Gaslight Tango on Planet Hell

Scene 1: The Infernal Courtroom of the Devil Spectrum

(Dim lights. Smoke. A red planet cracked with lightning veins. The pigment Devils are seated on chromatic thrones. Above them, a massive neon sign flickers: "Welcome to Planet Hell: Population — Yes.")

Narrator (dryly):
In a galaxy far far far far far far far far far far away, there exists a little overheated orb known as Planet Hell. Not because it's hot. But because everyone here believes they're right.

Pigment Devil White (standing with pompous grace):
"China." (Gasped as if a prayer, or a threat, or a prophecy. No one can tell.)

Pigment Devil Olive (fanning self with a dossier labeled “Middle Things”):
"I-Ran." (Emphatic. As if fleeing. As if naming.)

(A long pause. The lights flicker. Suddenly:)

Pigment Devil Red (riding a sulfurous geyser like a pogo stick):
"I Ran China." (Followed by a silent, majestic fart. A sulfur mist covers the thrones.)

Pigment Devil White and Olive (in unison, blinking slowly):
“…What?”

Narrator (gleefully):
And thus began the great confusion spiral. The Devils, having gaslit each other into infinity, accidentally created a political reality so distorted it looped in on itself. Their tongues tied in semantic knots, they began to speak only in acronyms, headlines, and half-remembered treaties.

ACT II: Beneath the Disco Floor of Diplomatic Doom
(We now descend into the Subterranean Bunker of Believability, deep beneath Planet Hell. All statements here are filed in quadruplicate and promptly set on fire.)

Pigment Devil Olive (wiping fog from a cracked surveillance orb):
"I’m telling you, White, Red's got some kind of agenda. No one farts that confidently without backing from the Committee of Untraceable Influence."

Pigment Devil White (reapplying foundation with a trowel):
"Agenda? That wasn’t a fart, that was a doctrine. Did you smell it? Clearly economic. Possibly petrochemical."

Pigment Devil Red (swinging from a chandelier made of melted treaties):
"I'm just a free agent of flatulence! You can’t hold sovereignty accountable!"

From the depths emerges...
Pigment Devil Transparent (also known as “The Invisible Hand”)
(only visible through stock tickers and disappearing memos):
"Gentle-Devils… we have a problem. The mortals are laughing again."

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ACT III: The Rabbit Hole Winks

The Devils hold an emergency session on the Rabbit Hole Council Spiral, a spiraling table that loops so tightly it folds into the fourth wall. Each devil sits directly across from themselves. Paradox is the menu.

Narrator (with increasing concern):
At this level of narrative recursion, we risk folding the universe into a bureaucratic soufflé.

Pigment Devil Olive:
"I motion for sanctions against Pigment Devil Red's rear end."

Pigment Devil White:
"I counter-motion with a filibuster made of moral superiority and napalm."

Pigment Devil Red (laughing while juggling five historical coups and a diplomatic immunity card):
“Wait till you hear the remix: ‘I Ran China to the Market While Spinning Truth on a Stick.’”

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ABSURDITY PEAKS WHEN…
They all fall through a trapdoor labeled:

“ORIGINAL INTENT” – Only Those Who Understand The Terms May Enter.

Inside:
A dusty courtroom run by a Pigment Devil Beige, the forgotten architect of Hell’s early zoning laws. No one remembers what any of it meant. Not even Beige. Especially not Beige.

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FINAL SCENE: The Cosmic Laughter

A black hole opens. It's shaped like a clown mouth. The entire cast is sucked into it.

Narrator (now an eye in the void):
Thus concludes Gaslight Tango on Planet Hell, where devils don’t die—they just rebrand, gaslight each other into policy, and dance in loops of semantic quicksand until reality becomes interpretive performance art.

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Post-Credits Scene:

The Red Devil farts one final time. It echoes across dimensions. Somewhere, a new empire is born.