A crimson sky crackles with fire as the infernal gates creak open, exhaling a blast of sulfur and smoke. Standing at the threshold between damnation and dominion is none other than Ozzy Osbourne—leather-clad, shades on, and grinning like a man who’s already been through hell and made it his playground.
 
A twisted fanfare of demonic guitars shrieks from the depths as a council of ancient, horned Lords of the Underworld steps forward. Lucifer himself, draped in black velvet and adorned in molten gold, raises a flaming sword. He speaks with a grin: "For services to chaos, rebellion, and heavy f**ing metal..."*
 
With a solemn nod and a theatrical bow, Ozzy kneels—well, more like slouches—and is dubbed Sir Ozzy of Darkness. Hell roars with approval. The gates blaze behind him as infernal pyro explodes, and bats (real and spectral) fly overhead in tribute. Somewhere in the distance, a spectral version of Randy Rhoads rips a solo from a bone-white guitar.
 
Ozzy rises, not a knight in shining armor—but one in worn leather and eternal legend, forever the Prince of Darkness, now officially hell’s most honored noble.