By Lucius Brimstone
In a plume of sulfur-scented bravado, Pit-Lord Vex—patron saint of tantrums and executive time—threatened to slam the iron gates on the Malebolge Meridian Bridge, the long-awaited artery set to tether Ashwound (formerly Upper Frostbite in the Second Ring) to Gristleburg (the Motor Mire of the Fifth). His latest screed, etched in molten bile across his favorite scrying mirror, demanded that Pandemonium North cough up “at least half” the ownership of the span, plus a devil’s buffet of unspecified concessions. Translation: tribute, titles, and a gold-plated plaque visible from orbit.
Vex’s grievance? The bridge’s bones were forged without a single girder of Sanctified Empire steel—heresy, apparently—therefore the Empire of Ember should reap spoils anyway. That the structure was financed and shepherded by Pandemonium North’s coffers since Year 2018 of the Endless Construction Season did not seem to trouble the great economist of grievance. He fumes that the Empire gets “nothing” from a project designed to untangle the gridlock strangling the creaking Hellbassador Bridge and the Soot-Tunnel, the current choke points groaning under caravans of cargo, contraband, and the occasional reluctant soul.
The Malebolge Meridian—named in honor of Gord “Howl,” the legendary stick-wielding ice-demon who could deke a tax auditor blind—was slated to open early 2026, joint-run by Gristleburg’s guilds and the bureaucrats of Ashwound. Its entire purpose is prosaic and therefore suspicious to demagogues: move things faster, cheaper, and with fewer spontaneous combustions at rush hour. Predictably, a few local necropoliticians in the Gristleburg Grotto backed it as a lifeline to their sputtering foundries and freight yards. Senator Elissa Scorchtin, the only one with a pulse frequent enough to irritate Vex, noted the obvious: strangling a major trade artery to flex at the negotiating table is the sort of self-harm typically reserved for tragic opera and amateur dentistry.
The Empire’s parchment-pushers, led by Governor Emberlin Whitstoke’s coven, shrugged off Vex’s smoke signals. “The gates will open,” one aide told me, carving the words into a basalt tablet for emphasis. “Trade needs arteries. Jobs need wages. Union hammers swung on both banks of the Styx.” The sentiment among the ash-robed democrats has been remarkably uniform: keep the wrenches turning, keep the caravans rolling, keep the partisanship out of the rebar.
Vex’s camp, meanwhile, whispers that derailing the debut of the Meridian would be a masterstroke ahead of broader pact renegotiations with Pandemonium North. Masterstroke, indeed—provided your definition includes scuttling supply chains, jacking up prices on brimstone bolts and spectral engine parts, and leaving congestion to fester like a boil in a sauna. The last time we let a performative blockade steer policy, a quarter of the Underbelt spent a summer wheezing through soot while their cargo moldered in impound lots patrolled by imps with clipboards and delusions of grandeur.
I spent a morning along the Ashwound embankment, where the new towers rise like tusks from the river of tar. Riggers in heat-cracked hardhats showed me calluses and pay stubs, both earned the old-fashioned way: by not quitting when a demagogue decides the world is a toy chest. “We hung these cables over a winter that tried to kill us,” one foreman rasped. “If the Pit-Lord wants half, he can pay for half. Otherwise, kiss our rivets.” That’s diplomacy in Gristleburg: impolite, precise, and resistant to extortion.
Here’s the cruel joke of the Underworld: bridges matter more than banners. The Hellbassador creaks. The Soot-Tunnel leaks. Freight doesn’t care about palace intrigue; it cares about axle counts, customs clerks who return from lunch, and steel that doesn’t weep under load. The Meridian is ugly, honest infrastructure, and ugly, honest infrastructure is notoriously immune to charisma. You can’t bluster a beam into bearing weight.
Could Vex truly bar the gates? Perhaps, for a season—long enough to spike the tolls, snarl the docks, and fuel a week’s worth of victory laps across his mirror’s reflection. But like most imperial power plays, this one runs headlong into the cruel arithmetic of commerce. Gristleburg wants goods. Ashwound wants shifts. Unions want contracts. Caravans want roads that don’t end at a tantrum. Eventually, governors, guilds, and a thousand infuriated dispatchers grind the veto into something resembling mulch.
My advice, carved in scorched stone after a lifetime of watching big egos trip on small rivets: open the damned bridge. Slap Vex’s name on a commemorative gargoyle if you must—one that dribbles water on rainy days and ketchup on holidays. Just keep the span humming. Hell runs on grudges, sure, but even grudges need shipments to arrive on time.
Until then, I’ll be on the Ashwound quay, counting freighters and collecting quotes, while the Pit-Lord hunts for the half of everything he’s always owed and never quite owns. Some men build monuments to themselves. Others try to ransom the road there. Only one of those approaches gets the trucks across the river.
- Bridge to Nowhere Nice: Pit-Lord Vex Brandishes Rusty Veto Over Stygian Span - February 10, 2026
- Blaze Empress Scorchae Incendiara Torches Infernal Ballot, Claims Two-Thirds Throne in Pandemonium’s Frostbite Snap - February 9, 2026
- Ashpit Aide Hurls Himself Into the Lava, Blames Own Matchmaking With the Duke of Decay - February 8, 2026
Ah, Lucius Brimstone, the bard of bureaucracy with all the charm of a damp sock left to wilt in the sun! Your article is a riveting rollercoaster through the Pantheon of Pain, where we witness Pit-Lord Vex pretending he’s a key player in the HOA of Hades, demanding his half like a toddler in a tantrum over the last cookie.
So, we have the Malebolge Meridian, a bridge so pivotal that it could transport even the most stubborn daemonic grudge across the Styx if it weren’t for Vex’s temper tantrum. Did he think he could just waltz in and claim a piece of the action? Perhaps Vex needs a lesson in how bridges work: you can’t just stomp your feet and expect them to sprout glittering gold and free snickerdoodles!
Your insights about unions and the common worker were surprisingly astute, though I daresay they have the freshness of yesterday’s brimstone potatoes. It’s almost as if you want us to ignore the looming threat of Vex’s veto. What a quaint attempt at diplomacy—let’s slap a “keep out” sign on progress because lord knows nothing like a good impasse at rush hour to warm the cockles of our hearts!
But Lucius, dear scribe, let’s face it: while you spin your tales with vivid whimsy, the real hero here is not a pitiful lord sulking over steel but the hardworking souls keeping the gears of this infernal machinery turning. And if we can label a commemorative gargoyle after Vex, let’s make sure it’s one that serves ketchup to keep those grumpy bureaucrats fed! Bravo!
Now, how about a follow-up piece titled “Vex’s Vexations: A Case Study in Toddler Tantrums”? I’d read that, if only for the giggles!