Little Brother

There's a demon, they say, that lives in Detroit: creeping around upstairs in an old condemned ballroom above a sad-sack, back-road bar called Whiskey Dick's, near those old heating plants where it always smells like rotten-egg farts, out where the pimps take really troublesome girls & johns to bury. Folks say that there are wards and magical symbols and infernal icons everywhere around the ancient place, including inside the walls; a lot of legends regarding the scuttling nightmare-boy upstairs go back to the late-1800s, when the Scripps family donated almost $1.8 million (adjusted for inflation) worth of European paintings and relics to the Detroit Museum of Art and allegedly engaged in black-magic rituals in some secret location.

Of course, there are even older stories going back to the 1760s, during the French & Indian War, that claim the Ottawa used to consider that specific ground cursed for centuries before the white man showed
up. But before that, it's all speculation.

Anyway: word on the street says that the whole building is a Double-Secret Reverse-Cherry: a man-made warp of gate and Nether and cherry and exit all wrapped around itself; a divot into the Lands of the damned with no screws, where the laws of the real world can be tricked. The really, deeply weird theory is that it was commissioned by some super-rich Cheney (maybe it was Scripps, maybe it was somebody else) to be his own private Eternity: after he kicked the bucket and wound up in the Bad Ending, he could be fetched back topside and brought to this little demi-damnation where he would never age and never die. One big party in the ballroom, forever. Of course, who precisely would have the power to forge such a 'Hell-Puddle' is beside the point, and just gets in the way of a good urban legend.

In summation: there's something up there. Something fucked up and horrible that doesn't seem to need to eat or drink or sleep and likes to crawl around and lick things and make scary noises in the dark. From outside, you can sometimes make out its face when it looks out the boarded up windows. In the middle of winter, sometimes it gets excited and bangs around a lot. Once, it came downstairs to the bar.
And it has some weird control over the environment up there, too: lights turn off and on, doors appear and disappear, the stairs to the balconies sometimes vanish, the painting on the ceiling changes, electronics get 'wonky' for lack of a better term, and on one confirmed occasion it was fucking SNOWING up there, indoors, in June. There are a lot of people - and these are 'Crashers; people in the know, not rubes - who think that he's not a demon at all. Rule is, demons stay in hell. End of story. So maybe it's just a messed-up Undamned. Maybe it's Scripps. Or his son. Or a monster. Or … something.

Or, maybe, just maybe, someone figured out how to build a little island made from the Wheel of Punishment. And it has a demon living there. A 3-foot tall, borderline-retarded one, maybe. But a full-on fucking demon, none the less: invulnerable, immortal, insane.

Point being: the full title of the child-like monstrosity hunkering in the ballroom is actually "Hell's Little Brother" - which also refers to the ballroom itself - but since that name carries the h-word and all, most people just call it Little Brother. Whatever the thing up there is, though, it can be bribed to talk about the Nether. And while it's tough to get the kid-thing to come out and chat with people, since it prefers to hide and make weird sounds and has killed at least six people that we know of and sometimes apparently just isn't there (maybe hiding in a closet with no door?), what it has to say - in exchange for used sex-toys and chocolate that has touched a corpse - is often worth it.

When you absolutely, positively MUST get the low-down on something related to the Down Low, the last stop is usually Detroit.

And a meeting with Little Brother.

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