear completely unfazed by the new ecosystem unfolding before him.
No matter how many shapes and sizes they took, a sinner was once human. Neuman is a prime example: a square head shaped like the last object his skull touched before bleeding out, neon claws, and static clinging around his body like a second skin. But—and he can be proud to say this—he hadn't sunk as low as many in this rotten place. It was as if any inhibitions there existed in life were suddenly switched off, resulting in dystopian streets and blood and guts everywhere.
He was no stranger to the worst that humanity is capable of. He lived through World War II and its devastating aftermath, documented it, and spoke about it on the news (the Nuremberg trials were the best thing that ever happened to his career; thank God they decided to make them public), always speaking in favor of the great American nation, even after the peace agreement between the Soviet Union and the United States. He had felt the international tension with the start of the Korean War, just a few years before his death, without allowing a single period between wars for the population to get a damn break. What for? It never served the businessman, the big boss, any purpose. It never served Neuman in terms of ratings and bribes, let me tell you.
This? Dead bodies lying in the street, just like in the dark years after the stock market crash? God, that was nothing. A little gory for his taste. Certainly born of the depravity of a man cornered in the aftermath of the Black Tuesday catastrophe. But death doesn't discriminate: a corpse is a corpse, no matter its shape or size. There wasn’t much difference between them. Rather, the scavengers who reveled in the fallen flesh, risking death in the crossfire, might have been closer to what disturbed him most.
Although, if one were to ask him, perhaps the opioid and alcohol addicts were more unsettling than the rampant carnage. Something that Prohibition in his country, and the international war years later, brought with it. These demons were scattered throughout the filthiest streets, pushed aside by the most hardened sinners as if they were mere flies in their path, bottles and pills strewn across the ground. Their eyes were so unfocused they barely noticed, and if they did, trembling hands groped the asphalt for the drugs. Benzedrine, Pervitin, opium, morphine, cheap beer; of different sizes and types. It didn't surprise him to imagine they were barely aware they were lying on the ground. A pathetic and pitiful sight.
(Almost like Valentino's pink smoke, calming and addictive, it clouds vision and fills the brain with cotton).
It might’ve been the unreality of the environment he stood in. Or it could be the fact that he had lived so long, taking the lives of many to maintain his relevance and keep money in his pockets, using corpses and other people's tragedies to draw the public to his scoops. He wasn't sure what the reason was, but Neuman couldn't care less about the scene before him. Was it disgusting? Yes. Unsettling? Of course Horrifying? He wouldn’t be in hell if it were. Neuman was no longer that young boy he once was. He was now an adult, with an elderly gaze that could no longer be impressed.
He wondered, as he kicked a small white pill towards an addict who reached out to grab it, if Al had also come to the same conclusion after some time in this place.
They hadn't talked much about him, beyond a couple of comments about his experience. He'd done his best to set aside his own experiences so as not to overwhelm him, allowing Neuman to vent as much as he needed. And he was grateful for it; not having to think too much about everything new around him had helped him cope well in such a short time. It wasn't a method his old friend hadn't used before: those days when his work at the old printing press became difficult and exhausting, and he didn't know how to deal with the workload. Al would stop talking about him unless he asked, choosing instead to let him vent between sips of stale whiskey diluted with ice. Being heard and understood always lifted his spirits.
("Of course it would, you love being the center of attention," Alastor joked. Vox couldn’t disagree.)
Even so, he felt curious. He wondered what became of him all those years. He wants to know more about this new world, what Al had seen through his eyes, and understand it with his own critical eye. It's like feeling like a novice again, you know? An apprentice seeking to absorb everything his mentor has to teach him. Like when they were alive, when Al had to show him how that old printing press worked. Or how to make a good andouille from scratch, relying on a good butcher who knows how to choose good meat. Almost everything, including the confidence he'd gained over the years, was thanks to what Al once taught him in New Orleans. Why would it be any different now if it had worked so well before?
Living a long life next to Al, it sounded good...
His steps stopped short of tripping over a piece of asphalt. Or over a corpse riddled with golden spears. Was it real gold? And if so, who in their right mind would abandon such an expensive weapon? Or perhaps material value here was different from that on Earth? Well, mercantilism wasn't an influential economic system these days, but precious metal would always be worth something, wouldn't it? It made him wonder if Hell tended to follow Earth's ideological currents or if they had their own adaptable system.
He reflected, Keynesianism is still predominant globally as far as he can remember. God knows it was the immediate response to the 1929 crash, and it made perfect sense that it would be the focus of economic activity in those years. There were other theories that followed, like Monetarism, which emerged after the war as a counterpoint to the Keynesian status quo. Still without much support, but there they were. In any case, both revolve around fiat money, you know, a value guaranteed by a state. Does Hell even have a state issuing currency? Not that he’s had the chance to see it with his own eyes, holed up in the comfort of a warm bed and three meals a day without fail (whatever a day meant here). However, if there had been a government, why would it allow so much chaos and destruction? It wouldn't make sense if you think about it; it's a waste of time and resources, however eternal their lives may be now. Are the raw materials renewable here? Don't they run out over time? Does the workforce work set hours or do they only work when they want, given the extensive freedom that sinners have in this no man's land?
Wow, there are so many things he needs to know that something he took for granted, like money, has opened his mind to a myriad of unanswered questions. And it's all beside the point, especially now with a bullet grazing his shoulder. Had he tripped, he speculates, it would have hit his skull. A screen with a bullet-sized hole wouldn’t work, and he seriously doubts he'd be an exception. Instead of dwelling on the idea, his gaze shifts, searching for the culprit. Or at least trying to.
He hadn't really taken notice of what was happening around him, lost in his own worries. Rather, it was necessary to make a distinction here: it wasn't that he hadn't noticed (which could be the case), but Neuman, in his stupidity, had forgotten that the building and the streets surrounding Al's home were on the outskirts of the city. This meant, simply put, that the further out they were, the sparser the population became, and vice versa. So, having already covered a considerable distance, his friend's tower appearing as a small column in the distance, he had reached an area of the city where sinners were beginning to congregate. And if the drug addicts left to their own devices hadn't been a warning sign, witnessing two sizable groups of demons fighting each other certainly was.
Choosing to save his own life, Neuman backed away before another stray bullet decided to make him a living target. Or a grenade, if the explosion beside him was any indication. His head hit the ground hard, but hey, for once the incipient smell that had been bothering him had subsided, giving way to the pungent aroma of gunpowder and soot. Again, what were they fighting about?
Perhaps his mistake was trying to find some logic in it before considering a strategic escape. But to be fair, Neuman was never an action man. He relegated himself to working behind the lines, far from physical warfare and more as an agent of media chaos. In that kind of job, you don't need to know how to defend yourself, you know? Beyond knowing how to use a hunting rifle, he could be considered inept. That's what the police were for, after all. That could very well be one of the many reasons why he ended up dying so tragically.
And that could be one of the reasons why a gun barrel was now pointed at his head. They didn't even give him the chance to try and get up, huh.
"That easy?" was what he could hear from the demon above him, who seemed to revel in having Neuman on the ground. "Hey, how much could I make selling your head? I don't recall a model like this."
"Hey!" he yelled. "For your information, the RCA 721 is almost considered priceless as it was the first one released after World War II, you idiot."
Perhaps he didn't have the exact proportions of the post-war model. But he preferred this sacrilege to his face being barely a fifth of the size of the rest of it! Had he even seen what those kinds of TVs look like? Perhaps that's what made Neuman worth so much more, since his screen is much larger than anything you could get with a good fortune saved up.
“You realize I'm talking about how to rip your head off to sell it, right?”
“To be perfectly honest, do you think killing me will keep my head working? Because I believe, my dear friend, that you'll devalue my body by destroying it like a brute. A little brain might help you, perhaps, just a little.”
Did he deserve the blow he received for being so insolent? Perhaps. Never call him a coward, though. He loves getting the last word in an argument.
("That's why you're my favorite, you always know how to entertain a man!" Loud laughter in the background accompanied Alastor's as he interrupted his story. "Oh, it's very easy, Al. I know my esteemed audience like the back of my hand.")
“You know what? Fuck you! I bet I can get something from Carmine for your remains.”
That was the last thing he heard from the sinner before he was crushed completely. The next thing he could make out were screams and shrieks growing louder and gunshots ceasing.
He has heard bones break. Once, back in the forties, he'd managed to fire a presenter who wanted to take over the main segment instead of continuing to present the weather on the show. The woman stormed out of the studio, he remembers. He didn't care much, what for? She wasn't the first or the last person whose career he'd ruined. His mistake, though, was not realizing how badly it had left her. Her only job that allowed her to pay the bills, he learned later; at the time, he didn't know and didn't bother to care. He'd planned to go out drinking after adding another victory to his record, until something fell right in front of him as he stepped out the front door.
That sound of the skull cracking against the sidewalk, the wet splatter of blood beginning to seep from the corpse he would never forget it. It was far more vivid than when he'd experienced it firsthand, because he wasn't dying, no. There, he'd been a spectator of the consequences of his actions. And it was that same revolting sound that now echoed in his ears. Louder and louder, made with the precision of a butcher preparing meat. Grinding kneecaps and ribs until the sounds of suffocation began. Of someone whose lung had been punctured and could no longer breathe.
Neuman didn't vomit, unlike that time when he'd been overcome by the nauseating, pungent smell of copper. Something told him he didn't have to. It was a lullaby, seeping into his mind like a jazz song in the afternoon, a feeling of security whispering that he was safe. An electric sensation that coursed through his body like a blanket, if he tried to be precise. Wasn’t that strange? To be certain that whatever was happening there wouldn't hurt him? To believe that someone was speaking to him without using words, but rather the static was signaling to him as if it were some kind of telegraph?
He didn't even feel fear; his body didn't seem to want to flee when it had the chance to do so. On the contrary, he remained still, like a dog waiting for its master, with a slight tingling in his limbs and his head a mess.
He opened his eyelids, which he had kept closed all this time. Red eyes stared back at him.
Neuman was no idiot He knew perfectly well what his friend, his invaluable friend, had done to save him when they reunited. Even if he hadn't fully processed it, if he hadn't seen the whole picture, there was no other explanation. The silence that followed, after the mess of words that had spilled from the mouth of that demon who had threatened his life that day, spoke volumes more than his mind could have accepted after the incident.
Then, a part of him, the part he had filed away after a long moment of reflection alone, knew what to expect when he looked at him.
There, amidst the remains of sinners and the few who fled his presence, Al was smiling. No, Al always smiles; it's something he's noticed over the course of their time together. Even in life, maintaining his smile was part of his trademark; he almost never went anywhere without it. But there was something in this grin that reflected a great delight in the chaos that had formed, something different from the calm and composure he usually showed him when they were alone. His eyes were crinkled with pleasure, he noticed, just as his throat seemed to be swallowing whatever he'd been chewing on seconds before. And seeing the arm of a sinner with a peculiar bite mark held in one of his hands, he could guess what it was.
Neuman saw a tongue moisten blood-stained lips, but the color had already tinted them red. It was a perfect lipstick that accentuated his ethereal figure. Al blended into the city's destruction and the red lights of the sky, managing not to look out of place despite his elegant attire. And he made it look natural, as if this were the cycle of things. A hunter going after his prey, served up on a silver platter for his pleasure. A supernatural charm that kept him mesmerized, his screen following his every move, not allowing him to look away for even a second. As if the idea of doing so were sacrilege, heresy.
The static that massaged his mind purred contentedly, reading his subconscious like an open book. And it rewarded his submission, completely drowning out the sharp pain of the blows that demon had dared to deliver. They were light kisses on the frame of his head that he never wanted to end. That was what kept him anchored to the spot. He let his friend protect him while all the witnesses died in a viscous pulp, crushed by dark tentacles that emerged from the ground. While others were dragged into Al's insatiable appetite, who waited with sharp teeth. Devouring them in a macabre and horrifying feast.
Something inside him thought he should want to vomit at the sight of the exposed and torn entrails. As bizarre as it seemed, it didn't happen.
A part of him couldn't help but sigh fondly. Of course, even in death, Al was still a glutton. When didn’t he look hungry! Always looking for any excuse to cook or go to a restaurant to eat whatever caught his eye. And Neuman would always follow him, delighted to give his best and only friend a little escape, to see him happy enjoying the things that distracted him from the horrible, chaotic Louisiana of those years.
He must be crazy, right? Or was this the effect hell had on sinners, allowing such a horrifying scene to feel nostalgic for a few moments? Or perhaps it was because it was Al doing it?
("Do you know the answer now?" Alastor asked.
Vox paused for a moment, lost in thought. Not because he'd never thought about it before, but because he found it difficult to put into words everything he wanted to say. But he didn't let that discourage the radio demon; he would never allow himself such a thing. His hands snaked around, almost touching his friend's waist, waiting for permission to embrace him. And when it was granted, Vox buried his face in the other's neck, inhaling the subtle, earthy scent mixed with a men's cologne he'd been given some time ago.
"Alastor, you will always be my answer. No matter what you do now, or what you do tomorrow, we've been together so long that I'd rather kill myself than be separated from you. How could I be horrified by something you love to do? What kind of friend would I be?". Alastor seemed content with that answer, if his body melting against his was message enough. "And it will always be that way, won't it?").
“Wow, my dear. Have you become clumsy in my long absence? It almost seems as if you enjoy getting into trouble so I'll come and save you.
The trance he'd been in vanished as a chorus of voices began to lull him. Al's hand, by then, was tenderly caressing the crack in his screen (when had he gotten it?). Clean, without the sticky feeling of blood to the touch, even though his fingers had been stained with it during his fight. But that gentleness didn't extend to his expression. Even with that smile of his, worry gleamed in his eyes, and an anger seemed to yearn to be unleashed once more.
For a moment, Neuman pondered whether he would care to see what his friend was capable of when his fury was unleashed. But he restrained himself, saving that thought for later, when the adrenaline hadn't clouded his judgment. Instead, he grimaced at the slight mockery of his last comment.
“It wasn't on purpose! How was I supposed to know they would attack me?”
“Hmmm” Al paused to consider it for a moment before answering “I suppose expecting civilized people in a land abandoned by God is something you would do, right?”
There was sarcasm in his words, like the tone of a mentor to his pupil after he asked something obvious. It was curious, since it was jarring how he could speak with a certain condescension while simultaneously feeling his body for other wounds. It seemed to him that this was Al's way of trying to lighten the mood. It wasn't as if he hadn't been different before, only now it felt more pronounced, less subtle than when he was alive. He was still Al, of course, but this was a new side of him that intrigued Neuman.
And it definitely did! In such a short time, he had learned so much about his best friend that it made him want to uncover so much more. To bridge the gap that his death had created between them. He longed to understand him completely. It was as if they were rediscovering each other in death!
He refrained from saying it, because Neuman was no longer the boy he had left behind in distant New Orleans in 1933. He, like his old companion, had changed in his absence. And if he had to say what the showman Newman Whitman, the beloved face of American TV, was known for, it was for his unwavering pride and his refusal to back down, his survival atop the stage above all else.
That Al might be a small, minuscule exception to his golden rule was irrelevant...
"You're here too, and you're the most civilized person I know," he blurted out, much to his chagrin, recognizing when a battle is lost. "Forgive me for being so gullible, happy now?"
"Yes, I am!" Sounds of applause could be heard. "I suppose I'm being hard on you too. It must have been an unpleasant experience."
And he seemed sincere, because he saw his smile waver with guilt. As if it were his fault that Neuman had been foolish enough to wander so distractedly through unfamiliar territory. But it felt so good to see that he cared... It made him say nothing in retaliation, not even a sarcastic remark. What did it matter? He should have known, after nearly dying the moment he arrived in hell, that he needed to be careful where he went. In any case, it made him a complete idiot.
He wouldn't tell Al, because Neuman refused to admit it openly, but he definitely knew.
"How did you find me, by the way?" he asked instead, trying to change the subject.
“You called me again” He replied. “I came as soon as you signaled that you were in danger.”
Neuman didn't remember making any signal. But Al seemed so convinced of it that it seemed to be the truth. Another fortunate event, just like the first time, that Al had come to his rescue right when he needed him. It was very fortunate, it seemed, that his subconscious could somehow call on his friend in moments like this. A pity he still hadn't figured out how to use it at will, but he would take everything he had at hand. And this was too invaluable to refuse.
“Besides, have you seen the time?” Neuman shook his head” It’s almost time for lunch like we agreed on, how distracted were you, dear?
“Oh... I promised to eat lunch with you, didn’t I?
“That's right!” The sound of applausse accompanied by cheering played to his answer “I thought that, since you wanted to explore the city, we could eat at a restaurant. Choosen by me, of course. I won’t take you anywhere outside my standards.”
Neuman looked at the sinners’ remains spread on the floor before turning back to Al in disbelief
"... You still have room?”
His friend's hungry smile was answer enough.
[3]
"I think of a dumb excuse just to pass you the last time. Just like the last time" –Acid Girl (Phoneboy)
Now that he had a guide, hell didn't seem so dangerous anymore. Al's presence was warning enough to deter even the most daring sinner. They stepped aside, clearing the street so they could pass, halting all previous activity to prioritize their escape. And if that wasn't one of the most interesting things he'd ever seen, he had no idea what could be.
Al, who in life had been singled out as inferior because of his skin color, had become the opposite. In his absence, he had somehow managed to climb the ladder to inspire that unfounded fear. There were no longer looks of disgust at his presence, but a deep-seated dread. That kind of dread that's ingrained in your mind, the kind that makes you want to flee from a predator. And wasn't that fascinating? How his best friend had turned his position in the food chain upside down. Literally and figuratively. I mean, who would have thought a deer could be terrifying to someone?
That was the reflection of hard work. Because if there's one thing Neuman can say with certainty, it's that recognition doesn't come easily. He's the prime example of this, of course. With a few skeletons in his closet and a couple speeches filled with nationalist propaganda, but it was still the product of his persistent effort, cultivated over years. And Al, like Neuman himself, seemed to be reaping the rewards he had sown.
Ella Fitzgerald's "Autumn in New York" was playing from his staff during their short stroll. It was a stark contrast to the panicked faces of strangers and the cries for help that erupted whenever Al seemed to hum a little too close. Instead of appearing disconcerted, he acted as if it were just another day in his routine, chuckling to himself at being the cause of the collective hysteria. Neuman found it curious; it was impressive how one person could elicit such a reaction from so many others.
And so it made him wonder: how powerful would Al have to be to have this effect? Could Neuman ever be like that? It wasn't like he could be blamed for wanting it. After being saved from two pretty embarrassing situations in his time in hell, it was only natural that he'd crave the ability to become untouchable. Heck, it even sounded better than being a white man with enough money to line the pockets of a greedy officer to keep him quiet.
("Much better, you say! I don't need to bribe anyone to shut them up! Not when they know that if they talk, they'll be on my dinner menu." Vox chuckled at Alastor's enthusiasm, but nodded in agreement with everything he was saying. Having the power to keep the money for himself was the best thing in the world. And this was supposed to be hell? For both demons, this was true paradise.)
By the time the song ended, they had arrived at the restaurant. The building spanned half a block, its entrance on the corner. With its earthy colors and white accents, Neuman thought he was looking at a faithful imitation of a Creole restaurant he'd seen on his trips back to New Orleans. At first glance, it felt out of place compared to the chaos of the surrounding streets, but perhaps that was what made it so striking.
"Amazing, isn't it? They've really gone to great lengths to fix up the place after the extermination a few weeks ago," Al remarked as he started to approach the entrance. "I remember it being pretty wrecked when I tried to go in last time. Whoever did the repairs has talent."
“Extermination?”
“Oh, sometimes I forget you're new, my mistake! I promise I’ll explain when we get inside, okay?
“But it looks really crowded...” and he wasn't joking: you could see a considerable number of people from outside, which would explain why the restaurant took up so much space if it was that popular “Did you make a reservation?”
“Why would I?”
“And how are they supposed to let us in?”
“Dear, don’t you worry about that. Don’t you trust me?”
“You're playing dirty, Al.”
“I play to win, dear friend.”
And when didn't he? Playing against Al is participating knowing you're going to lose. Hell, he could count on one hand the few times he managed to beat him in an argument. Or when they played cards while waiting for the printed paper to dry during his time at that shitty job.
Which is why seeing the hostess turn pale under Al's mocking glare didn't surprise him too much. It was also somewhat expected, given that all the customers waiting outside were fleeing at the sight of his friend. It helped them get inside without the hassle of waiting to be served, so it wasn't like he cared too much. Although perhaps, just perhaps, he did feel a little sorry for the receptionist. He was trembling like a leaf and it was clear he wanted to be anywhere but there.
“Mr. Alastor!” Neuman had to admit that the poor man was doing his best to keep his voice from trembling “Good afternoon, sir! How can I help you?.... Sir.”
“Wow! Why so nervous?” his friend chuckled softly, enjoying the other's suffering as if it were a feast for the eyes “Table for two, can they accomodate us?”
“Of course sir! I will take you to your table right away!”
Al turned to look at him, pleased with his work. He also had that "I told you so" look on his face, the conceited fellow. Neuman snorted, but didn't say anything about it until they were both seated at their table— which had been "kindly" offered up by a couple who were just starting to eat).
"How you love doing that," Vox was the one laughing this time. "I swear that every time you choose where we're going to have dinner, it's only because you want to see the staff usher whoever's already eating there out to give us a table." “So?” Alastor laughed back, not caring how mean-spirited he sounded. "It's great fun."
"Alastor?" he asked, perusing the menu. "Is that what you call yourself now?"
“Oh, I’d forgotten,” Al’s smile faded shyly. “I thought I needed a new name. Alice isn't what defines me anymore; she died in New Orleans. And Al... well. That's the nickname you gave me. I wanted to respect that nickname somehow, but I didn't want anyone else to have the privilege of calling me that.”
"That's... surprisingly touching coming from you” it was even a little flattering to him in a way. “And why Alastor? Is it from the Percy Bysshe Shelley poem you said you liked?"
“Alastor or The Spirit of Solitude? It was one of my dear mother's favorites, quite a coincidence. No clear protagonist, ambiguous in its meaning and writing style. It suits me well, doesn't it?”
"Very pretentious. Yes, very you," he joked, and Al laughed at his quip.
“Did you expect anything less? I could also say I was inspired by greek mythology if that's what you want.”
“No, I have enough of that. Percy makes more sense.”
Blues music played softly in the background, filling the air with a familiar comfort he hadn't thought he'd miss until now. Similar to their quiet nights out, he thought, though without the presence of other diners, having secured a table away from the rest. Much more comfortable and sophisticated than his budget could have afforded before his leap into television. And the aroma of seafood and spices hung in the air like a subtle cloud, a delight for his sense of smell.
Alastor —He still struggled to get used to this new information— flipped through the menu, his eyes sparkling whenever a dish caught his eye. Given the wide variety of Creole dishes, this wasn't surprising. Neuman was willing to bet that his friend could eat everything on the menu if he tried.
"Tell me, Neuman, since I see you've finished choosing your food." Neuman forced himself to look away, ignoring Al's laughter at having caught him staring. "I know almost everything about your time on Earth since my death, but I'm also curious about some things I thought weren't appropriate to ask about at the time."
“More things from Earth? And what else would you like to talk about regarding life up there? Isn't Hell interesting enough already?”
“Oh, it is. Listening to other people's suffering will always be a delight... Although let me tell you, there are some unfinished things in my life that I longed to have experienced firsthand. I don't know, dying before Bonnie and Clyde's unfortunate fall was a tragedy, you know? You loved looking up their names in the newspapers so much, you even made me dedicate a segment of my show to them.”
"You say that as if it didn't intrigue you too," Neuman laughs, the memory fresh in his mind. "They never stopped being in the public eye after they died. Like our country's Jack the Ripper in that sense."
”Except that they were two married people who started stealing to survive the lack of money during the 1929 crisis. It's nice when you look at it that way, if you separate the murder count from that time.”
“You were always saying that Bonnie fascinated you, so it's not like her profession stopped you from following her in the news.”
“And who wouldn’t? Her poems had so much sentimentalism that she could only profess true love to her husband.”
“Wait, you could read her poems here?”
“She herself took care of spreading them as soon as she arrived in hell, yes. One of the few thing's I've enjoyed reading in the newspaper.”
And you couldn’t blame Al for liking her writing so much. Neuman acknowledged that Bonnie's poems helped the public empathize with both her and her husband, Clyde. Even after what they did, details like these somehow managed to generate public outrage against the police involved in the ambush that led to the couple's tragic deaths. Them being buried separately was another major disappointment for the public. Overall, it was interesting how the narrative painted them in a better light than they should have been, simply because they were a loving couple.
“But that’s not what I was talking about” Al interrupted his thoughts. “I meant the war.”
Now Neuman looked at him confused. Out of all the subjects he could have brought up, that was the one he expected to hear the least.
“To be honest, there’s not much to say. Other than what the news say, of course. Most of the worst things were concentrated on Europe until the end of the war in 1945. I didn’t enlist, I had better things to do with my life than waste it in the trenches, if I was lucky,”
“I don’t blame you, dear. I’ve always thought one's own survival is more important than the rest's. Even then, 1945 was an interesting year, don't you think? Were you already a TV host by then?”
“I was in charge of talking about whatever they would let me cover. The Nuremberg trials were the ones that gave me the biggest audience.” Alastor raised an eyebrow, expecting him to explain in more detail. “When Germany fell, trials were held where the most outstanding point were the crimes against humanity that the German had perpetrated. They had concentration camps and all that weird shit where many died. Nothing nice to be quite frank, there’s a detailed record that was explored in that trial. But hey, sensationalism sells, that was my job, and the rent didn't pay itself.”
“I see...”
A server appeared soon after. Whatever Al seemingly wanted to say, he kept to himself for the time being, as he started to make his order. Of course, shrimp, shirmp Étouffée. He, on the other hand, ordered something lighter, oxtail soup. He he wasn't sure his stomach had recovered from Al's "little snack." Although it's still surprising that the nausea subsided relatively quickly. Almost like the first day, when hunger struck despite having vomited in a filthy street. He wondered if this resilience was something he acquired in hell or if it was inherent to him.
By the time the sinner left, Neuman sighed. He had nothing against the guy, but he wanted to get back to their conversation. Alastor seemed more comfortable when they spoke in private, or at least, he seemed to prefer that no sinners snooped into their affairs. His smile sharpened when there was someone else in the same space, as if to intimidate his new victim. And it was amusing, but if he had to choose, he'd always pick the version of Al that was for Neuman. The one of his friend and confidant.
("Seriously, Vox. Sometimes I think I indulge you too much.")
Why so much interest in the war, anyway?
"It's just to give you some context." Al took a sip from the glass of water that had been left for them a few moments before. "While I did say that I can't know exactly what's going on up there, things got... interesting here in Hell back then."
“Interesting in a good or bad way?”
“In a bad way, to be frank. As far as I understand, there was always tension in Heaven. That winged sphere you see up there, next to the moon? That very place” he explained “This tension grew during the war.”
“Like Germany and England at the start of the century?” He dared to ask, to which his friend nodded “That ended really badly, you know, with the Great War and all that. And we’re just talking about commercial rivalry. How bad could it have been for Hell, then?”
“You asked me about the exterminations just a moment ago” Al continued after some time. “That was one of the consequences of whatever happened up there. It seems that it was such a... Disgusting event that Heaven considered that Hell had become a dangerous and unstable place with all the new sinners arriving. That's where the idea of extermination came up.”
“What does extermination mean then?”
“I think it’s pretty self-explanatory. But, in short, it’s an event where, for one day, angels come down to eliminate every sinner they can find.”
It took Neuman a second to really understand what was being explained to him. This was, to put it mildly, a difficult pill to swallow. The casual way Al mentioned it with made it all the more unsettling, as it seemed to be an event seamlessly integrated into the everyday life of Hell.
“That’s... a genocide.”
“A genocide, yes. But it’s one approved by our dear Hell monarch. So this is just as legal as the Jim Crow laws in the US” Alastor shrugged, dripping with sarcasm at the mention of a ruler. “The only good thing is that, since it only happens once a year, we have many months to prepare for that day.”
“It’s still absurd.” Because it was, in every sense of the word. What the hell. “Is that why everything was all destroyed out there?”
“Not necessarily. It’s one of the consequences. But it would look the same any time of year. Sinners usually fight over scraps of territory whenever they find some ground they can claim.” Al shook his head. There was some amusement in his words as he spoke, as if the situation was a mere joke to him. “After an extermination, there are certain zones in the city that lose their population or it gets reduced considerably. And since there isn’t any law preventing them from taking over the place, what you saw happens.”
It sounded a lot like a kind of anarchy, To be honest. Except that there did seem to be a ruler, but he just didn't care at all what his citizens did in his own land. What good was the title then? Or did the king revel in the chaos created by the absence of laws to protect anyone? Even Al seemed to lack a clear answer. It was frustrating.
“Well, I understand that this is a terrible place to live in” The best way to summarize this whole conversation so far. “You make me glad you have found me before something worse happened”
“You could've gone through something worse than death really.” Alastor nodded. It’s not like death in this place was permanent. Well, unless it was at the hand of an exorcist. So you could get killed and you’d be back after some time.”
It sounded as unsettling as it was repulsive, and not something you want to hear while waiting for a good meal at a restaurant. It made him think back to the barrel of that gun and that sinner's threats to scratch his screen and sell his remains. Just imagining being headless and unable to hear, smell, or speak for who knows how long made him want to vomit.
“Oh, you’re not helping me feel better at all.”
“I wasn’t trying to either. Why lighten the facts? It’s better for you to know beforehand and be prepared than to live them yourself and suffer due to your ignorance, don‘t you think?”
Sometimes he hated whenever Al was right.
He really didn’t. But still he wouldn't let him brag about it.
“And you've been, what, here since the 30s? How did you manage to survive all this? You make it look so easy.”
“It’s easy when you know how to adapt” well that’s so useful, thought Neuman at the moment, but kept it to himself. “And come on, you shouldn’t worry so much. You have me to protect you, right?”
Which had been effective so far.
Oh how much their places changed. It was now Al who had the obligation of watching his back with all the power he had accumulated, and at the top of the hierarchy no less. It made him feel flattered, to know that he was still important to him, enough to be his shield in this cursed city.
Even then...
“There's no reason why it has to be like this. You know that.” He didn’t like being vulnerable, even more, he didn’t like making Al vulnerable. Is this what he had turned into? “I don’t want to depend on you for everything. It’s not fair.”
“But there’s nothing wrong with depending on me! Isn’t it giving back for all the kindness you gave me in life? That’s what friends do.”
“And how long would that be for?” Neuman disagreed with Al. “We’re friends, so I want you to understand my stance. I know I've been taking advantage of your hospitality so far, but it doesn’t sit okay with me to do this forever. What happened just now? It could happen again and I might not be able to call you in time. You might not arrive in time. I appreciate you too much as to be someone useless to you. I want to be able to get by by myself.”
He didn’t mean to be thankless to what Al offered. There was nothing that filled his hurt heart more than seeing his long lost friend be willing to look after him. Anything he would offer he would take without a second thought, that's how important Al was to his life. But that was exactly why he also didn’t want to be a bother.
How long could he take advantage of his friendship with Al before he thought of his helplessness and undesirable? Unable to even leave his apartment without a chance of getting hurt, force to live as a parasite in his home instead of helping like they had done before for so many years. Neuman had livid by himself long enough to find that situation disgusting. He had tasted the true power that comes with influence as to let himself fall so low.
And seeing Alastor have a bigger influence than him shown with so few action? It made him wonder for how long he would appreciate having a worthless friend like what Neuman was now. Maybe it wasn’t that way, maybe Al didn’t think of him that way, the same way Neuman never thought less of his friend over things as irrelevant as his skin tone. Nevertheless, that still didn’t help with the itch in his arms, the desire to show that he deserved to be there. It wouldn’t get rid of his need to do something, to go back to his golden age, not isolated in a room trying to process the fact that he had died and this was hell itself.
(“I wanted to stand by your side and for you to be proud. To be to the standard that you deserve, you know?” Vox confessed “With no powers or anything that could show what I'm worth? How could I look you in the face nowadays if I had kept being only a weakling with a weak soul?”
“Oh, come on. You wanted to learn from me, if I'm remembering right” Alastor looked at him after a moment, the TV demon's screen had a pink tone and his antennas moved subtly “Of course, who else to better teach you how to live in this trash dump than myself? In the end, all this sentimentality had another intention behind it.” “And do you hate it?” Instead of a quick answer, his friend laughed, as if that had been the best joke of the whole night, the radio accompanying him as with a distorted compilation of laughter from different singers that they used to listen to. “Why should I? That made me feel more flattered than insulted. Knowing that you had to rely on me for everything was the greatest reward I could’ve ever had.” He still had to rely on him, Vox thought, but he was more captivated by the unstoppable laughter from his lifelong friend as to comment on it out loud.)
Alastor seemed to consider his words for a moment. As if he hadn’t really thought the situation through until now. He was so comfortable that he was now unable to imagine the feelings of someone whose power had been taken from them. Or maybe he really thought being his shield forever would work in the long run. He couldn’t blame him. You can never be prepared for everything, and the reintegration of Neuman into his life was one of the things that escaped his calculations. Just like him, Al had spent almost two whole decades fending for himself as to be able to handle something new being inserted into his routine. So he appreciated being heard, knowing that his friend still kept him in consideration, and didn’t just throw him away like a passing worry.
The music in the restaurant was interrupted by a static whirring. It hurt the ears just as much as the screaming from the scared clientèle from the sudden change. An instinctive reaction, as if they knew that this could only mean a new crisis was about to come. The lights blinked, for a couple seconds before the place they were in was filled with darkness. The shadows seemed to convulse, becoming bigger as the distortion on the sound grew.
Had Neuman known any better, he would’ve noticed Alastor’s eyes staring at him as this all happened. But he was more occupied pointing his worry to the strange event as to notice.
It didn’t last long. The music was the first thing to return, now with the beggining of Bing Crosby's Brother, Can you Spare a Dime? Breaking the silence. Right then, when everything had seemed to calm down, Neuman looked back to a smiling Al.
“Of course, I understand what's happening now, why didn’t I think about it before?” His friend shook his head in shame. “I can understand your helplessness, believe me. It’s frustrating, annoying... I would do anything to extinguish it and forget it. Of course, my esteemed friend, I would never mean for you to live that feeling forever. I apologize for my ignorance.”
“No, Al! It's okay, you know? I would never think poorly of you.”
“Even so, I want to apologize. And compensate you, of course.”
Al's shadow nodded enthusiastically behind him, leaving Neuman confused. Compared to the waiter, whose face looked like someone who had faced death once more, his hands full with two platters that held their lunch. Surprisingly, it hadn’t been long since they had ordered. Talk about quick service!
“And how are you planning to make it up to me? I still think you don’t need to.”
“On the contrary!” The plates were quickly set as Alastor spoke, a gesture from his hand made the poor sinner run away after the food was served. “This will be more than beneficial to you.”
Al's smile grew. A fork stabbed a piece of shrimp before moving to the demon's sharp teeth, his lips still retaining the red tone from the blood from before. The white meat stood out, just like the enjoyment in Alastor’s face. A precedent to what would come next, in the following months.
“You’re right that leaving you defenseless in this place is dangerous. So, why not help you climb Hell’s hierarchy?”
And even though Neuman showed surprise to the offer, on the inside he was just as excited as Alastor. He held in a smile, of course. Now, it was his friend’s time to shine; later, he would help him be under the spotlight too. Together, as it should always be.
And he couldn’t be any happier with the thought.