There is no sun in the underworld, only harsh white light and black shadow.
Housed in the belly of a labyrinth of caverns at the bottom level of Purgatory, the Temple is a crude amalgamation of stone, cement and wood.
Part cave and part cement jungle, the Temple boosts a hybrid aesthetic of ancient primitivism and spartan modernity.
This is where the “deceivers” are cast. Attempts are made to purify their souls through the sacrament of baptism, with their own flesh and blood.
The Temple is the most exclusive dimension of hell. A private suite of nightmares, reserved for the most vile molesters of human consciousness.
They go by many names. Pastor. Reverend. Father. Televangelist. Bible Teacher.
Here, they are tormented.
Burned. Frozen. Dismembered. Disfigured.
Beat. Flayed. Flogged. Sliced. Exploded.
They wait for eternity to end. But there’s no guarantee it will.
I am the Warden of this Temple, the Architect of their Agony. I don’t see outside of the Temple. I only receive deceivers. The Temple is my dominion. The Seraphs allowed me to have one companion: my daughter, Jezebel.
She aids in the sacrament of suffering. There are protocols of agony and our heavenly overseers expect us to follow them, but they rarely audit our blessed bloodlettings.
Jezebel is gifted in torture. She has it down to an art. The only virtue greater than her technical prowess is her appetite for pain. Insatiable. Sometimes she can’t help herself. Rules are made to be broken, even under the Godhead’s jurisdiction. I don’t stop the prodigy. I just watch her practice her art. Even if she tears them apart. We put them back together. Piece by Piece. Allow me to share with you some stories of the deceivers’ plights. I am tasked with the divine privilege of ensuring that, while they are under my supervision, the deceived remain tormented. Their souls cannot be purified without removing their impurities through torture. If you have the stomach for suffering, I invite you to enter the Temple of the Tormented and sample the fruits of our labors.