Principality stands up from his seat, rests his palms on the desk, and leans his weight forward towards Greed. “You fool. You think you’re smart enough to usurp my authority? I’m not a Level One because He thinks I’m stupid.”

A low steady rumble emits from his throat—his nostrils flare. His level stare sends invisible shock waves through to the center of Greed’s being. Greed involuntarily shudders.

“Why do you think the Master set up four Levels? Some of us have higher callings and can maintain the level of work required of the lower peons. I would think that as a Level Two you would have made yourself a better example to those that are only a Level Three or Four.”

Principality continues to glare at Greed. “It’s up to you to maintain the work ethics of those you mentor and oversee. With this kind of behavior how will they learn the correct ways of serving the Master?”

Greed clears his throat, and nervously shifts his weight a couple of times from foot to foot. “Oh no, old wise, and mighty counselor, you’re not stupid. It’s like I said. Ain’t no way I’d ever try to over-ride your mandates. It’s just that, well, some would say I get too enthusiastic with my work sometimes. It’s a pretty natural thing for me to do. I mean after all, I’m from the Greedy family. It’s the way my clan operates.” Sigh. “But it’s true, I acted like a fool, and I’m really sorry about all this.” You ol’ pond-scum sucking frog.

Tsk. Principality continues to glare at the demon before him not even trying to hide any disgust from his voice or mannerisms. He eyes Greed from head to toe: a head of short un-kept hair sticking out at all angles; a scar slanting downward through the left eye from his eyebrow to his chin; stooped shoulders with only a whisper of the once strong young body.

Greed bows his head to avoid any eye contact with his one good eye. Stay meek, stay humble. Keep your big mouth shut. Stay cool, stay submissive. This butt chewing has been going on for over twenty minutes. You’re hanging in there pretty good so far.
Greed continues to speak with care, “It’s a true, unworthy, and shameful blunder of mine Sir.” You’re all the time having a conniption fit about something or other, you old windbag, and you are too stupid. He pulls his shirt collar out from his neck to give him more sweat room.

Straitening up, Principality swaggers out from behind his marble topped desk. His floor length tailored black robe billows with each step stirring up the faint charcoal fog that hovers just above ground level. He’s tall, well formed. His skin pale from the lack of natural light and heavily lined from the many centuries of a life in the dry underground realms of Hell. His long jet black straight hair is tied back at the neck. His stare could curdle milk.