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Klaus isn’t a big fan of Hell. Too hot, too dark. Plenty of sinners, yes, but generally too busy writhing in torment to get up to anything fun.
He’ll take dirty, chaotic human existence any day, thanks.
The sixties are a welcome change from the fifties. Free love, flower children, acid-laced upheaval. The times, they are a-changin’, Klaus sing-songs, temptation on his lips, sin on his forked tongue.
Au Shau feels like Hell sometimes, incessant suffering without meaning. He could leave any time, Klaus tells himself, surrounded by dead men walking.
A soldier smiles at a demon, and Klaus stays.