Alarm bells were ringing in the Underworld. Screwtape's message box was full. Up to his horns in the business of death, he could not escape the incessant ringing of his phone. All the complaints were the same: "We're going to heaven in a handbasket! The well of souls is drying up! We can't turn anyone! Nobody's interested in drugs anymore! Gambling! Alcohol! Teens are even giving up sex! Hell help us!"
As usual, the cowardly demons were exaggerating; terrified, looking for an excuse to cover their incompetence, save their miserable scale-covered hides. Things weren't as bad as they made out, but they were bad enough. In all categories "sales" were down. The illegitimate birth rate plunged. Project Sugarloaf had stagnated. After a promising start, drug addiction to the new strains had leveled off. Screwtape couldn't account for it, and it was making him nervous. Snakefoot reported no progress finding the twins. It was as if the earth had opened up and swallowed them.
Screwtape decided to call an emergency meeting of low demons.
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