It’s my own fault, really.
I was young and sort of pretentious and I thought that the other puzzle boxes were a little too simple, too… basic.
The goal, in the end, is to attract deranged perverts and I just thought that maybe I could attract a higher class of horny weirdos, someone that I could vibe with, y’know, on a mental level. Someone that, while I was flaying them, would challenge me intellectually.
I don’t think the other kink demons are having this kind of trouble. I can hear screams coming from the walls where, presumably, people are getting Inquisition-style spankings or burned in some sort of very sexy hellfire. I don’t know, really. I actually don’t have any idea what they’re doing over there. I just know that they’re getting traffic, that the other cenobites are herding creepers in droves like they’re opening a new ride at Disneyland. A sexy torture ride. It’s A Small World but everyone’s wearing leather and someone is being disemboweled.
I’m so bored.
At first, I was prideful. I thought, Good, let them have their fun with those no-brain doofuses. I don’t want them. My dream was to get some seedy art collector sort. Maybe he paints portraits using human blood or something. And then, when we first met, I could say, “Look Now Upon The TORTURED ARTIST,” and start pulling his skin off or whatever.
I have a little book where I write lines like that, little scenarios that I hope will come true and witty lines to go with them. I didn’t want to get caught without something clever to say and now I have this Moby-Dick-sized book full of unused quips and it’s fucking depressing.
I didn’t think my puzzle was that hard. I shouldn’t have used so many limericks for clues. No one likes limericks except for Renn faire nerds and they’re never going to get laid even with the help of a sex demon.
That was mean. I’m sorry. I’m just mad at myself really.
There’s nothing I can do about it at this point; once you create your box, that’s it, you’re stuck with it.
How was I, a young fiery demon, freshly pierced and full of ambition and ego and that new leather smell, supposed to make a level-headed judgment at that age? It’s bullshit and I wish there was someone I could write to about it, but, unsurprising, Hell is a very unforgiving place.
Honestly, at this point, I don’t even know what I would do if someone did complete my puzzle. I can’t just kill them because who knows when the next victim will come along. I can’t wait another hundred years or more.
I’ll just have to try and convince them to take it slow. Maybe I can just torture them a little, y’know? A few spins around the gory sex pillar, once through the Maze Of Sharp Phallic Objects, and then a nice long break so we can talk for a bit, get to know each other. There’s no way I’m putting them through the Golgothian Spank Machine on the first go; that’ll be fourth, maybe fifth torture material, if anything.
First time someone comes through the gate, I’m just going to be hands-off, talk a big game and be real menacing with my words, see if that does anything for them. Maybe do some maniacal laughing, or just call them mean names and stuff like that.
I don’t want to scare them off or, worse, send them running to another puzzle box.
Gotta take it nice and easy: a little dirty talk, maybe give them a few pokes with a sharp stick, nothing fancy. And then, maybe, I can just show them my collection of meat hooks and chains, give them an idea of what’s in store, let their imagination do the work. Or not…
At this point, my loneliness has superseded my passion for sexy-pain.
Honestly, we don’t have to do any torturing. We can just hang out, take a tour of Hell, walk around and look at all the weird skinless people and Gothic architecture, maybe roast stuff in the eternal flames or try and see if any of their old friends or high school bullies are down here, maybe in The Pit Of Unendingly Itchy Eyes.
I don’t care at this point.
I’m just so lonely.