Disclaimer: I do not own the cartoon South Park, nor am I affiliated with the creators, Matt Stone and Trey Parker, in any way what so ever. This piece if purely a work of fiction.

I Get A Kick Out Of You

Dark screams of terror and panic ripped through the thick, dense fog. Battered bodies of all sizes, colors and shapes, laid forcibly to the uneven dirt ground by darkened, disfigured beings above them. The bodies choked back tears of pain and agony as they were horribly tortured by means completely inhuman. Bringing their malnourished bloodied fingers to their chained throats in utter agony in the situation, the hopeless people choked on the very grey, tar riddled air around them; some denying the fate and refusing to breathe while others accepted it, breathing in the asbestos and arsenic like clueless lab rats in an experiment gone horribly wrong.

One woman in particular, braver than all others, dared to stand against all odds. Gritting her chipped teeth enough to make her gums horribly bleed, she weakly pushed away strands of mistreated wavy brown hair and kept her face as stoic as possible as she took in a breath full of grey air. Her skin, stretching from the act of merely standing up, was on verge of sliding right off her archaic, tender body. Just as she thought her torment was over, she was immediately thrown to the ground, the rusted chain strapped firmly around her neck constricting tighter than ever. She hit the ground with a dull, echoless thud; one at which no one paid attention to. And as her dull, grey eyes finally closed, her body got weaker, her breathing nearly coming to an end, she remained alive, more fully awake than ever before. Because before even her, many had found from their own past experiences, that no matter how much strong-will you think you have to survive, there was no escaping your fate drawn out before you. And no matter how much you want to let go and fall apart, many remembered one simple, horrid thought; you couldn't die if you were already dead. And you certainly couldn't leave if you were stuck in the deepest pits of Satan's almighty Hell.

Not far from the very courageous act put forth by the nearly deceased woman, a large, overpowering castle stood, constructed completely of human remains (generally bone), steel, and red brick. It rested awkwardly atop the largest cliff in the Underworld, half hidden obscurely by mountain edges and ridges. On the rocky ground below, a large twenty food wrought iron fence encircled the castle's mountain, keeping out all unwanted visitors and invaders. Atop the sharp metal poles of the fence were precariously perched body parts of Hell's escapees, most likely a warning to any who even thought about attempting to flee.

The continuous screams of the poor victims of the underworld were heard throughout the castle, even past the large, heavily guarded front gates, down the endless stretches of empty corridors, and the multiple dungeons beneath the surface of the ground. They were heard as if they were in each corner of the home, sneaking carefully into every small crevice. Though one room in particular, situated near the top, was nearly shut off from the rest of the overpowering piece of architecture. As such, the screams of the mostly innocent were silenced. It was as if the walls were made of the strongest metal possible, allowing no sound in what so ever. Albeit the owner not hearing anything, they were unable to forget about the continuous sounds of torment, as it was going on for nearly every hour of every day.

"My story is much too sad to be told, but practically everything leaves me totally cold." Inside the dark, depressing room, the owner snickered quietly to themselves at their very actions, surprising themselves for just a moment. The owner carefully hummed along to the ancient song playing on the 1934 RCA 128 Tombstone/Cathedral radio before actually gathering up enough courage to sing along with the voice of the great Frank Sinatra himself. "The exception I know is the case, when I'm out on a quiet spree, fighting vainly the old ennui…" Their perfected and talented, soft baritone voice echoed in the decent sized bedroom, unable to penetrate outside, the walls keeping it promptly contained. And just as the singing was to continue, it was abruptly halted as a loud knock flooded the bedroom, echoing around just as their voice had seconds before. The owner could hear soft, annoying taps against the large wooden bedroom doors. With a great sigh, the owner rolled their eyes in annoyance. "Come in," they stated, their voice somehow penetrating the silence of the room and past the door to the other side. Afraid of the tone in the voice, the door opened cautiously to reveal the being on the other side. "…And I suddenly turn and see your fabulous face." The singing voice of the owner halted thereafter, going no further, awaiting with much disgust for the second voice to continue. With a wave of the hand, the radio immediately halts, the room bolting to deep silence.

"Damien, my Lord, Satan wishes to have a word with you. Damien?" With that, the son of Satan slowly turns around, his pale yet shadowed face full of obvious distaste. He looks curiously at the red skinned, husky demon on the other side of the room and frowns, his pink lips stretched in a fine line across his face.

"Is that all, Zazul?" Damien asks curiously as his glowing red eyes trail across the demon's wings, wondering for a moment how fast he could cross the room and strangle the being with their own body parts just for merely interrupting him.

Zazul grows uncomfortable under Damien's watchful demonic eyes. "Your Father, he said it was important." Zazul steps further into the room; past the large black canopied bed and stopping short of the equally dark writing desk. He looks down at the floorboards and his nearly human toes, not daring to look up at the powerful being in front of him.

Damien, looking less than convinced, uncrosses his arms from his chest and waves his hand into the air once again, the sweet sound of Frank Sinatra returning to the quiet room. "Well, it couldn't have been that important." He turns back around to his original position, before the demon had even interrupted him, and stares at himself in the full body length mirror. "After all, you weren't running." He brings a delicate hand up where he begins to tighten and later adjust the deep red colored tie around his muscular neck. For a moment, as he stares deeply at the tie, he lets his fingers graze across the inverted cross sewn carefully at the bottom of the red fabric and smirks. Once he is sure the tie looks satisfactory, he reaches his left arm into the air and lets it wait patiently. Just as he expected, he hears short, frantic taps against the floor boards as he sees Zazul grab the black and silver pinstriped suit coat from off the short dresser. Moments later, the suit coat is draped carefully upon his arm, mindful of any creases that may occur. Damien grabs the jacket and flings it over his arms, straightening up to bring it to the front where he is able to successfully button it up, catching his eye at the gleaming silver buttons. Damien brings his hands to the front as he wipes the jacket down, red eyes carefully looking at every centimeter of fabric for any possible flaw. When he sees none, he looks back up to the mirror, casually looking over at the reflection of the red skinned demon. "May I ask what it concerns?"

Zazul, obviously startled at the sudden spout of conversation from the anti-Christ, coughs awkwardly and nods. "It has to do with you going back to Earth. Your Father, he is forbidding it."

The radio abruptly stops, producing a sound close to the scratching of a brand new vinyl record. Damien, angrier than ever, closes his eyes in an attempt to rid himself of the fury building up in his body. Taking in a deep breath, he can hear Zazul take a number of steps away from the anti-Christ, most likely out of fear. "Forbidding it," Damien mumbles quietly, his deep voice barely above that of a whisper. Slowly turning around to face the demon, Damien smirks. "'Forbidding it' he says," he laughs quietly. "Can you believe it? You know, I only turn eighteen years old one time in my entire existence of living. One would think that would speak for something. And as such, I only ask for one simple thing. Go up on Earth for a few little hours and come back down here." He takes careful steps over to the dark wooden radio and sets his hand upon it, sliding his fingers against the rounded top. Just as he tears his hand from the vintage radio, his glowing red eyes shoot to Zazul, the radio instantly set aflame. "Funny, isn't it?"

Zazul jumps out of shock and takes another step back from the angry anti-Christ. "Damien, now listen, I'm sure your Father will be more likely to make a deal with you and-," the demon is suddenly stopped when a rough hand shoots out of nowhere and squeezes his neck, his eyes instantly rolling to the back of his head.

"Now you listen here, you slimy piece of shit. You shouldn't even think of telling me what to do." Damien growls, bringing his face to the demon's, pearly white fangs plunging from his soft, pink gums. "You go back to Satan and tell him that I am doing whatever I want and he can't stop me, not right now." With that, the frightening demon is flung to the other side of the room, his body smacking into the far wall.

As Zazul's dull eyes close, his hand grips the back of his head in pain. He is sure that if he were really alive and on Earth, he would surely be suffering much internal bleeding, if not experiencing death at this time. Shaking at the thought and refocusing his attention to the other side of the room once he feels that the light headedness has vacated his head, he see a giant black portal and is not at all surprised to see the anti-Christ standing straight in front of it, smirking widely. "You tell my Father not to wait up for me."

"But Damien please, your Father-," Zazul attempts to talk, cut off again by Damien's deep, booming voice.

"Silence, minion!" With even such a simple phrase, the room begins to frantically shake; the four poster canopy bed shoots out and smashes against the far wall, the floorboards rise from their spots on the ground, books from the bookshelves flinging themselves every which way. Damien smirks at the chaos induced bedroom from his safe spot on the far side of the room. "Have a nice evening, Zazul." Damien stands at his full height of just over six feet and brings his hands up to fix the inverted cross cufflinks present on the cuffs of his black suit. He fixes the sharp red tie and smirks, looking over at Zazul as the room is plunged into complete and utter darkness, the only thing visible to the naked eye are Damien's piercing red eyes and his fanged glowing white teeth.