Just Enough to Drink

Yes, Monsieur, or Lucifer, or whatever in the literal Hell his real name was -- he was a bad boy, through and through...

...except, apparently, for his current state, which was about as unboyish as it could be. His leathery wings flapped once, twice. His malevolent eye scanned the room, confident that he could start anywhere, uncertain just which victim to choose. Sparks and flames radiated from the upper portion of his "body," what served as his "head," and smoke filled the eyes of all present, blinding them all.

All but one.

It is a curious and little-known fact that dwarves, creatures of the underworld and comfortable with darkness as they are, should be so naturally immune to smoke and fumes of all sorts. But through thousands of generations, natural selection has been doing its work: preserving the bloodlines of those dwarvish types most able to work in the bowels of the earth, with all the sputtering of magma and natural-gas emissions and digestive ailments which follow naturally when one cannot easily get to decent plumbing for weeks at a time.

A curious fact, yes. Little-known. And very convenient.

"Ah, shut yer piehole," said a coarse voice from behind the bar. Only Monsieur/Lucifer could see who it came from.

"You!" he cried. "No! All the dwarves fled for the exit just moments ago---"

"Miscounted, did ye?" said CJ. "Pity."

With that, the little fellow now standing upon the bar unbuttoned his trousers. "See ye back at yer place," he said, "someday. If yer lucky." And he unleashed a warm stinking stream straight upon the creature of sparks and flame and brimstony smoke. No one in the bar could see any of this, save for the diminutive executioner and his satanic victim, but they all could smell it, and they all heard CJ's continued muttering. "Blood of a bog unicorn, sure. Always helps. Maybe a little mead at the right moment. But a little piss never hurt, neither."

Then they all heard the hiss, and the long and seemingly endless and really, when they thought about it later, quite satisfying shriek of anguish:

"Nooooooooo! Look what you've done, you wicked little man... I'm meeeellting! Melting I say...!"

Then all was silence, stunned silence.

Bringer of Light, the Morning Star

Suddenly there was an insidious hissing, gurgling noise coming from the floor. Was it possible? The red, mangled chaos that was Monsieur’s splattered head - there was movement. Something was slipping and sliding about, like maggots at their meal. With an obscene sucking noise, it was suddenly airborne.
“Oh my god, what the fuck is that?” Joe was petrified.
It was flapping about, slinging blood and gore from its satanic, leathery wings. He had seen some pretty weird shit these last few days, but this took the preverbal cake. This was evil incarnate. It was glowing, rays of dark, malevolent light emanating from the travesty of a one-eyed head.
The Captain turned and her face fell. She looked with horror into its cyclopean orb.
“No, please, sweet Jesus, no.” She raised her Remington 870s impotently, intuitively realising that the situation had just left the ‘handle it’ stage and entered the hopeless one.
“Who, what is that thing?” Joe turned to the Captain in panic, imploringly.
“What? Don’t you recognise Lucifer when you see him?” she stammered.
The thing made a sickly noise, its voice an open wound. It let out a wet, choking laughter, sounding as if were coming from the rotting throat of a putrescent corpse. The room stood still, everyone motionless, transfixed.
“Frailty, thy name is woman?” It said. “Ha-ha-ha, that’s so rich! These women make you pathetic men look like arthritic mice. Like sclerotic earthworms! Seriously! Vanity, that is thy true name, woman. You can’t kill that. Nor me. No one can; we’re as old as time itself. Tits, ass and a pretty face. That’s what makes the world go round. Especially a pretty face. Helen’s launched a thousand ships. Not bad. How many have you launched, dwarf-lovers? And please, let’s have some sympathy, let’s show a bit of taste. Use all your well-learned politesse or I’ll lay your souls to waste. I’m pleased to meet you, I’m glad you guessed my name. But what’s puzzling you is the nature of my game.”
“What??? Game? Lucifer? Like, the Lucifer?” Joe was in denial. He was overloading, his fuses were being tried.
“At your service.” The Thing made a mock bow in midair, its hideous leathery wings folding over the singular bloodshot eye. The air smelled of stale farts and sulphur. “THEY called me up, wanting their eternal beauty. THEY invited me into THEIR house. I cannot enter uninvited, you know. Against the rules, it is. But once invited, I delivered the goods. And please - your garlic, crosses and silver bullets – these are silly fairy tales, my friends. Spare me the humility.
Now, I kept my word. I gave you all boundless beauty! And now the bill is due, my lovelies, in blood money, if you like. Or dwarf meat, I don’t care which. I just want what is mine! And I intend to take it. A deal is a deal, especially with Lucifer. So, who is going to pick up the tab?”