They call him Butterball.

He is the ancient one; the old philosopher of the Four in the Order of the Gash. All knowing, with the wisdom of eons; all seeing, though heavy stitching has eclipsed light from his eyes forever. He is directed by instinct and knows all too well his purpose - pleasure through pain. And he takes great pride in his work, always keeping blades sharp and hooks at the ready, knowing soon he will be summoned.

Aside from a myriad of Hellish duties, his singular distraction is the prodding and fingering of the open wound on his belly. Painfully toying with himself, he contemplates new means of torture, new fruits to be tasted.

Never one to rush, he takes his time. His massive bulk, heavy with the fat cut from stolen souls, moves slowly amid the Labyrinth. Why rush? Hell has no clock.