Accumulating the souls of evil-doers was boresome. By the time they arrived in Hell, they were haggard, broken, their nefarious ways lost with their humanity. The infinite number of vanquished souls, shrieking throughout eternity, begging him for mercy, could no longer placate Lucifer’s restless spirit. They were barely husks, depleted by an afterlife of torture. While their misery was satisfying, it was not stimulating. No, they could not engage him like he could the living.
Mankind lined up to serve The Dark Lord, lazy individuals seeking a shortcut to notoriety. Together, he and his entourage amassed an empire, fame born of envy, desire, and relentless promotion. Their exploits were renown. Beautiful people threw exclusive affairs, parties where alcohol flowed like blood, dark rooms behind closed doors echoed with the sounds of lust, and lucrative handshakes bound the souls of men to the service of Satan. The media clamored over vapid stories of privilege and glitz.
Their willingness to sacrifice eternity for a photo with him on the cover of a magazine left The Devil incensed. It was too easy. Society was no more challenging than the phantom remnants of The Damned. His efforts were not wasted, however. His proximity to immorality and relationships with the depraved certainly made it easier to identify and gather wicked souls.
Frankenguitar should not have survived that fall. His neck was hopelessly broken. He was dead, gone. His dismembered head dangled by only slackened strings. Dark magic and wood glue revived Frankenguitar, but his injuries left him disfigured. He became a recluse, seeking solace somewhere deep in a Michigan forest. The locals there say, if you burn a campfire late enough, Frankenguitar will serenade you in the dark.