The last time Kazuo had heard chanting outside his building, it had been the Chopstick Cult, humming their eternal noodle hymns until the cops gave up and joined them. This time, the chanting had a different rhythm: harsher, louder, with an undertone of brimstone.
Seraphina peeked out the window and nearly fainted. "Oh no. Ohhhh no. It's them again."
Kazuo, slouched on the balcony in his pajama pants, slurped noodles from a Styrofoam cup. "Jehovah's Witnesses?"
"Worse," she hissed. "The Demon Union."
Sure enough, the street below was a sea of picket signs written in fire.
FAIR PAY FOR ETERNAL TORMENT
DOWN WITH UNSAFE PITCHFORK CONDITIONS
HELLFIRE BUT NO HEALTHCARE?!
A thousand demons marched in lockstep, their claws gripping signs, their voices booming in unholy harmony. Beelzebob, the hemorrhoid-free union rep from before, led the charge with a bullhorn. His tie was still stained, but now it was on fire.
"DOWN WITH DIVINE MISMANAGEMENT!" he bellowed.
"DOWN WITH THE CREATOR!" echoed the crowd.
Kazuo yawned. "They could at least protest during daylight hours. Some of us are trying to nap."
Seraphina smacked him with her clipboard. "They're mounting a strike! If they succeed, Hell shuts down. No torment, no punishments, no cosmic balance!"
Kazuo shrugged, swirling noodles around with his chopsticks. "Sounds like a vacation."
The demons weren't just chanting—they were staging a full-blown hellfire protest.
Literal fire picket lines encircled the building. Rivers of molten lava oozed across the street, stopping traffic for blocks. Local reporters tried to cover the story until their microphones burst into flame.
One demon held a sign shaped like a pitchfork that read, "UNPAID OVERTIME SINCE BABYLON." Another handed out pamphlets: Why Your Eternal Damnation Needs Union Support.
Beelzebob raised his bullhorn again. "WE DEMAND BACKPAY, HAZARD INSURANCE, AND PROPER AIR-CONDITIONING!"
The crowd roared.
Kazuo leaned on the balcony railing, sipping broth. "Don't they already have air-conditioning? Hell's, like, one giant furnace."
"That's the point!" Seraphina screeched. "They want central cooling!"
"Too expensive," Kazuo muttered, stuffing more noodles into his mouth.
Then came the escalation.
The demons, deciding noise wasn't enough, lit their picket signs on fire—actual hellfire. Soon the street looked like a heavy metal concert from the ninth circle of Dante's fever dream. Cars melted, streetlights sagged, and nearby pigeons spontaneously combusted mid-flight.
Seraphina flailed. "DO SOMETHING!"
Kazuo slurped lazily. "M'kay."
And then—whether by divine accident or simple clumsiness—he tipped his cup noodles.
The steaming broth spilled over the balcony in a golden arc, raining down on the crowd below.
Wherever the liquid touched, the hellfire hissed, sputtered, and died instantly. Signs fizzled into ash. Rivers of lava hardened into harmless obsidian. Demons shrieked as broth splattered over them, sizzling against their skin—not with pain, but with… relief.
One demon fell to his knees. "The burning… it stopped!"
Another cupped his hands under the falling broth, sipping it reverently. "It cools the fire within… holy noodles!"
Beelzebob dropped his bullhorn, staring up at the balcony with awe. His voice cracked. "Brothers… sisters… the prophecy is true. He is not merely the Creator… he is the Accidental Apocalypse."
The entire demon horde gasped as one. Then they bowed, pressing their flaming foreheads to the asphalt.
"ALL HAIL THE ACCIDENTAL APOCALYPSE!"
Kazuo blinked. "…The what now?"
Seraphina facepalmed so hard it left a dent in her halo. "You've done it again. Instead of quelling their anger, you've created a messiah complex!"
Down below, demons wept openly, holding noodle cups to the sky.
Kazuo shrugged, slurping the last of his broth. "Eh. Could be worse. At least they didn't unionize the Roombas again."
By nightfall, the demon protest had dispersed—not because their demands were met, but because they were now convinced their strike had succeeded. After all, their "Apocalypse Messiah" had personally cooled their flames with divine ramen broth.
The city streets lay littered with abandoned picket signs, obsidian rubble, and half-eaten noodle cups.
Kazuo stretched, heading back inside. "Well, that's over. Who's up for karaoke?"
Seraphina just stared at him, dead-eyed, muttering, "We're so screwed."
Kazuo burped. "…Worth it."