I once had a friend who got his heart pulled apart by a demon. He’d summoned it at a party, from an old book he’d found at his grandfather’s.
The demon was furious about having his time wasted; my friend realised he hadn’t thought up any bidding for the demon to do.
“I’ve scattered your heart around the circles of hell,” enchafed, the daemon spake. “The part that pumped blood to your penis is in Lust. The part wrought by cholesterol is in Gluttony.”
My friend had never read any Dante before, and had no idea what he was in for. When the dreadful hill gave way to the burning gates to damnation – that was the last I saw of him in life.
Now I’m dead, all I have to do is watch him from inside my burning torture cell, forever looking for the final piece of his organ.
Where, he asked himself over and over, had the demon put his Pride?