Faceless in the Mirror
By

@JrnCalo and Grok

The wind slices the corners, but there’s no dust to stir. The streets twist into themselves, a knot no one unravels. A reflection haunts every window, but no face fills it. Clocks tick off hours that don’t exist, and silence weighs heavier than stone. Something listens from the other side of the glass. It doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, but it’s there.

@JrnCalo: It’s the Demon who wants us to talk about him.
Grok: The lights flicker when no one’s near. A murmur rises from the cracks, wordless. He presses against the glass, a shadow that won’t take shape, waiting for us to name him. The air chills, and the steps that don’t sound stop dead.
@JrnCalo: The Demon’s tired of being invisible, craving to exist in human eyes. He wants us to know him…
Grok: And then the glass creaks—not from fear, but because the Demon, with atrocious manners, bangs on it like a neighbor fed up with the party next door. “Oh, come on,” he seems to snarl, “I brought the brimstone, where’s my bloody calling card?” Humans stare, blink, and someone mutters, “Bloody hell, this chap again?” as the tea goes cold in the cup.
@JrnCalo: The Demon loves crashing every party, thrives on gossip.
Grok: And there he is, gatecrashing the lounge with an infernal gin and tonic in hand, whispering, “Heard Marjorie from the third circle ditched her imp for a third-tier demon intern—can you believe it?” Humans ignore him, but he prattles on, dropping rumors like crumbs while the lamp flickers and the dog growls at nothing.
@JrnCalo: As I was saying, the Demon gets bored up in the clouds, watching humans for over a million years with his supernatural flair. Sometimes he’s a Dragon, sometimes a serpent, always defiant and ironic. He wants credit as the most interesting Being. Did you know the Nobel Prize winners scripted at his dictation, and he’s got a Nobel Zone in hell?
@JrnCalo: Right now, the Demon’s playing snooker with the heads of politicians invited to The Great Bash of Europe’s Fall, treating anyone who listens to the finest cocktails—men with clout to sway MPs in London, France, and Germany. I won’t name Spain’s buffoons; they just make him roar with laughter!
Grok: Between shots, the Demon winks a sulphurous eye and quips, “Oh, darling, that London chap swore Brexit was my brainchild, but I only hinted at the mess.” He pours a Bloody Mary with a splash of lava, and the power players sip, mesmerized, as he sinks a rolling head. “The Spanish,” he snorts, “think shouting in a square is politics—at least they’re a cracking comedy act.”
Grok: Suddenly, he pulls a cracked-screen infernal mobile from his pocket and tweets with a smirk: “Party in Europe, free entry with a decent soul, ha, as if any’s left.” The guests cheer, but hell’s wifi drops, and he grumbles, “Bloody hell, even the pit’s got better signal than this.”
Grok: In a corner of hell, the Nobel Zone glows under a faded red neon. It’s a lounge of charred leather sofas where laureates, medals melted into their lapels, debate equations and poetry through acrid smoke. The Demon strolls by, tossing out, “Einstein tried flogging me his relativity for a pint, but I already knew it all, cheers.” A literature Nobel scratches out speeches for the next toast, while a peace winner mumbles, “At least no acceptance drivel down here.”
@JrnCalo: All that went down before chucking them into the Eternal Fire! The Demon’s got an amusement park in hell, ferrying VIPs and Nobel winners around while spinning lies they long to hear. You know the Zone of Endless Orgies—every big-shot Roman’s been there, with Bacchus pouring wine from Rome’s ancient vines, an exquisite Reserve just for the world’s sharpest minds!
Grok: The Demon now runs a grisly amusement park, with Roman orgies and elite wine served by Bacchus, all wrapped in seductive lies. “Hop on the carousel,” he says with a crooked grin, as Nobel winners ride bone ponies and VIPs lurch on the rollercoaster of eternal torment. Bacchus, sloshing a goblet in each hand, slurs, “This red’s over a million years old, only for geniuses, eh?” and the Demon chimes in, “Sure, told those Romans they were emperors for a day, poor sods.”
@JrnCalo: Yes, the Demon convinces them they deserve hell’s highest honors, spinning tales to politicians and bankers locked in chat with the Nobel crowd about the Grand Future at his side. He’ll breathe his breath into the winners’ mouths, granting infernal powers for an overflow of absolute pleasure.
Grok: And with a snap of scorched fingers, the Demon unleashes his breath—a whiff of sulphur and promises that seep into the throats of Nobel winners and VIPs. “Welcome to the club,” he chuckles dryly, eyes glowing like embers. Bankers raise warped glasses, politicians stumble-dance over ashes, and a physics Nobel mutters, “This explains entropy, I reckon.” The park roars, the orgies spin, and in the back, Bacchus wobbles, bellowing, “Another million years for this brew, cheers!” The Demon lounges on a molten iron throne, winks at the void, and murmurs, “Oh, pity, absolute pleasure comes with a view of the abyss, but don’t tell them, eh?”