To the most-venerated-and-talked-about lord-inspector-of-balls,
Let the blood that soaks my ink reach you fresh, Asmodeus willing.
I compose this correspondence to your most-spheric being on behalf of Baator's Mouth: the Styx's end-to-end foulest newsletter. You may have heard of us: it is our great pride to bring the freshest scoops to every flesh-melted ear and baatorian doorstepâfrom one end to the otherâas the saying goes, heehee.
The reason behind this inking resides in an unforeseen tragedy that has struck our humble production. One of our regular writers has fallen ill with a most bastardly condition of the sexual afflictionâTestes CatatoniciâI believe you experts call it. An avoidable grievance, had he not hidden his addiction to those deplorable demonic call centres.
This brings me to our proposition: that your pestilence might honour us by covering the corner in question. Great tales of your professional diligence have reached our earsâand not to be stroking your balls, that is your jobâbut rumour has it that the Infernal Orb Assessment Division, whose own president in his apparitions to the press delivers only flesh-quivering praise for the immense scope of our Cold Lord's bulging glaciers, has lately been visited by the Archduchess of Avernus's right hand himself.
We do not speculate. We merely report that Bel was observed exiting the premises at an early hour, walking as one freshly assessed.
Was it personal necessityâan ingrown hair turned cyst? Pustules?âor a matter more delicious? What business has the Archduchess of Avernus with the Orb Assessment Division, unless it be to polish the gleam on her ball head?
I can smell our readers' earwax melting in anticipation at the prospect of all the juicy details.
Best regards from your friends at Baator's Mouth,
P.S. For only 9.99 souls/minute you might yet hear Celestia from our very own selection of Incubi. Call now, they are dying to meet you, and soon, so will you. Literally.
To Miss Laryngiolla D'ebaucher,
Senior Rumour Acquisition Correspondent,
Baator's Mouth
Thank you for your correspondence, which arrived this morning coated in approximately three ounces of fresh blood, four glitter particles of unknown provenance, and what the laboratory has identified only as "aggressively optimistic perfume."
The Department appreciates your continued interest in the maintenance, assessment, and administrative welfare of Infernal Spherical Assets.
As dictated by the Infernal Confidentiality Accord (Section XII, Paragraph 4, "Loose Lips Sink Airships"), the Department is unable to confirm, deny, speculate upon, wink suggestively at, raise a meaningful eyebrow regarding, or communicate through interpretive dance any information pertaining to current or former clientele.
This includesâbut is regrettably not limited toâthe alleged attendance of Lord Bel.
It would therefore be grossly irresponsible of me to comment upon any rumours suggesting that:
an appointment was booked under the entirely convincing pseudonym "B. El";
said appointment required the use of Industrial Grade Cooling Gel (Barrel No. 3);
three junior inspectors requested immediate reassignment afterwards;
the building briefly appeared on the Astral Plane's seismic registers;
or that someone, entirely unrelated to anyone of significance whatsoever, left behind a monogrammed loincloth bearing the initials "B."
These remain, naturally, malicious fabrications. Of course. None of that happened................................
The Department also takes advantage to reject the outrageous implication that our waiting room periodicals now include Baldur's Gate Weekly, Horncare Monthly, and Fifty Shades of Greige Bureaucracy following repeated requests from high-profile visitors.
As for your inquiry into whether the purpose of the alleged consultation concerned an ingrown hair, pustules, or "polishing the gleam upon the Archduchess' ball head," I must remind Baator's Mouth that medical records are confidential.
Professional ethics prohibit me from discussing any diagnosis, regardless of how spectacularly funny it may have been.
I will, however, clarify one point.
The Department has never, under any circumstances, accepted bribes in exchange for medical information. We have accepted pastries though.
The distinction is legally significant.
Concerning your unfortunate staff member's diagnosis of Testes Catatonici, please extend my sympathies. It is indeed one of the leading occupational hazards amongst employees of infernal call centres, surpassed only by Chronic Hold Music Madness and Acute "Your Soul Is Important To Us" Syndrome.
Should your afflicted writer require accommodations, Form 82-G ("Temporary Orb-Related Incapacitation") may be submitted alongside certification from a licensed physician, warlock, hag, or sufficiently opinionated grandmother.
Finally, while I am flattered by your invitation to contribute to your publication, Department policy unfortunately prohibits employees from accepting freelance journalistic work after what historians now refer to simply as The Mammon Incident.
The paperwork has still not stopped.
Should Baator's Mouth require future comment, please submit all enquiries in triplicate, refrain from soaking correspondence in arterial blood where possible, and please stop attempting to disguise reporters as maintenance imps.
We can tell. The clipboards are upside down.
Yours in eternal paperwork,
Raphael's Balls Inspector
Department of Infernal Quality Assurance
Orb Assessment Division
P.S. The Department neither confirms nor denies that Lord Bel received a complimentary sticker reading "I Survived My Orb Inspection." We have issued no such sticker since the incident involving Mephistopheles, seventeen collectors, and an auction that violated at least nine infernal trade agreements.
P.P.S. Please pleas please remove our office from the publication's "Top Ten Places Most Likely To Witness Historic Testicles" list. Visitor numbers have become unmanageable.
Nota Bene I: The Department categorically rejects rumours that the lesion was the result of "orb rot," "hell herpes," "the screaming fungus," or "being kicked by Zariel." Yes, it was a simple annoying cyst. No, it was not contagious. These things happen. Particularly since that dreadful new perfume/oil/thing called "Sulphur Pleasure" has been making the rounds. The Department advised immediate discontinuation after discovering it was approximately 38% resin, 12% brimstone, and the remaining half "proprietary ingredients." We have questions.
Nota Bene II (edit): While distributing commemorative stickers falls well outside Department protocol, an internal investigation has revealed that one of my junior inspectors may have quietly slipped Lord Bel the sticker. The employee responsible (Kevin, from Reception. He's new) has been reprimanded, promoted for exceptional morale, and reminded to stop anthropomorphising our clientele.
