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This is Barbara Walters again. We've been
invited into what appears to be hell by the
the author of humankind's misery and woe.

Now watch that first step, dear. It's absolute treachery.

I'm referring of course to Satan. The Horned One.

It's a pleasure to -

Belial, Beelzebub, Diabolus, Neabaz, Father of Death.

I'm glad I could -

Gadreel, Moloch, Dis, Spawn of the Cosmic Whore.

Yes! We all know who I am!

Scratch has graciously allowed us access into the netherworld, where
we're about to tour a recent - what would you call this - addition to Hell?

A little project I've been working on.
And this isn't Hell, I told you already.

But it's so warm in here. And poorly lit. Why,
I can almost hear the screams of the damned.

Well funny you should mention that because
those are the extras in Sly Stallone's new film.

I beg your pardon?

I've rented a warehouse outside Burbank.
Die Quietly is shooting a scene next door.

So tell me about this project of yours.

I'll do better than that, Barbara. I'll show you.
If your crew will just come with me, this way.

   Notoriety Has Its Privileges.  

A wax museum? How quaint.

I begin the exhibition with something called They Might Be Giants.
Now really, don't you love it? Newtie Napolean? The Inquisi-Starr?

Yes. Quite amusing.

The animatronics will have to be inserted
through their anuses - a tight fit at best.

At best.

And this floor will have to come up.

Contemporary politicos as historical figures.

It's reincarnation, Barbara. The music goes round and round.

You actually believe in the transmigration of souls?

Believe in it? I invented it.


Shall we go deeper?

Or, you can always return to Max City.