Infernal Misadventures: Krok’s Earthly Detour

The demon’s name was Kroktathax, but he was often called Krok—a demotion in nomenclature he quietly resented but dared not challenge. As one of Hell’s countless foot soldiers, Krok’s responsibilities included the usual: delivering fresh torment to sinners, keeping the lava pits adequately stoked, and occasionally ferrying cryptic messages between higher-ups like the Duke of Wrath and the Countess of Envy. A mundane, thankless existence. But today was different. Today, Krok had been given a mission—a promotion, really. “Kroktathax!” bellowed a voice like crumbling mountains. The Overseer loomed over him, horns glistening with molten heat. “You’re to deliver this cursed artifact to the Ninth Circle! Do NOT fail me!” “Yes, Overseer!” Krok snapped to attention, clutching the ominous black parcel that vibrated faintly in his claws. It was heavier than expected, and it reeked of despair. The Overseer didn’t give him any further instructions, merely barked a laugh and vanished into a cloud of sulfur. Krok adjusted the satchel on his back and stepped onto the Rift—a jagged black portal that connected the infernal realms. Simple, really. Enter the coordinates, step through, and emerge at the desired location. He’d used it a thousand times. What could possibly go wrong? Well, for starters, Krok didn’t read the coordinates. As he punched the jagged obsidian keypad, his claw slipped on the slime coating the buttons. One wrong keystroke, and the Rift’s shimmering surface turned from hellish red to an unsettling shade of teal. “Huh,” Krok muttered. “That’s… probably fine.” It was not fine. The first thing Krok noticed when he stepped through was the smell. Gone was the comforting aroma of brimstone and despair; in its place was the bewildering scent of… lavender? Fresh-cut grass? And something sugary. He blinked. The sky wasn’t blood-red; it was blue, and the ground beneath him wasn’t smoldering rock but soft green blades. “This… isn’t the Ninth Circle,” Krok muttered. He glanced at his surroundings: a park filled with humans. Some jogged. Others sat on benches eating peculiar pastries wrapped in crinkling paper. A small child chased after a yipping creature that Krok couldn’t identify. “Okay,” Krok said aloud, taking a deep, calming breath. “It’s just a little detour. Happens all the time. I’ll recalibrate the Rift and—” The satchel on his back suddenly shifted, and he froze. The cursed artifact began to hum, its vibrations growing more frantic. “Not now!” Krok hissed, fumbling to set it down before whatever ancient evil it contained decided to let itself out. But fate had other plans. A curious human, dressed in vibrant running attire, jogged past. She did a double-take at Krok, who was crouched over the satchel, his clawed hands fumbling with the latch. “Nice cosplay!” she said with a grin, giving him a thumbs-up before jogging away. Krok blinked. “What… is cosplay?” Before he could process the bizarre encounter, the satchel emitted a low, ominous growl. The humans nearby didn’t seem to hear it, but Krok knew trouble when he smelled it. He grabbed the bag and stood up, desperate to find a quiet spot to figure out how to fix the Rift coordinates before things spiraled further out of control. Unfortunately, his towering, horned figure was anything but inconspicuous. “Yo, dude, your costume is sick!” shouted another human—a man holding a peculiar glowing rectangle pointed at Krok. “Is this, like, for a movie?” Krok narrowed his eyes. Were these humans mocking him? Worse, did they think he was some kind of performer? “I am not in costume,” he growled, his voice echoing menacingly. “Wow, voice modulator too! Hardcore,” the human replied, snapping what Krok assumed was a magical spell with the glowing rectangle. A small crowd began to form, their chatter growing louder. Krok took an instinctive step back, clutching the satchel tighter. “Stay back, mortals! This artifact is cursed! You meddle with forces beyond your comprehension!” “Cool!” said a child, who tugged on his mother’s sleeve. “Can I take a picture with the demon, Mom?” Krok’s panic grew. The humans weren’t afraid. If anything, they seemed… amused? His claws scrambled at the Rift device on his belt. Surely he could recalibrate it and get out of here before anything worse happened. But as he frantically punched in commands, a new problem arose: a police officer began making his way through the crowd. “Alright, folks, give the guy some space,” the officer said, his voice weary but firm. He turned to Krok, his hand resting on his belt. “You got a permit to perform here, buddy?” “Permit?” Krok hissed. “I am no performer! I am KROKTATHAX, FOOT SOLDIER OF THE INFERNAL LEGIONS!” The officer raised an eyebrow. “Right. And I’m the Easter Bunny. Look, pal, just pack up your stuff and move along, okay?” The satchel growled again, louder this time. The crowd murmured, and Krok felt his panic reach its peak. “Oh, no, no, no,” Krok muttered. The artifact was about to unleash its power. Desperate, he yanked the Rift device one more time. Sparks flew as the portal began to form—but instead of the Ninth Circle, it sputtered out again, leaving him stranded. Behind him, the cursed artifact burst open with a thunderous c***k. The last thing Krok saw before the crowd scattered was a swarm of glowing red bats spiraling into the sky. “Well,” he muttered, slumping to the grass. “This is going to be a long day.”