“Hello, welcome to Satan’s Day Spa and Salon, a place to pamper all your inner demons. May I put you on hold please?â€?

Replacing the phone back on the cradle, the receptionist looked up over the shining obsidian counter at the man looming above her, conspicuous in heavy furs. “Have you been helped?â€? she asked.

“No. I have not,â€? the man said testily, sweat dripping in large globs off his face and trailing down his beard. “I had an 11:00 appointment.â€?

The receptionist glanced over at the clock on the wall, reading the burning flames. “Sir, it’s 10:30 now,â€? she said, pointedly looking behind him.

“11:00 three days ago,â€? the man continued, stepping sideways to block her vision. “I made this appointment in the 15th century. There is no excuse for tardiness, even if this is Hell. I hear in Heaven, they take walk-in clients.â€?

“Riiight,â€? she drawled, rolling her black eyes. “Mr…the Hun. Attila is it? Perhaps if punctuality is so important, you should have thought twice before slaughtering thousands. NEXT !â€?