Areius tossed the stripped chicken wing aside and fumbled for another in the bucket. He was slumped in a threadbare armchair, feet up on the table, takeaway balanced on his mountainous belly, grease dripping from his fingers and chin.
He wiped his hands on his filthy vest.
The house’s owners scrabbled on the floor, naked, mewling. They gnawed at his meagre leftovers.
He slouched further back. Immortality was such a drag. He’d explored every facet of foul humanity, every whim, sin, desire and degradation. Maybe Lucifer would take him back soon, at least it was always warm down there.