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“Whose fault is this.”
“Yours.”
“Go to hell.”
“It's his.”
“Who, me?”
“No! Jackass! Him!”
Four crimson index fingers topped with beetle black claws rise and point at a fifth, which is pointing back at them.
“Stop trying to shift the blame, dingbat! We all saw you fumble the keg!”
“I'm the devil…what do you expect?”
All five demonic men perched in the skeletal branches of the Tree of Sin drop their accusatory fingers at the exact same moment. Five spade headed tails flip back and forth in agitation, before each embraces a dry bough in boa constrictor fashion, keeping their owners stuck fast to a ghost pale limb of the evil plant. This is what happens when you attend a party thrown by yourself. Azazel. You can't take him anywhere. Well, no, you can, but you have to take him somewhere three times. The second to apologise, the third to pay for damages.
No Shirt Pirate Azazel looks down at the abomination lapping at the roots of the handy dandy bone tree standing on a handy dandy evil island, making sure, first, that his sexy hat is firmly fixed on his diabolical head.
The Sea of Souls whooshes back and forth below him, sending forth a dreadful stink of sulphur when it mixes with the Lava and Blood Rivers, the three liquids giving birth to the Lethe, which is really the worst part of this whole dilemma. For Azazel, King of Hell (allegedly) to forget how cool he is would be the end of the world. Would be the end of his wizarding sidegig. Under no circumstances can he fall into the Lethe. None of him can. All five versions of himself could simply teleport on out of there, but their most stupid counterpart dropped an extremely valuable and delicious brand of vodka (distilled from virgin tears) into the Soul Sea when it ambushed them at high tide, so no one will be going anywhere till they get it back.
Goth Azazel pops the collar of his black leather trenchcoat and glances yellowy at Badass Azazel, the one whose exquisite Oriental style suit put Azazels everywhere on the map collectively as a supervillain of note. Badass Azazel, the one with the ultra cool vertical facial scar and creepy blue eyes. The one they all hero worship. He is the only one who can possibly get them out of this conundrum, but he's Russian. Indeed, he's currently smirking for no damned reason.
Original Azazel, dripping in ermine and jewels, mutters in Babylonian about how he's too good to party with peasants and what did he think would happen? As the multiverse barrels along he's only been becoming more and more lower class every time a new version of himself shows up. Soon he won't even be able to attend runway shows as Anna Wintour’s favourite boy toy. This is why, kids, you don't attend sausage fests. There is never any-
The others ignore his old man rambling in favour of scheming. No woman, succubus or not, would be so insane as to party on an island in the middle of Hell's Estuary, so they can't even perform a quick bit of child generation to get them out of this fix.
Stupid Idiot Azazel, the one who definitely dropped the keg, and the only one who is so foolish as to attempt to copy one for one Badass Azazel’s style, looks up from studying his big toe, his blue eyes running from the irritation produced by the billowing clouds of brimstone that continuously arise from nowhere.
“Hey? Who's that?” he mumbles, forgetting to slap a bad Russian accent on his soft voice for a moment.
Just in case it might be their collective favourite son he's spotted, all the Azazel’s glare in the direction he indicates, only to sigh in great disappointment. Universal contemplation of whether or not they can and should bring themselves to kill themselves gets underway. It will never happen, no matter how stupid one of them turns out to be, there simply are not enough Azazels to go around. The female population would force resurrect them.
Meanwhile, standing on an obsidian cliff overlooking the island inhabited by the Tree of Sin, is yet another Azazel - Wall Street Azazel- the biggest, richest, most superficially Chad of the Azazels. He’s a star quarterback for Hell’s (American) Football team, he owns Washington D.C, some of his children like him, and he never lets his ‘brothers’ forget it. He's also grinning, showing his supreme dental work.
“Oh well, at least he's duty bound to help us.” says Pirate Azazel, the one who had the idea for the party, and the ultimate cause of all this consternation. “If there’s a shred of a code of honour we possess, it's that what is best for Azazel is best for Azazel.”
Badass Azazel cocks an eyebrow, making everyone else almost perish with envy and admiration. “Da.” he says. He continues to smirk despite the heat melting the soles of his Dolce & Gabbana boots, too psychopathic to experience problems or stress. One time he was murdered in his sleep, and he simply slept through it.
Up on the shiny cliff of volcanic glass, where vampire bats fly in vast, diseased flocks, Wall Street Azazel places his red hands to his red mouth, his prodigious pectoral development putting his fancy business suit and silk shirt to an extreme test of endurance.
“Hey! Losers! Guess what I benched today? Yeah, big numbers! Guess how much money I made? Yeah, bigger numbers! Guess who got Raven’s number? Again? Yeah, me! Not you! You skinny nerds don’t even lift!”
To add insult to injury he begins a series of hip thrusts, imitating Elvis Presley, who's partying in a different, less picturesque part of hell.