"Greetings, honored guests!" bellowed the Crimson Baron, standing behind his seat and spreading his arms wide. In the great hall before him, two dinner tables covered in red tablecloth and golden cutlery were seating dozens of guests. Those that were invited and came of their own free will were dressed in elegant finery, in velvet, black, yellow and red. The prisoners, stripped from the waist up and shivering uncontrollably, stood out in their shackled wrists and whip marks. Behind every few chairs stood the servants, in their black hooded robes and fine white gloves.
 
"Honored guests," repeated the Baron, "I trust you were well instructed on the evening's events?"
Murmured agreements sounded across the hall, with the exception of the prisoners, while the Lord & Lady Bedford nodded absentmindedly. Not including the Crimson Baron himself, they were the only ones who previously attended. The Baron nodded, satisfied, and sat in his chair at his round dinner table. With a snap of his fingers the servants produced, as if out of thin air, golden trays with glasses on them. Each tray carried two glasses, and a tray was set before every guest.
"You know what to do," declared the Baron. "Make the choice."
 
The choice was simple to make for most. Almost all of the prisoners chose the short glass with the clear liquid and collapsed on their tables immediately. A clean and merciful death. Only one didn't, a broad-shouldered brute, who couldn't seem to make up his mind. First he eyed the short glass, and then the champagne glass, and then the short glass again. Eventually he chose the champagne, and had a hearty gulp before setting it down. The Bedfords each had a sip of the champagne before returning to their idle chatter, and the rest of the guests sipped politely and remained quiet.
 
"Very good" said the Baron, after setting down his own glass. "If everybody had their fill, I would like to continue."
 
The room quieted at once and The Baron rose, the red veins covering his face pulsing, and spoke in a voice not of this world, a deep and sinister tone.
 
O lovely evening, we welcome thee
Shadows grow longer and darker now
For horrors most honored we will bow
On the flesh of our own we will feast
Before we go our separate ways into the mist
 
As he continued the torches that lit the room seemed to have grown dim, and distant screams could be heard. The Baron's voice grew louder and deeper still, and his veins began clearly glowing.
 
Servant of night, we have need of you
Come from the cold and distant void
The great black beyond understanding
From screaming hells soar up to us
Break your hallowed chain
Fallen one, have wings once again
 
In one swift motion The Baron then removed the red tablecloth and cutlery before him to reveal a demonic altar, adorned with skulls to the sides and the fiery red pentagram on the center. The light from the torches grew dimmer still, but the light in the room only increased - a red light, emanating from the altar. The Baron watched intently as the pentagram grew hotter and hotter, until finally a crack was heard, and a different voice was heard.
"I was summoned."
 
"Indeed you were, old friend" said The Baron, pleased, and sat once again. From the pentagram before him rose slowly a great demon, with great wings folded behind his back and a long barbed tail. A great jagged scar covered his throat, and a fire burned in his eyes as he turned around, surveying the room. The Baron gestured around the tables. "It is time, dear guests. Ask for all you ever wanted from Baamon, and be ready to do all you could ever do in return!"
 
The demon then stepped down to the tables, where he passed guest by guest, asking for their wishes and responding with tasks that would have to be preformed as payment. After every deal they would shake hands, and the demon's barbed right hand would make a single cut on the recipient's palm. Certain customs have to be observed.
"Make me richer still!"
"Burn down the Sunspot Cathedral."
"Done."
 
"I want my wife to love me again."
"Slit your firstborn's throat."
"Yes, alright."
 
"I want Lady Doe dead."
"Desecrate an image of Christ."
"Easily."
 
"I want to be free forever!" shouted the broad-shouldered brute, apparently unafraid of the demon.
"No." Baamon responded simply before moving on. The Crimson Baron then casually gestured, and one of the servants stepped behind the brute with a straight razor to take care of him. All the prisoners die one way or the other, usually.
 
As the demon reached the Bedfords, he seemed to recognize them. They both then opened their mouths, spouting out purple smoke. After a few seconds the smoke organized itself into two ghastly snakes, who then spoke.
"We would like our condition prolonged once again, dear Mr. Baamon" hissed Lady Bedford.
"Oh yes, it has done wonders to our marriage" agreed her husband.
"You know that I must ask you for sevenfold the last asking price, correct?" asked Baamon.
"Yes, yes."
"Very well, both of you must murder a total of 21 choir boys" he said, before shaking hands with each and moving on.
"Margret, we'll have to devise a way to off dozens and hundreds of the buggers at once at this rate..." idly complained her husband as they swallowed back their smoky snakes.
 
And so the weekly ritual carried on, a whimsical and entertaining tradition in the Crimson Manor. After the demon would make his deals with the guests, he would take a seat of honor next to the Baron, and finally dinner would be served - obviously enough, those recently departed in the hall. The plates featured savory, smoky chunks, and the wineglasses had a rich red with an irony taste to it. After eating enough to be polite, the demon would say his goodbyes and descend through the altar once again, trying not to fling away the Baron's dinner by accident, and that would be that. The guests would have 6 days to fulfill their task, and once they would their wish would be granted - and fortunately, most would not care to visit the Manor again. So another week passes, and more hellish whims are sated, until the next time.