“It needs to be perfect.”

“It does not need to be perfect!”

“I am a perfectionist, therefore everything I touch must be perfection.”

“You’re ridiculous! You’re creating a monster, a demon spawn of Hell, imperfection is the name of the game.”

Head Scientist of Evil, Sir Zirad of the Fallen Armies, glares at Chief Minion of Destruction, Efael of the Grumbling Masses of Malice.

Zirad carefully puts down the decanter of brimstone before he throws it at his minion.

“Efael, there is a reason I am in charge of designing all of Hell’s most malevolent masterpieces. It’s because I perfect imperfection.”

Efael, because he is a rowdy servant of Hell and therefore naturally rebellious, continues to argue his point even though as Head Scientist, Sir Zirad has the last say (and the power to remove Efael’s tongue from his head, but that’s neither here nor there, as they both know Zirad would never harm one of his creations).

“We’re behind schedule, Sir. I have the calendar right here,” he waves his clipboard, “we need this monster out in the playing field now. You’re trying to redo two thousand years of hard work simply because you found some small flaws.”

“Heaven will exploit those small flaws!” Zirad cries, and paces the lab, circling around the monster of flame and hunger and pain, “Not to mention His Excellency of the Damned would be so disappointed in me – he’d fry me on the spot!”

And then Zirad, like any demon who has been under two thousand years of pressure to please the Lord of Hell, has a mental breakdown and sobs over the design plans for his great monstrosity.

“No Zirad, don’t do that,” Efael quickly runs over to rub his shoulders, “His Excellency knows you create the best stuff. He wouldn’t fry you for a few minor mistakes. And if he tries I – well I’ll—”

He blushes and musters up whatever courage resides in a denizen of damnation, “I’ll tell him off! I’ll stand between you and him and bring out all sorts of charts that explain your usefulness.”

He hurriedly rips out a sheet from his clipboard, “See this? It’s a heat-map of the effectiveness of all of hell’s monsters. Yours always rates the highest. And this here?” He flaps another sheet in Zirad’s face, “This is your budget report. For the past six hundred years you’ve completed all your projects under budget! No one else in any other department can say that. I’ve checked.”

Zirad wipes his tear-streaked face clean, “You’d do that for me? Stand up to Satan himself?”

Efael coughs loudly and shuffles his papers back in order, “It’s what any minion would do for his evil scientist.”

Zirad’s rotting heart swells with something that he will not name (because he will not blaspheme, and the L word really is the worst of all of Heaven’s words).

“I positively loathe you,” he says instead. The way he sighs it, though, makes it sound a bit like he’s saying a forbidden word.

“And I you,” Efael keeps coughing, as there are many feelings lodged in his throat, “now shall we unleash your monster to wreak havoc upon Earth and the Heavenly Realms?”

“We shall.”

And though the monster performs perfectly, Zirad can’t help but think, as he watches Efael take detailed notes on the monster’s performance, that he has already made the most perfect creation of them all.