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Someone call the lawyer
Someone called the nurse
Someone call the priest
Uncle Larry jumped out of the hearse.

Seems the devil's making deals again
A song for your soul
Oh God you betta watch your back
Sweet Satan's on a roll.

Satan used to lay back and rely on people sinning left and right in order to obtain his minions in hell. It was pretty easy. Nobody had discovered the importance of loopholes, so everybody sinned in their life at one point or another. Yet loopholes seem to be cropping up everywhere nowadays, and Satan isn't seeing all the fresh faces that he'd like.

Plus, his daughter is complaining about how she wants more souls, and she wants them now. Her latte slaves aren't pumping out the goods half as fast as they used to be. They'd realized that their were limited amounts of good latte makers, and thus their services were invaluable. The Princess of Darkness could wait for her soy latte. Pierre, the serial killer now converted espresso chief, needed to file his nails. They were getting a wee bit nasty.

And whatever Wendy wanted she recieved in abundance, even if it meant he had to obtain it the hard way. Thus, Daddy has been out collecting souls himself as only Daddy can. He gives everyone what they want now now now, since now is all that matters. Screw eternity. They'd have forever to get used to it, right? Like people in Arizona being used to the heat, people in hell thought they lived in a mildly tropic environment.

Like Hawaii, only with less coconuts.

Yet, back to the storyline at hand, and less discussion about the climate of hell. The Devil has slowly been collecting souls, finding people when they have reached their lowest points and offering them what their hearts desire the absolute most.

Being human, how can they resist giving up something that they aren't even sure exists? Where is the evidence that a soul exists? Where is the solid organ removed from a cadaver in a medical school to be analyzed by students? As far as they knew, the soul was nothing more than a fairy tale monster told to children in order to make them behave. "Don't sleep with you brother's wife, or your soul will go to hell!"

The soul was a false victim. It would always be punished for misdeeds and sins, so why not just let it free? To some people, that sounded a viable option.

Now Satan continues to want more souls, his greed surpassing that of King Midas by ten-fold. Yet for those who have already given theirs away, there is perhaps a second penalty to pay, for now the Devil has access to their lives, and the others within their lives. Will they let the Devil tempt the others? Will they let the Devil steal their souls away without a word, or will they break clean from that person, even if it means tearing both worlds to shreds?

The soulless are becoming victims once more. History is said to have a way of repeating itself.

1/15/06 - I began work on the RP thread.

1/13/06 - I will no longer be accepting applications for the Devil. Currently, I'm attempting to work out a way for us to retain all three of the Hellions who have applied. Toady, pm me if you'd like to know what is going on so I can explain it all to you. I'm going to begin work on the profiles page tonight since I have recieved the layout from Mercy, thus making it easier to make it pretty. Hopefully I'm not so computer illiterate that I can't make it work. The rp will begin soon with the people we have now. I will continue to accept applications though for Plain Old People and Deleted Soulz.

1/4/06 - Woo. I opened the OOC thread. I'm hot stuff.

Links to other threads for this Rp:
(Awaiting a lovely banner)

The OOC Thread

Genevive wasn't quite sure how she'd come about to dating Wendy. It had never been a priority of hers to date girls, yet nonetheless it had happened. Perhaps it had been a result of her continual frustration with boyfriends and her constant need to find one that met her few standards.

John, albeit devastatingly gorgeous, lacked the proper intelligence to know that when one gets out of a taxi-cab, he gets out of the car first and holds the door open for the girl. He does not slam the door in her face, totally forgetting that she's with him. John wasn't remarkably bright, which held some marks against him in the long run, and thus he didn't win the ultimate prize of a long-lasting relationship. He was disposed of fairly quickly.

Corey didn't exactly comprehend the meaning of the word 'date'. A date did not consist of you hanging out with all your male friends playing video games, such as skateboarding, and expecting your girlfriend to love watching you play. That wasn't a date. That was a poorly thought up cover to hang out with your friends and cover a date at the same time. Thus, he was neither blowing off his friends, his girlfriend, or Tony Hawk. She wasn't sure if Corey was even aware of the breakup, perhaps he was still happily married to Tony.

Greg had been so very clingy. Originally, she had ignored it, hoping that it was just a phase. Maybe it was the infancy of their relationship, and he felt strange in this new world where he was no longer single. Thus, he needed someone to cling to. Unfortunately, it had been her. It was a bit disturbing to have someone so interested in her when she herself was so totally uninterested in them. It had come to the point where she had to turn the hose on Greg, and he learned his lesson.

It hadn't been until Kyle, who had been an unemployed leech with a killer six-pack that she began to re-evaluate what she had been looking for in a significant other. She had come home, her black umbrella dripping with rain as it poured down from the sky to find Kyle, nice and warm and dry, a bag of chips opened on his stomach. Kyle, with his hair ruffled perfectly, in clean boxers that she had washed the day before. Kyle, with his careless smile...and empty wallet.

She placed herself at a position of high advantage, opening and shutting her umbrella rapidly in front of him, droplets of water spraying onto his body. "Girls. I like girls." With each word said to the pattern of the Starbucks' commercials, she opened and shut her umbrella, delivering her deadly spray of verbal and physical venom.

Gen's the man, Gen Gen Gen.

Of course, she'd allowed Kyle to mooch off her for a bit longer because the sex had truly been that good, but even that became less satisfying when he left those boxers on her kitchen floor. Wendy had managed to pop into her life at just the right time. Almost as if she'd known that Genny was ready for her first girlfriend, but didn't want her to be too masculine.

She had approached in a clothing store, where Genny had been perusing bras, attempting to find one that would not prod her randomly with hidden wires and plastic parts. Wendy, walking over as casual as you please, lifting one off the rack, "This would look soooo cute on you. Like, seriously. Go try it on." For the rest of the afternoon, she had become Wendy's doll.

And like a doll, all her clothes had been purchased for her. Without even a word, as if it had been expected of Wendy to do so. Dinner had been bought for her too. And desert. And of course, as with all girl's nights out, a slumber party had ensued.

Her apartment had been upgraded, and Kyle had been replaced with a cat, who Wendy insisted was a Devil cat, but Genny found him rather, apathetic to things in general. She liked that in a cat.

It had been six months with her first encounter with Wendy. Six months of living the luxury life of a lipstick lesbian, and nobody seemed to really mind. Except her ex-boyfriends, who were sorely disappointed when they were refused the threesomes which they felt was inherently their right. Wendy would reply quickly into the phone, "OhmyGodnolikeewboysaresolastseason" and hang it up without even bothering to listen to their future arguments.

Girls. Girls girls girls.
Gen was indeed, the man.

Alfred had discovered something new to worry about. Ever since that moment in the park, he had been questioning his boyfriend's perhaps newfound religious faith. Why this sudden alliance with this Jesus fellow? He had heard talk of this man, whom some called "the Savior". It sounded like a rap name, or some sort of street name. Of course, Alfred was fully aware that Jesus was not a gang leader, but a man with a nicely kept fashionable beard who spent his spare time talking to prostitues and chilling with his home boys, the Apostles. He even gave them pet names, like Peter a.k.a "The Rock" and Judas, "The Backstabber." Jesus had a rep for performing miracles too, like doing the one two step on water and the like. Perhaps Jesus was cooler than him, and thus, Slush was debating becoming a nun in order to become a bride of Christ.

Whilst on one of those chance occassions Slush had left the apartment in order to do...well...whatever it is that boys with safety pins jammed through their eyebrows in order to keep them together do, Alfred had decided to peruse his things, being as subtle about it as possible of course. There was no need for him to disturb anything, right? Right. Hands flittered through comic books, magazines, books...especially the ones in the bathroom. Perhaps he was enjoying the bible in every nook and cranny of their apartment. The mattress was patted down, then the sheet was removed, and then replaced. Pillows were searched, even though neither were distinctly Slush's.

He went through the boy's laundry, focusing first on the clean, and then moving on to the dirty. It was when he approached the dirty clothes that his heart froze, and his breath caught like a lump in his throat. When Slush had discarded his pants, the legs had fallen to cross over one another forming...a cross! Alfred began to panic and he minced about the pants, shifting nervously from one foot to another. Was this Slush's silent way of letting Jesus know that he was indeed his homeboy? Tentatively, a finger extended to nudge the pants, not wanting to disturb them to much incase God was in the mood to spite someone with lightning. Disturbing a shrine such as this could possibly have made Alfred a prime candidate to become the latest ash heap. And just think of what a mess that would be on the carpets.

Now, if Slush were here, there would be a voice of reason to aid Alfred's distress, and calm him down a bit. Someone would be there to say, "Dude. That's just how they landed when I tossed 'em down." But, Slush wasn't home, and Alfred lacked that voice of reason at this moment in time. A hand reached for the phone. He needed to tell this to someone. He was in a state of mind that no man should have to endure alone.
"Genny? Genny. I'm nervous."
"Oh God Alfred. What is it now?"
"Slushie is a homeboy of the Lord."
"What?"
"He...he's...he's picking Jesus over me."
"Are you serious?"

Alfred nodded, and although Genny couldn't actually hear it, she could sense it. "What led you to this conclusion?" she asked, her head tilting to the side.
"The other day, I mentioned selling my soul to the devil to look better, and he freaked out, slapping his hand over my mouth and the like. And today...oh today Genny...his pants...oh his pants."
"What about his pants?"
"They're on the floor...and the legs are crossed."
"What?"
"They're on the floor and the le--"
"No. That's ok. I heard you the first time. But who cares about that?"
"Jesus."
"Oh really. What is Jesus now? The maid of the apartment? Finicky about where discarded clothing is tossed?"
"No. But they're in the shape of a cross Genny."
"Oh God. So Jesus is going to look down on Sloth's pants from heaven and say, 'I was crucified on something like that. He must remember me always to demonstrate such love to me, even when taking off his pants to go romp with him boyfriend.' "
"Exactly. I knew you'd understand."
"Alfred. You're overreacting. Did you check his nightstand?"
"No."
"Then do it."
"Stay with me?"
"Yes Alfred. I'll be right here on the other end of the line. I'll even breath heavy so that you won't forget I'm with you."
"Thanks."

Cautiously, Alfred approached the nightstand, eyes moving over it from every possible angle, as if he expected it to be filled with secret hiding spots for all sorts of items, such as bible, rosaries, and other such religious artifacts. Trembling, his hand enclosed on the knob, and he swallowed. With the way he was acting, one would expect to find a disembodied hand inside of something. Slowly pulling it open, he gasped in horror.

A Gideon Bible.

"What's wrong? What is it?" Genny asked upon hearing the gasp.

"It's a Gideon Bible!"
"That's yours Alfred. Remember? You stole it from the hotel we stayed in on New Year's. You thought it would add a bit of blasphemy to the apartment, and that would be cute."
"Oh yeah. That's right. Wrong Nightstand."
Genny sighed, patiently waiting as Alfred approached Slush's nightstand with even more caution. If there had been signs of premeditated religious pursuit within the confines of his own nightstand, what could he expect within those of Slushie's, who may very well be somewhat on his partial way to becoming a homeboy of the Lord?

A baby Jesus buttplug.

It lay, curled up in the corner of the drawer, soft and flesh toned, a tiny little rubbery infant joy. Alfred picked it up with trembling fingers, a whimper escaping his lips.

"Oh what is it?" Genny asked with a long drawn out sigh.
"A Baby Jesus Sex Toy. My boyfriend is making love to ... to the son of God. He really does love him."
"Oh dear sweet Jesus,"Genny said, pausing for a moment, "No pun intended. That's the birthday present I gave him. Remember? He gave me the Virgin Mary d***o, so I had to reciprocate. Now Alfred, put the buttplug down."

Alfred let the buttplug drop back into the drawer, closing it and moving to sit down on the bed. "I think I'll be ok now Genny," he said softly, "But do you want to meet me for a coffee?"

"Sure. Wendy come to?"
"Sure. We can go shopping."
"Okie dok. See you in an hour?"
"That sounds fine to me. Pick me up?"
"Of course. You're a mess on the roads."
"Ciao."
"Toodles."

With a little sigh, Alfred hung up the phone before darting over to the pants to frantically uncross the legs.