Infinite Games

1. Demimonde

"Bingo!" exclaimed a deep, throaty voice in the back of the white gaming tent.
Grumbles and groans were heard from the other players. A few of them went as far as shoving their heads into their delicate glowing hands.

"That's a win for the underworld. Simon Tellard goes below."

A broad shouldered devil with lobster-hued skin and a forest of dark chest hair to match his thickly coated goat legs stood up; his flaming pits of eyes simmered smugly as he trotted to the front of the room with his winning card in a clawed hand. His hooves kicked up floor-clouds into the air, causing a few of the angels to cough. One pulled out his inhaler, and a sharp breath accompanied the Game Masters' loud stamp of verification.

Thwack-huuupf!

"The nerve! There's nothing to be proud over winning someone for down there," said the asthmatic after his breathing was stabilized.

The devil, currently taking a victory lap back to his seat, laughed like Billy Goat Gruff.

"You idiots up there are too full of yourselves," he called back. "Bah! Who needs eternity to saunter around eating grapes and drinking wines? The angelic life is such a bore--"

"You take that back you swine!"

"That's satyr to you, you bloody goose!"

The whole room erupted into insults. Angels knocked golden arrows and devils drew back spears made from animal spines. Bingo tables were upturned and fire raged on the cloudy floor and ate away at the white tent. Moments before an all-out combat began, the Game Masters put an end to it.

"SILENCE!" cried the older one. His face sagged with the fatigue of a thousand lifetimes. A trembling hand, moving fervently as though resonating from the aftermath of being plucked, reached up to demand a halt. The four fingers collapsed partially from the effort. The long nails stuck out --sickly, yellowed, and cracked-- from within paper thin fingertips. Every vein beneath the translucent skin seemed to be almost too much to hold in. It was with great agony that the older one placed his hand back to the table with the aid of jurassic limbs, stiff as rusted hinges on a forgotten, coast-dwelling vessel.

He gazed upon the silenced rioters. Unlike the pits of devils, the older one's eyes swarmed not with chasms of scorching angst, but the beautiful archives of man's knowledge. They were forever evolving. Had the rioters stared into them during the Renaissance Era, golden framed paintings, hand-written manuscripts and the gilt of twirling dresses catching the candlelight at a ball would have been seen. During the Cold War, bleak and desolate skies of Russia, the sallow cheeks of children, and the flowers of blood on interrogation room floors would have been revealed. Now, they were conflicted. Clashing colors, poverty and wealth, unforgivable brutalities and unfathomable kindnesses all taking turns in the temporary theater. If a mortal possessed the older one, he would waste away his years fascinated by watching the full evolution of humanity to present date. Only immortals could bare to witness his staring face, for they were no longer concerned with the dabbles of mortal men.

The younger of the Game Masters growled his discontent for their patrons' quarrels. All players picked up tables, repositioned the out-of-place clouds, and suffocated flames, solemnly. Once they were seated, the younger one spoke. Unlike the dying creature next to him, the younger one was full of life and vibrancy. His bare, oiled chest revealed thick gold skin and sinewy muscles, equal in might to a young god. The glowing aura which surrounded him, akin to innocence, but not as pure, naïveté. His voice flowed from him as a beautiful baritone, giving vibrato to the fluctuations of his swift melodic phrases.

"Now, now. As the Lord of Darkness I shall have none of this. It is unbecoming of immortals. The Underworld has won the mortal man, Mister Simon Tellard, through no girth-less means. Let it be with peace that he is welcomed to our game."

"BUT MY LORD!" shouted an angel in the back.

The Lord of the Underworld looked at the angel angrily. The meager immortal bowed his glowing head and splayed his white feathered wings out of fear.

Working his chiseled chin back and forth, the younger one settled his temper before bellowing, "Speak, Angel Ives."

The submissive angel nodded, and from his bowing stance, produced further words. To look into the eyes of the younger Game Master was to tear apart one's own existence. No immortal could withstand the implosion of self. Careful to avoid looking at the mirror-plated eyes of the Lord of the Underworld, Angel Ives cried, "This makes the score unequal, m'Lord! The Underworld now has twenty thousand more players than The Heavens!"

"Are you suggesting, Angel Ives, that the selection process should be equal, and thus fair to all mortals, to ensure our immortal game continue with no definitive winner?"

"Preposterous!" cried the older one from his seat behind the Game Master table. His black lips remained parted from his word, and drooled a silver substance down the veiny, thin skin of his chin. "The Game is Random. That is what determines stature amongst the immortal race, and it always will."

"Yes, m'Lord," Angel Ives sat down.

The Lord of the Underworld nodded at his counterpart. Then looked to the crowd, who averted their eyes.

"Now that you have settled, let us welcome Devil Tellard. He has been waiting to join our game."