Fuoco Infernale Linari 2010

Malefactus E. Fistofeles stood at the window of his palace with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing into the haze outside. Smoke rose everywhere, and he enjoyed the scent of smoldering wood that wafted into his nostrils. Birch was his favorite; when such a supple, young thing splintered under rough axe blows, quickly dried by the hot breath of the berserkers, and was immediately burned... mmmmmh. It had been hard work for about two thousand years to make Hell compliant with regulations. But for some time now, he had been doubting. What was the point of it all?

In the past, at least occasionally, a guy in white would appear from above and negotiate the temperatures specifically for his people. Each time, he ordered the 'Fuoco Infernale.' And 'extra hot.' That’s what he got. The crew assigned to the Catholic district during the occasional redistribution of heating stations always had quite a tough time. But at least they knew what the effort was for. However, for some reason, no one of that sort had appeared in years. End of Infernale.

A cough behind him pulled him out of his thoughts, and he looked around irritably. The vacuum cleaner had choked. One by one, people were failing at this task and causing more disruption than they managed to accomplish. That was another issue - it was high time for more efficiency. A start had been made: the heating was gradually being switched from coal to gas. Deep below him stood the large boilers; he could smell their contents, especially the spice called marjoram, which he liked. In the upper world, Serbian bean soup - for whatever reason - was banned, but down here, it had been serving well for two weeks. After the meal, it was now time for the gas release in the combustion caverns - which were quite a distance away, as he didn’t want that under his window. Thus, nutrition and energy generation were summarized. Another cost-saving measure was the abolition of jobs that solely served punishment and torment, such as the sorting and inspection of feces. He was even considering stopping the production of plagues like Diesel - Fuel for Life or Gucci - Made to Measure.

The revenue model was equally in urgent need of revision. Sales had been declining since the late Middle Ages, and for several decades, they had been in free fall. He envied his colleague Malik, who operated the parallel Hell of Dschahannam. He was still believed in by hundreds of millions, and the business was booming, rolling in the Riyal. Well, let’s wait and see how he fares in a few hundred years... But he himself needed other sources of income. Hmm. A tourist development? Adventure vacations in Hell? Maybe talk to RTL about developing a new reality TV format - he could negotiate quite convincingly if needed.

Suddenly, an idea struck him: he needed 'positive vibrations' in the upper world’s daily life. With his 2,000 years of experience in the scent of burning, he could offer something that provided the well-fed bourgeois a cozy hellish atmosphere. This deliciously smoky, intense scent, the slightly sour-spicy odor of the new local delicacies: burnt wood, a handful of herbs and spices, a bit of original dust. And he already had a name for it, as the term Fuoco Infernale seemed to no longer be in use elsewhere. Now he just needed someone to calculate it cleanly. Someone with experience who had already drawn up a bizarre and daring plan.

A tickle on his back made him alert. Someone was watching him; he could feel it. He didn’t appreciate that at all. He turned his horned head left and right before completely turning around and looking up. His glowing red gaze met a thin, bespectacled business economist in an office in Hamburg-Altona, who had interrupted his work on a business plan to observe the events deep below through a tear in the fabric of space-time. The mouth of the prince of darkness widened, a swirling vortex opened up, and… Hiiiilfäääääääh!