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The Devil sat sprawled in a massive leather armchair in his Trophy Room, an ancient scroll unrolled across his lap. Dice stood nearby, swirling a martini and looking over The Devil’s shoulder at the depictions of ancient torments.
"You know, Dice," The Devil started, pointing a claw at a drawing of a flaming pit. "The mortals think I’m the only one who knows how to run a business like this. They call it 'Hell' and think they've seen it all. But look at the Christian Gehenna or the Islamic Jahannam."
"Bit redundant, isn't it, Boss?" Dice remarked, leaning in to squint at the scroll. "Fire, smoke, more fire. It’s a classic aesthetic, sure, but where’s the flair? If I ran Jahannam, I’d at least vary the color of the smoke on the seven different levels. Keep the 'guests' guessing."
The Devil chuckled. "True, but they do have those 'iron hooks' in Jahannam. Very effective for crowd control."
"Now, look at these," The Devil flicked his tail toward a shelf of golden Asian artifacts. "Naraka. Hindu and Buddhist versions. They have 28 different pits for 28 specific crimes."
Dice raised an eyebrow, tapping his chin. "Specific? Now that I like. A custom-built pot of boiling oil for people who boil lobsters? That’s targeted marketing, Boss. It shows we care about the individual's... contributions. But this 'reincarnation' bit? You suffer, you pay your debt, and you leave? That’s a terrible business model. We’d lose our entire customer base in a century!"
"The Norse and the Shintoists go the opposite way," The Devil said, conjuring a swirl of frost in the air. "Helheim and Yomi. Cold, damp, and full of rot. No fire at all."
Dice shivered, adjusted his vest. "Ugh. No, thank you. It’s hard enough to keep the staff motivated in a climate-controlled building. Can you imagine the morale in a bog full of rotting corpses? It’s too... unrefined. A soul needs a bit of heat to keep the screaming energetic."
The Devil’s eyes lit up as he pulled a heavy, stone tablet from a shelf. "And then there’s the Egyptians. They didn't just have a pit; they had a process. The Hall of Two Truths, overseen by Anubis."
"The dog-headed fellow?" Dice asked, genuinely intrigued.
"Exactly. He takes the soul's heart and weighs it against the Feather of Truth on a scale. If the heart is heavier than the feather—meaning it was a real piece of work—he drops it on the floor, and a monster named Ammit, part-crocodile and part-hippo, eats the soul instantly. Gone. Poof."
Dice whistled low, impressed. "A literal weigh-in? That’s high drama! It’s like the VIP lounge entrance, but with much higher stakes. Although... if the soul is eaten, we can't exactly collect interest on it, can we? It’s a bit final for my tastes. I prefer the long-term 'lease' we have here."
The Devil looked at Dice, a genuine grin splitting his face. "You’re a harsh critic, Dice. Between the Aztec mountains of knives and the Greek Tartarus, is there any other Hell you actually admire?"
Dice set his martini down on a 3,000-year-old sarcophagus and straightened his bowtie.
"The Chinese Diyu has the right idea with the bureaucracy and the Ten Courts," Dice admitted. "But honestly, Boss? Most of these places are just... dreary. They lack the neon. They lack the jazz. They lack the game. Why just torture a soul when you can make them bet it first?"
The Devil stood up, towering over his Right-Hand, and draped a heavy arm around Dice’s shoulders. "You’re right. The others are just prisons. We... we run a destiny."
The End