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We all have our own versions of Hell, which is where we were, in case you hadn’t picked up on that. Hell, Hel, Hades, the Inferno, Gehenna, Acheron, Cocytus, Phlegethon, Lethe, Tartarus, the Netherworld, etc. Got lots of names. Pick your favorite.
Besides, I suffered from a bit of that too: the Sin of Pride. Hmmph. Probably was the reason half of us were in Hell to begin with.
That’s one of the purposes of Hell, you know: to make us feel really guilty, though mainly for the things we did in life, not in the afterlife.
You never say ‘thank you’ or ‘I’m sorry’ in Hell, at least not with sincerity. Kindness and gratitude are generally frowned upon around here.
I’m not a very good handyman. Orson’s worse, if that’s possible, but he’s not really allowed to do the fixing anyway. That would give him a sense of accomplishment, something he craves, so naturally it is never allowed.
When the job was thoroughly FUBARed - that means fucked up beyond all recognition
This is what some call divine retribution. Others call it ironic. The Devil just thinks it’s funny. I’ve been Hell’s Super for so long it’s sometimes hard for me to even conceive that once I was an intellectual.
The Sin of Greed: one of the Big Seven. You know: Wrath, Greed, Sloth, Pride, Lust, Envy, and Gluttony.
But everyone swears here; it’s impossible not to. All those naughty words, they just seem to pop out constantly from every mouth in Hell, like bubbles from a boiling pot.
From my point of view, Hell looks like Scranton, or maybe Gary, Indiana. A little dirtier, perhaps. Some areas, especially the interstates, remind me of LA.
(Oh, Hell’s minions really aren’t supposed to reference one of the Trini … one of the Big Three … by name, not even while cursing. The curious result is that swearing in Hell has been watered down a bit, with a greater reliance on ‘potty mouth’ to compensate for our inability to take the L___’s name in vain.)
That would be Satan’s Employees Infernal Union. Membership is mandatory; we pay dues but never get improvements in wages or working conditions.
The infamous Bat out of Hell, a.k.a. BOOH, was a giant vampire bat.
Satan will do anything for the little ones. He adores them, especially toasted and served with a good marmalade.
The only part in good working order led from the Gates Level to The First Circle, or Limbo, which was a gated golf community populated by virtuous pagans and unbaptized babies. These days, about the only person who used that flight of stairs was St. Peter himself, who liked to go down to visit his friend Socrates or play a quick nine holes.
Hell’s management, though, thought a minion named ‘Minion’ was just too perfect, so Satan changed my name back when I got here.
But whenever feeling overwhelmed, I remembered what my dad used to say: ‘One step at a time.’ Pretty obvious, but my father was better at platitudes than any real wisdom. Who wanted to go around taking two steps at a time? That was too much like hopping, tiring, and with a greater risk of falling over.
Having to navigate the streets of Hell, including its major freeway, the Road to Hell, which, as we all know, is paved with good intentions, without being able to see - what a pisser.
After all, Satan was looking to amass as many damned souls as possible. He didn’t want to turn anyone away, except maybe Gilbert Gottfried. (That Aflac duck voice of his can be pretty irritating.)
They would have done better continuing to jerk back and forth on the doors, until the building decided to cooperate and let them in, but old habits die hard. Reaching for the Calculus was as natural for them as grabbing my duct tape was for me. Not as cool, though.
(All books checked out of Hell’s Library were overdue as soon as they left the building, which was probably why the circulation statistics tended to be on the low side.)
The place was in its usual state of disarray: volumes were scattered everywhere, in random fashion, though the senior page, Melvil Dewey, was running through the stacks, trying to order the shelves according to his own Dewey Decimal classification scheme. I’d watched him work many times before. As soon as he put a book in its proper spot, the volume would either pop out onto the floor or shift with others of its kind, as if each book stack was an elaborate tile game. With the possessed volumes deciding on their own where they were going to reside, Dewey’s efforts were futile.
doing research in Hell’s Library is like doing a patent search.” “Huh? What does that mean?” “If you find what you are looking for, you won’t be able to use it.” “Great.” He was right. Why would Hell’s library be of any help to me?
Not that helping them really would have mattered. Anything I did was meaningless in Hell; nothing could change its essential nature. Unremitting misery without the possibility of change, that’s what the place was all about.
“Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone.”
Humans aren’t ants; we aren’t bees. There is no communal intelligence. We talk but we don’t really hear each other. We are not a community, no matter how we pretend otherwise. A million people are simply a million social isolates, each one imprisoned within his or her own brain pan, in which a very private Hell plays out.
Hell is being alone. Heaven is release from that loneliness.
The three men looked up and I finally saw them: the leaders of the Free Hellions, the greatest anarchists who had ever lived. Moe, Larry and Curly: The Three Stooges. I’d been right. It had all clicked last night, after I blocked the eye gouge Putty Face had tried to give me.
Tesla was stroking his chin. “The Escalator is wired through the Sign.” Edison turned on me. “You numbskull!” he shouted. “It was your shoddy work all the time. You’re the reason the Escalator broke!”
The Lord of Hell shrugged. “I don’t really know. You have a sort of integrity about you and, believe it or not, I respect integrity. That surprises you, I see,”
“Because it’s rare, and it’s refined, like that amontillado we shared. God has integrity, and even though we are locked in this useless, pointless, eternal struggle, I respect Him. Oh, you thought I didn’t?” “Well, you’ve been at each other’s throats for an eternity, so I just assumed …” “Well, you assumed wrong. I respect Him. I respect you, a little. And I respect Nightingale.”
Once you’re dead, you’re judged as either damned or saved. Nothing you do in the afterlife is of any consequence, morally speaking, that is. Nightingale’s soul is as pure as the day she died.”
“Hope, Minion,” he responded simply. “It’s a basic human need. In this case it was false hope, but hope nonetheless. This is all part of the pain of damnation. People have to hope, then see that hope dashed to the ground, before they can truly suffer.”
“Of course he can, but it won’t be the same for old Petey, now that he’s played on a real course. It’s the only thing we do better than Heaven.” “Beg pardon?” “Build golf courses. Remember the old saying: ‘Golf is a beautiful walk spoiled by a small white ball.’ It’s the perfect game for Hell.”
