“Dude,” said Axel, lead singer of SludgeForge, as he waved the freshly signed contract in the air. “We did it. We’ve actually done it.”

Jax, their bassist, leaned in, eyeing the contract suspiciously. “What … did we do exactly?”

Axel shrugged. “Signed a record deal with some mysterious producer guy named Luc. Real classy dude. Red suit, good hair. Kind of intense stare, but hey—record deal!”

The band members exchanged glances, their makeup smeared and hair even messier than usual. They were in the manager’s office of Acheron Records, a label so obscure they didn’t even have a website, but they promised to “channel the fiery chaos of the underworld into every album.” Which, for a heavy metal band, sounded like a solid marketing promise.

“Wait, what’s in the fine print?” mumbled Drip, their drummer.

“Who cares about fine print? We’re gonna be famous,” said Axel, slapping Drip’s hand away. “This is what we wanted! Sold-out concerts! Epic tours!”

Drip squinted at the contract. “‘This Contract hereby assigns full soul ownership to one Lucifer Beelzebub III in exchange for fame, fortune, and an extensive distribution network,’” he read aloud. “‘Client agrees to eternal servitude in the fiery pits upon expiration of Contract’… oh, that doesn’t sound ideal.”

Jax looked over his shoulder, shrugging. “Sounds kinda metal, honestly.”

Axel nodded. “Dude, we’ve written three songs called ‘Eternal Servitude.’ This just makes us more authentic. Plus, it’s not like I was doing much with my soul, anyway.”

Meanwhile, the label rep, a guy named Vince, who looked suspiciously like a funeral home director, filed his nails while humming something vaguely sinister. “You boys look like you’re raring to get started,” he said with a grin. “Just sign right there on the dotted line.”

“Oh, we already signed it,” Axel said, holding up the contract.

Vince smirked. “Oh, excellent! Mr. Beelzebub will be so pleased.”

At that moment, Luc himself appeared in a puff of sulfur and smoke. He gave the band a slow clap, his sharp-toothed smile dazzling. “Gentlemen, welcome to the family,” he purred.

The band stared at him, collectively unfazed.

“You’re… the Devil,” Drip said, announcing the obvious. “Right?”

Luc chuckled. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yeah, the whole fire-and-brimstone aesthetic gives it away,” Jax added. “But respect, dude. You’re kinda killing it.”

Luc smirked. “Thanks, fellas. Now, let’s talk business. I have a vision for your debut album, Pyres of Despair. I’m thinking a cover shot of each of you in a different fiery pit of my domain.”

The band nodded. “Pyres of Despair,” Axel said with a faraway look in his eye. “Has a nice ring to it. And, like, are we talking a real fire shoot?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Luc replied, flashing a thumbs-up. “No CGI in Hell. We keep it real.”

Drip rubbed his hands together. “And the fans—they’ll love this album?”

“Every tortured soul in my domain will hear it,” Luc assured them. “We’ve got… let’s just say, a captive audience. Plus, Hell is a veritable streaming powerhouse.”

Axel blinked, grinning. “Wait. Are you saying we get our own platform? Like, we’re exclusive or something?”

Luc gave him a look. “Well, you’re kind of exclusive. You’ll be on Lucifyr, our official streaming service. It’s basically Hell’s Spotify.”

The band whooped. “Lucifyr, man. I love it!” Jax said. “Think we can get custom artist profiles? You know, like with flames and pentagrams and that?”

“Done and done,” Luc said smoothly. “And for the record … nobody can skip your tracks. We run a no-skip policy down there.”

“Ha! Brutal,” Axel laughed. “Our songs are basically seven-minute wails about the futility of life. They’re gonna lose it down there.”

Luc’s eyes twinkled. “That’s the idea. Now, let’s talk about the tour … It’s a new, interactive fan experience we’re calling the ‘Hellhound Express.’ Think flaming tour bus, actual howling hounds, and an authentic underworld experience with every stop. We even have molten-hot merch tables at every location.”

The band’s jaws dropped. Drip looked like he was going to cry. “Dude, I always wanted our merch to, like, actually burn a little when you touch it.”

“Well, Drip, your dream is my command,” Luc replied with a magnanimous wave of his hand.

For the next six months, SludgeForge became the hottest band in Hell—literally. Their debut album sold “like hotcakes” (Luc’s words, which none of them dared to question), and they were a sensation on Lucifyr, Hell’s premier music service, where every single damned soul was required to listen to them on repeat.

By year two, they’d maxed out their marketing potential in Hell and were brainstorming expansion plans. Axel approached Luc one day, a bit sheepish.

“So … Mr. Beelzebub, sir. We’ve been thinking.”

“Yes, Axel?”

“Well, is there any way we could, y’know, start branching out to Earth?”

Luc raised an eyebrow. “Ambitious. But possible. What’s the angle?”

“We were thinking …” Axel’s eyes twinkled with dark glee. “We headline The Rapture.”

Luc’s eyes sparkled. “I love it. Fiery pyrotechnics, oceans of wailing souls, screaming believers—it’ll be perfect. And naturally, I’ll MC.”

“Perfect,” Axel said. “Oh, and one more thing …”

“Yes?”

“Well, I know we, like, signed away our souls or whatever, but the guys and I were wondering if we could get, you know, Hell’s version of a royalties clause.”

Luc considered this, tapping his chin. “Hmmm … never done that before. How about this—I’ll give you a ‘Devil’s Deal Bonus Clause.’ For every soul you bring down here with your music, you get a free week’s worth of mortal pleasures. Like, a ‘Get Out of Hell Pass.’”

Drip did a double take. “Wait, that’s a thing?”

“Of course,” Luc said. “We’re always running deals down here.”

And so, SludgeForge continued to tear through the underworld, amassing a fanbase of the damned, and even starting a “Soul Collector Rewards Program,” where fans could recruit new listeners for SludgeForge merch points.

And they did indeed make it to Earth, headlining the apocalyptic event of the millennia to a rapt (and terrified) audience. 

Turns out that having no soul was exactly the kind of thing SludgeForge needed to finally make it big. As Axel would say, “Why worry about eternity when you’ve got killer riffs?”

The End