A soft click could be heard, and then Santos jerked, the trap readjusting itself, and his anger was gone, and his sadness was gone, and he was scared, another choice was stolen from him, and he didn't want to be strong anymore, because prison was hard.
It was hard pretending to be tough.
His brother gripped his shoulders and looked into his eyes and asked him if he forgave him.
"I shouldn't have told you to go visit Adamah," his brother admitted. "I wanted someone to come down with me. I was lonely. Whispering into the ears of others, tricking them to come with me, and I'm still so lonely."
"I'm lonely too. I'm tired of pretending to be tough all the time, and now I do it even when I'm alone."
"I'm sorry."
The Devil himself apologized and hugged him, and Santos froze up, wondering if this was all just a very long dream, or if he drank the blood of a man who was on drugs again on accident, and now he was having a bad trip.
His brother's wings folded around them, a hug inside of another, and Santos did not want to continue, the hug going on too long.
"You wanna stay a little bit longer," his brother asked.
"No. I want to see my wife."
His brother folded his wings back in, let go of Santos, and scowled.
"This again? I bet the woman doesn't even remember you! "
"Give me my wife," Santos whispered. "Give me my wife or else I will kill myself, and you will never have a chance at leaving."
His brother played his trump card.
"The seal is weakening. I can leave, just, it will take a while, that's all," he grumbled.
"How long," Santos asked.
"Just a few days," he lied.
"You dumb mother fucker, don't lie to me," Santos shouted.
"Fine. Like, a couple million years, okay? I don't know how long that is up there!"
His brother scoffed and waved his hand flippantly in the air.
"Bring me to my wife," Santos screamed.
" Fine. "
Two monsters walked through the garden, their feet crunching dead leaves, and the landscape became hotter, the garden tropical, and the whoop whoop whoops of monkeys could be heard in the distance.
Santos tried to make small talk while walking with him. He had never said that he forgave his brother- he didn't. He lied and went along with his narcissism of how come they get something that I don't. It was easier than trying to kill him.
"So. Your daughter. Why did you uh, impale her? "
He is not good at small talk.
"She came downstairs to try and kill me, after refusing to listen to me thousands of times. She's lucky I didn't do more than that."
"You need to calm down man," Santos groaned. "That's just how kids are."
His brother threw his hands up in the air, and then they began complaining about their children.
"They have too many children at too young of an age," Santos, the hypocrite proclaimed.
"Babies having babies!"
"Three hundred and two is too young to start a family of your own!"
His brother raised his hand up in the air in agreement, and their complaints continued as they pushed through the untamed forest, the brightly colored flowers, with their malodorous smells, the sounds of rushing water louder and louder as they approached their destination until they arrived at a temple.
The temple was carved out of stone on a waterfall, people walking about, going about their business, most of them looking miserable.
"Why do they look so sad," Santos asked.
"Most of them are warriors. There are no wars here."
"You people are sick! How do you not cull the weirdos? "
Santos stuck his tongue out in disgust, the idea of a world without war, and they entered the lavish stone temple, the smell of incense floating by, the depressed and sad warriors crying on the floor.
A few people walked around, seemingly unaffected, no common relation except for one.
"I like to collect the interesting ones," his brother admitted. " Especially the ones with the funny bits. "
"I don't want to know anymore."
His brother led him down many hallways until he came to a stone hallway, the rooms separated by multicolored curtains, soft moans echoing from the rooms with very little privacy.
"This is where I keep the prostitutes," he explained.
"Where is my wife!?"
"She's here!"
Santos told himself that he would kill him once he got what he wanted.
The two naked men walked to a white curtain, and pulled it aside, to see a woman, in her thirties, and she glared upon the sight of the two of them.
"No more tricks," she screamed. "You have done this to me many times before, claiming my husband has come to get me!"
"Naomi, no-"
"You are not my husband," she screamed. "He cannot die!"
"This is your problem now," Santos's brother said. He promptly left, leaving the two of them to have their very awkward reunion, the sounds of soft slapping and heavy breathing in the distance as various demons and their consorts played their own version of Twister .
"If you want to have your way with me you can, but I do not want to see that face," Naomi whispered. "He is not dead."
Santos saw the pitiful sight of her, her modesty stripped away from herself, her brown hair free for any man to see, and she did not move to cover herself any longer, but only averted her eyes, not interested in participating in the mean prank.
"Naomi, how can I prove to you it's me?"
She buried her head into the makeshift pillow, a white blanket bundled into a ball, and pulled another, covering herself because she was cold. She turned away from him, and stared at the stone wall, refusing to initiate.
"I never liked the way you cooked rice," Santos admitted. "You used too much water."
Naomi glared at the wall, and Santos could smell her anger, as he insulted his wife, the fire within her burning, the only sort of woman he liked, the sort of person who could argue back with him.
He needed someone who wasn't afraid to reign him in from his own self-destruction.
"I love you, but your home-making skills are shit," he continued. "You kept making Asher's robes too big! He was so small for a kid his age!"
" You know nothing ," Naomi screamed.
She got up from the floor and threw the bundle of sheets at the naked man that claimed to be her husband, screaming various insults at him, how he was a limp leek, and that the sheep has bigger jewels than him .
"You are supposed to make the clothes bigger because children grow quickly," Naomi huffed. "You have nine children! Nine, and you do not understand this? Every day I have to"
Santos sat down on the cold floor, and took her into his arms, and smelled in her sweat, and loved every part of her, her warmth, and he was relieved, every piece still there, as the day she had left him.
She cried quietly, and they laid on the floor together, saying nothing, until Santos found the right words. He was afraid, afraid that she would not come with him because it took him so long to come to get her.
"I'm sorry I didn't come earlier," he said. "I was scared."
"Scared of what? The pretty demon? He is lonely and cries after every time someone love-makes with him!"
Santos snickered, and they got under the blankets, giggling like small children.
He brought her close, and their skin rubbed together. He kissed her, awkwardly, because he was still afraid, and this made her laugh. She caressed his chest and Santos wondered why he was nervous as if it were his first time alone with his wife, but the kiss felt like the first one, shy and unsure.
"I have another wife," Santos admitted. "Are you angry?"
Santos pushed his head out from under the sheet, and she did as well, laying her head on his arm, scratching his chest with her fingernails, just the way he liked it, making him blush and shiver.
"I don't care. Everyone knows the First Wife is Best Wife! Especially since I gave you First Son, too!"
"You.. you can't say that when we leave," Santos chuckled. "There's a lot of things we can't say anymore!"
"Like what? It's true! First Wife is Best! I will say whatever is true!"
Santos roared with laughter, shaking the entire temple, his sing-song voice literally music to Naomi's ears, and she grinned, gripping his arm tighter, afraid to let go or else it might not be real another prank.
"Do you still want me, even though I am used," she asked.
"The best women I have laid with have been thoroughly used," Santos declared.
Naomi sat up and smacked his chest, yelling various things at him, asking herself how a man had not changed since the day she had met him, relieved that he had not changed as well.
Tearing the multi-colored clothes off of the open doorways, ignoring the protests of the concubines and their suitors, Naomi's husband covered her up, took her hand, and went to find the man who was so lonely, he had to trick people to come down to his level.
He was floating in a still pond, the sounds of frogs surrounding him, a sad warrior's attempting to drown themselves, but to no avail, they could not drown, the water safety-proofed for this very escape tactic.
Naomi gripped her husband by the arm as she glared at her warden, who groaned, having to do the most work he had done in, well, almost forever. Still naked and shameless he walked out of the pool, got on all fours, and shook his entire body like a dog, whipping the water off of him, spraying it on anyone who dared to stand close enough.
"Gross," Santos screamed.
"You are despicable," Naomi bellowed.
Still standing on all fours, his head down on the ground, blood poured out of his mouth, his eyes pushed out to the back of his head, along with his mouth, hair surrounding it. Naomi shrieked and attempted to climb her husband as if he were a tree, but he stood still and sighed.
"Stop being such a bitch and let us leave," Santos groaned. "You still haven't given me my son either."
"There's been an issue," the hollow voice echoed. "Your body has been defiled. "
"That, that is impossible ," Santos whispered. "I just lost blood. I'm cool. This is fine. We're cool."
Naomi did not understand what being cold had to do with the problem of her husband's soul losing its body.
"There is also the issue of the others. Some of your family and friends have been here so long, there is no vessel to return to. Not everyone will leave."
Santos looked at his small wife, clutching to him, and he knew that she would never leave unless there was a body to go to, and he didn't want to leave without her.
"What if I got them a body," Santos asked. "What about that?"
"You could," the deformed face said, more blood pouring onto the stone pavement. "But the body would eventually deteriorate. Where would you find a body without a brain or even a soul?"
" I know, " Santos shuddered. "I know a guy who might be able to make one."
"Tell me," his brother whispered. "Tell me your secrets."
Santos gently pried his wife's fingers from his arm, digging into his skin, and he squatted down, to whisper something salacious into his brother's ear. His brother's finger taped up and down, up and down, something wonderful was learned that day.
Santos stood up, glaring down at the deformed hairy face, and had one last lingering concern.
"There has to be some kind of catch," Santos asked. "What if I don't hold my end of the bargain?"
"Then I'll just bring them all back," his brother whispered. "If you don't actively search to let me out, then you will never see your pretty wife again."
"Seems fair," Santos agreed. " But there's still the matter of my son. "
"I don't have him."
Santos waited for the smell of lies but there was none. His brother smiled, strands of hairs falling into his skull-mouth and he wiggled his fingers, cracking his bones and tasting his despair.
His body cracked, bones jutting out, stretching the skin against its limits, standing up, on its hands, making Naomi scream again, and Santos knew he was doing it on purpose just to scare her. It took one careful step, then another, and flipped onto its feet, the gaping wounds where the mouth and lips should be spilling out golden blood down his bare body. It spoke with those instead, meat squelching and squishing, bubbling against his skin folds.
"You would so easily betray these meat suits you claim you love so dearly," his brother asked.
"It took me many lifetimes, but I've learned that love isn't letting others hurt you, while you try your hardest to help them."
The bloody orifices giggled, and Naomi screamed louder, and louder until Santos grabbed her and covered her mouth.
"Just stop," Santos groaned. "Stop being jealous! You're no different than my kids!"
Little clicks could be heard, and Santos blinked, his brother's body fixed and returned to normal. He looked indignant, cheeks red and flustered.
"I am not jealous," he said, stomping the ground, screaming.
One of the warriors stopped trying to drown himself and took his head out of the pond to watch the show.
"I am a grown man," his brother wailed, beating his chest. "I have children!"
"You don't need to be an adult to have kids," Santos huffed. "You just need working nuts."
The warrior in the back laughed, and then he melted, from the bottom down, so he would feel every painful bit, as his warden looked down at him, destroying him with his hatred alone. His skin burned, like paper, revealing his porous fat, then the muscles, the smell of beef wafting with the incense, and his exposed bone, now black and dead, sunk to the bottom of the pond.
"Don't ever think you can kill me," he bellowed. "Asmodeus is an opportunist, letting you go free, and he will die next. Don't think I don't know what goes on in here."
His hair curled into long black flames his wrath boundless, spreading through the gorgeous temple, filling into the lungs of his prisoners.
Shuddering in pleasure, pleased by Naomi's hysteric shrieks, he moaned.
"You're going to come with me to the border tomorrow," his brother shuddered. "No excuses."