Many dark millennia ago, a distillery was forged deep in the fiery bowels of hell. It's sole purpose - to inflict abject pain and suffering. Nothing more was known about it.
Year after year it remained dormant until one day the mills erupted in a cacophonic roar. For weeks a seemingly endless procession of satanic wagons and depraved creatures bearing crates of deviant ingredients turned up at its door. Thousands marched in. Nothing came out.
Ceaseless steam billowed from its crooked chimneys, the sweltering stench stung the nostrils and the ferocious heat of the place could be felt for miles around.
Eventually a hooded monk emerged. In his scorched black hands he held aloft a crimson bottle, containing a molten fluid that glowed hotter and brighter than anything meant for this earth.
At that moment the battle for good over evil was lost.