The other inhabitants of this place were not dead; however, neither were they alive, in any biological sense of the word. Humanity called them demons without understanding what it had named. There was little that demonkind had in common with the legions of damned souls with whome they shared the infernal marches. However, they were all agreed on one thing. This was as bad as it got. It couldn't get any worse.
My dear Goodman Mather, there is not a demon in Hell who was not once something quite other, and more interesting. In the land where the Euphrates runs green and sweet, I was a grain-god with the head of a bull. In the rough valley of the Tyne I was a god of fertility and war, with the head of a crow. I was a fish-headed lord of plenty in the depths of the Tigris. Before language I was she-who-makes-the-harvest-come, and I rode a red boar. The earth answers when I call it by name. I know its name because we are family.
What are we? Your scholars claim we exist only to tempt you, yet in a very real way we are you. We are your own desires, your own fears, your own ambitions and rages, given form (if not flesh). How can you fight us?
Only by fighting your own Humanity, and why would you want to do that? You would be fighting against life itself. For what is Chaos but life?
: How comes it, then, that thou art out of hell? Mephistopheles
: Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it:
Garcia: Demons are not very talkative.
Johnson: What have they to talk about? Once your soul rolls into town, that's it. You're damned, and Fleming doesn't let anybody off the hook.
: He sounds like a real dick-tator.