My break is about to end and I glance around my office, savoring the small moment of
quiet that I get at work. My office has two doorways, one in front of my desk, and one
behind. The one in front is small and circular with no door, and beyond the threshold I
see only roiling oily darkness. Every day I wait as thousands of people come through
that door and stand in front of me, most confused but some understanding; living with
your life after life is excruciating for some, but some few others find solace in the sense
of finality here. The opening behind me is large and rectangular, with massive iron-
shod oak doors, hammered with murals of various tortures and punishments. After ten
thousand years staring at the door as millions of souls have passed beyond, I can pick
out each and every torture with my eyes closed. The rack on the top left, disemboweling
on the bottom-middle and my personal favorite the “Chinese Water Torture” in the dead
center.
I catch a view of myself in the little hand mirror I keep at my desk for hair touch-ups
between souls. Small black horns peak out between locks of crimson hair, worn long
and tied in a braid behind my head. A face like one of Michelangelo’s nymphs stares
back at me, all fine lines, smooth skin, and bright black eyes. Ok, I look like more of an
a-classical nymph, but still good none the less. Fallen angels get to be handsome, but
a little creepy; Mortals love us for both traits.
You are one handsome demon, I think to myself.
I look down at my old, well used desk and see the scratched mahogany wood, the main
writing area covered in soft leather. A typical bureau-style desk, it has three drawers on
the left and right, each filled with inmate files, and one central drawer which holds
paperclips and pens. The smell of sulfur creeps out of the Hell door to permeate the
office, like eggs rotting in some tucked away knapsack that is long since forgotten.
My office on the cusp of life and Hell is not as cozy as one could hope, but at least I don’t
have to hear all the screaming that the lesser demons have to endure every day. The
most I usually get is a sort of bemused moan, or at most a half-assed plea for mercy. I’
m not the only demon with this job, sharing it as I do with all those whom Lucifer deems
worthy. It gives us gate demons a sort of bargaining point whenever we want something
from the others.
Looking at the clock above the doorway to life, I see that my break is ending and the
flood of people waiting to be sorted is about to begin again. Sighing deeply to prepare
myself, I wave my hand at the life door and the power holding the souls back falls away.
In come the first two deaths of the hour, which in itself is odd since doubles are a pretty
rare thing.
In front of me I see Jim, a short, middle-aged man with cropped brown hair and a slight
bald patch on the top of his head. His face is perpetually wrinkled from years of
practiced scowling, and his jowls remind you of one of those big Beethoven dogs that
carried rum to frozen people in Alaska. His gelatinous belly peaks out from beneath his
frayed flannel shirt, and his faded blue jeans cling to his oversized love handles and
rump like that kid on the wooden plank from Titanic. He does not wear shoes; his
toenails are grimy and dirt ridden, and one is blackened. He stares at me with his dull
brown eyes and his surroundings, mouth agape like a landed fish.
Standing next to Jim and in high contrast is his son Bean. Bean is tall and scrawny, one
reason why his nickname was always “Bean Pole,” the other reason being his name. I
see a shock of dark red hair peak out from under the floppy artist’s hat he wears so
often. His young face is smooth but hints of laugh lines can be seen around his mouth;
his bright blue eyes stare at me expectantly. Sporting a brand new outfit of khaki pants,
pleated in the front, a black wool sweater, and stylish Timberland boots, Bean is
everything his father is not, particularly clean.
When two or more people come at once, it means they were family in life and that they
died together. This occurrence is rare and so I decide to enjoy the treat. Being the gate
keeper for Hell gives me a certain bit of privilege. I know why everyone comes though
the gate into this room, and I decide which layer of Hell they are going to call home and
for how long. Most people think that Hell is an eternal thing, and for many it does
become such. Rapists, mass murderers, and terrorists, the generally evil and depraved
of the world, stay here for as long as it takes for their world to end. The others that have
only minor infractions to their names get out a bit sooner, but even a few years in Hell
are pretty bad.
I don’t need to ask Jim why he is here, but it seems like it might be fun to hear what he
has to say. “So Jim, why is it you’ve come here to Hell?”
Jim is confused and continues to stare at me with his landed fish impression. I can see
the hamster start to turn the wheel though, and his brain finally catches up to my
question after about thirty seconds.
“Hell? How in the Hell did I go to Hell!? I was a good person, went to church, said my
grace every meal, even tried to teach my ungrateful son the better ways of the faith. Not
that it did him a lot of good, damned queer.”
I can’t help but chuckle at Jim as he rants for his brief moment, knowing that the real
anger at where he is going will only sink in once he goes through Hell’s door. Jim is
one of those so-called Christians that believes everything the Bible says out of hand,
even if it’s really an obvious metaphor. His annoying habit of trying to force those views
on others, in the name of “saving their souls,” put him on the ignore list of many in life.
He’ll be going to the 8th circle for sure with the other hypocrites, but I don’t want to take
away the fun by judging him too early, so I put that out of my mind.
“Ah yes, your son Bean, whom you see next to you, also seems to be here. Any ideas
why, Bean?” They died in a car accident I know; his father still had a hood ornament
sticking out of his chest. Wounds don’t heal on the way to Hell; you have to serve your
time before Death’s pain leaves you.
“Because he’s a god damned queer and God doesn’t like queers!” shouts Jim. “I told
you you were gonna go to Hell one day, kid. Now I was right, wasn’t I?”
Bean takes this second rant calmly and looks at me for confirmation. I shake my head
in the negative and repeat my question. I think Bean must have missed my head shake
because he seems truly worried over his father’s ranting replies.
“So Bean, why are you here? Any ideas?”
Jim fires himself up again, fuming at me ignoring his ranting. This really is getting
amusing, I think to myself.
Jim annunciates very clearly and loudly, much as he would do in life when he couldn’t
understand or speak Spanish and the guys at McDonalds were confused as to what he
wanted on his cheeseburger. Jim’s theory is that if they don’t understand you the first
time, yell slowly and they will. No wonder he ate so many spit covered burgers in his life.
“He. Is. Gay. And. God. Hates. Gays!”
Bean speaks and much as I had hoped, he was calm and considered his current
situation logically and seriously. I can’t help but like Bean, but that isn’t surprising
considering his parentage: anyone is better than his no talent, ass-clown father. I muse
to myself that this boy dodged a metaphorical bullet not turning out like the old man.
Sometimes God really does work in mysterious ways. That or genetics has come a
long way since I was last on Earth.
“I would think, sir, that I am either here as a mistake, or because of what my father said,
about me being gay and all.” I see a little flicker of fear at that last part.
Jim is still muttering under his breath during Bean’s answer, but a look from my fiery
eyes keeps him mostly quiet for now. Amusing as Jim is, I’d wanted to see what Bean
would say; bigots and jerks are only amusing for so long. The fun being mostly over, I
started in on judgment.
“Well Jim, I’d have to say that you’re here for a very obvious reason: you’re an intolerant
moron. You’re going to the Eighth Layer of Hell, called Malebolge, and I think the sixth
ditch should do, seeing as you’re about as hypocritical as one of your lot can get. Good
Christian indeed! You know, I’ve met the Christ and as much as I don’t like to admit it,
he's a pretty good guy; you should be ashamed.”
I concentrate and lift Jim’s body with the power inherent in my fallen angel body,
levitating him off the ground and throwing him at the door to Hell. Being a rather talented
demon, I concentrate to arrest time so I can watch in slow motion as Jim flies through
the air. He winces just as he is about to hit the oak panels, but before he can make
contact the doors swing open and I let time spring back to full speed. Jim soars over
the first seven layers of Hell gracelessly as a weighted weasel shot from a catapult. He
hits the ground hard at layer eight and is picked up by servitor demons. They place
heavy golden chains around his neck and kick him into motion. Draped in finery, he
begins his long walk around the eighth layer of Hell.
Trying to decide how long someone like Jim belongs in Hell can be a tricky business.
The standard for a layer eight like him is about a century. I decide to have some fun with
it and I bring some dice out of my left drawer.
“Bean, I want you to pick a number between one and one hundred and hold it in your
mind for me.” I roll some dice: two regular “Yathzee” dice, one with eight sides, one with
twelve, and finally one with twenty. The total comes to 47.
“So Bean, what was your number?”
“I’m a little confused, but I picked 73.”
Hmm, carry the one and you get 3431. Wow, looks like Jim will be in Hell for a long,
long time! On to Bean.
“Well Bean, you’re next as I’m sure you can guess. Now I’d like to start with the fact that
being gay is not the reason you’re in Hell. If you recall, you stole some candy bars from
7-11 when you were sixteen years old. Now this isn’t a Hell-able offense, so to speak.
Just so you know, though, we caught that. Theft is not a good thing for someone to
indulge in, but it looks like the rest of your life was led very cleanly.”
Judging basically good people is always easy. You know where they’re going and the
time limit is completely arbitrary. Who cares how long someone has to spend in a basic
mini-Heaven? I roll a four sided die and get a two.
“You’re going to go hang out in Limbo for a year or two. It really isn’t that bad, like the
Greek idea of the Elysian Fields. You’ll get to meet Virgil and such, and then you’ll be
allowed to ascend to Heaven and do the whole eternal bliss thing. You’re a good kid
Bean, don’t sweat this afterlife stuff.”
Bean thanks me, apologizes for the candy bars, and walks around my desk towards the
Hell door. He stops just as he is stepping into Limbo and asks me a question.
“Out of curiosity, why does God let people like my dad believe that people like me are
evil and all? It seems a little cruel at times, ya know?”
I’m shocked at the question, since most people don’t ask “why” something happens
they only ever argue why it shouldn’t happen to them. Since I like Bean more now that
he’s proven to be as good as his file suggests, I answer him honestly.
“It’s to weed out the jerks; God loves free choice. Just ask Lucifer. Oh, and tell Aristotle I
said bingo next Wednesday, will ya?”
quiet that I get at work. My office has two doorways, one in front of my desk, and one
behind. The one in front is small and circular with no door, and beyond the threshold I
see only roiling oily darkness. Every day I wait as thousands of people come through
that door and stand in front of me, most confused but some understanding; living with
your life after life is excruciating for some, but some few others find solace in the sense
of finality here. The opening behind me is large and rectangular, with massive iron-
shod oak doors, hammered with murals of various tortures and punishments. After ten
thousand years staring at the door as millions of souls have passed beyond, I can pick
out each and every torture with my eyes closed. The rack on the top left, disemboweling
on the bottom-middle and my personal favorite the “Chinese Water Torture” in the dead
center.
I catch a view of myself in the little hand mirror I keep at my desk for hair touch-ups
between souls. Small black horns peak out between locks of crimson hair, worn long
and tied in a braid behind my head. A face like one of Michelangelo’s nymphs stares
back at me, all fine lines, smooth skin, and bright black eyes. Ok, I look like more of an
a-classical nymph, but still good none the less. Fallen angels get to be handsome, but
a little creepy; Mortals love us for both traits.
You are one handsome demon, I think to myself.
I look down at my old, well used desk and see the scratched mahogany wood, the main
writing area covered in soft leather. A typical bureau-style desk, it has three drawers on
the left and right, each filled with inmate files, and one central drawer which holds
paperclips and pens. The smell of sulfur creeps out of the Hell door to permeate the
office, like eggs rotting in some tucked away knapsack that is long since forgotten.
My office on the cusp of life and Hell is not as cozy as one could hope, but at least I don’t
have to hear all the screaming that the lesser demons have to endure every day. The
most I usually get is a sort of bemused moan, or at most a half-assed plea for mercy. I’
m not the only demon with this job, sharing it as I do with all those whom Lucifer deems
worthy. It gives us gate demons a sort of bargaining point whenever we want something
from the others.
Looking at the clock above the doorway to life, I see that my break is ending and the
flood of people waiting to be sorted is about to begin again. Sighing deeply to prepare
myself, I wave my hand at the life door and the power holding the souls back falls away.
In come the first two deaths of the hour, which in itself is odd since doubles are a pretty
rare thing.
In front of me I see Jim, a short, middle-aged man with cropped brown hair and a slight
bald patch on the top of his head. His face is perpetually wrinkled from years of
practiced scowling, and his jowls remind you of one of those big Beethoven dogs that
carried rum to frozen people in Alaska. His gelatinous belly peaks out from beneath his
frayed flannel shirt, and his faded blue jeans cling to his oversized love handles and
rump like that kid on the wooden plank from Titanic. He does not wear shoes; his
toenails are grimy and dirt ridden, and one is blackened. He stares at me with his dull
brown eyes and his surroundings, mouth agape like a landed fish.
Standing next to Jim and in high contrast is his son Bean. Bean is tall and scrawny, one
reason why his nickname was always “Bean Pole,” the other reason being his name. I
see a shock of dark red hair peak out from under the floppy artist’s hat he wears so
often. His young face is smooth but hints of laugh lines can be seen around his mouth;
his bright blue eyes stare at me expectantly. Sporting a brand new outfit of khaki pants,
pleated in the front, a black wool sweater, and stylish Timberland boots, Bean is
everything his father is not, particularly clean.
When two or more people come at once, it means they were family in life and that they
died together. This occurrence is rare and so I decide to enjoy the treat. Being the gate
keeper for Hell gives me a certain bit of privilege. I know why everyone comes though
the gate into this room, and I decide which layer of Hell they are going to call home and
for how long. Most people think that Hell is an eternal thing, and for many it does
become such. Rapists, mass murderers, and terrorists, the generally evil and depraved
of the world, stay here for as long as it takes for their world to end. The others that have
only minor infractions to their names get out a bit sooner, but even a few years in Hell
are pretty bad.
I don’t need to ask Jim why he is here, but it seems like it might be fun to hear what he
has to say. “So Jim, why is it you’ve come here to Hell?”
Jim is confused and continues to stare at me with his landed fish impression. I can see
the hamster start to turn the wheel though, and his brain finally catches up to my
question after about thirty seconds.
“Hell? How in the Hell did I go to Hell!? I was a good person, went to church, said my
grace every meal, even tried to teach my ungrateful son the better ways of the faith. Not
that it did him a lot of good, damned queer.”
I can’t help but chuckle at Jim as he rants for his brief moment, knowing that the real
anger at where he is going will only sink in once he goes through Hell’s door. Jim is
one of those so-called Christians that believes everything the Bible says out of hand,
even if it’s really an obvious metaphor. His annoying habit of trying to force those views
on others, in the name of “saving their souls,” put him on the ignore list of many in life.
He’ll be going to the 8th circle for sure with the other hypocrites, but I don’t want to take
away the fun by judging him too early, so I put that out of my mind.
“Ah yes, your son Bean, whom you see next to you, also seems to be here. Any ideas
why, Bean?” They died in a car accident I know; his father still had a hood ornament
sticking out of his chest. Wounds don’t heal on the way to Hell; you have to serve your
time before Death’s pain leaves you.
“Because he’s a god damned queer and God doesn’t like queers!” shouts Jim. “I told
you you were gonna go to Hell one day, kid. Now I was right, wasn’t I?”
Bean takes this second rant calmly and looks at me for confirmation. I shake my head
in the negative and repeat my question. I think Bean must have missed my head shake
because he seems truly worried over his father’s ranting replies.
“So Bean, why are you here? Any ideas?”
Jim fires himself up again, fuming at me ignoring his ranting. This really is getting
amusing, I think to myself.
Jim annunciates very clearly and loudly, much as he would do in life when he couldn’t
understand or speak Spanish and the guys at McDonalds were confused as to what he
wanted on his cheeseburger. Jim’s theory is that if they don’t understand you the first
time, yell slowly and they will. No wonder he ate so many spit covered burgers in his life.
“He. Is. Gay. And. God. Hates. Gays!”
Bean speaks and much as I had hoped, he was calm and considered his current
situation logically and seriously. I can’t help but like Bean, but that isn’t surprising
considering his parentage: anyone is better than his no talent, ass-clown father. I muse
to myself that this boy dodged a metaphorical bullet not turning out like the old man.
Sometimes God really does work in mysterious ways. That or genetics has come a
long way since I was last on Earth.
“I would think, sir, that I am either here as a mistake, or because of what my father said,
about me being gay and all.” I see a little flicker of fear at that last part.
Jim is still muttering under his breath during Bean’s answer, but a look from my fiery
eyes keeps him mostly quiet for now. Amusing as Jim is, I’d wanted to see what Bean
would say; bigots and jerks are only amusing for so long. The fun being mostly over, I
started in on judgment.
“Well Jim, I’d have to say that you’re here for a very obvious reason: you’re an intolerant
moron. You’re going to the Eighth Layer of Hell, called Malebolge, and I think the sixth
ditch should do, seeing as you’re about as hypocritical as one of your lot can get. Good
Christian indeed! You know, I’ve met the Christ and as much as I don’t like to admit it,
he's a pretty good guy; you should be ashamed.”
I concentrate and lift Jim’s body with the power inherent in my fallen angel body,
levitating him off the ground and throwing him at the door to Hell. Being a rather talented
demon, I concentrate to arrest time so I can watch in slow motion as Jim flies through
the air. He winces just as he is about to hit the oak panels, but before he can make
contact the doors swing open and I let time spring back to full speed. Jim soars over
the first seven layers of Hell gracelessly as a weighted weasel shot from a catapult. He
hits the ground hard at layer eight and is picked up by servitor demons. They place
heavy golden chains around his neck and kick him into motion. Draped in finery, he
begins his long walk around the eighth layer of Hell.
Trying to decide how long someone like Jim belongs in Hell can be a tricky business.
The standard for a layer eight like him is about a century. I decide to have some fun with
it and I bring some dice out of my left drawer.
“Bean, I want you to pick a number between one and one hundred and hold it in your
mind for me.” I roll some dice: two regular “Yathzee” dice, one with eight sides, one with
twelve, and finally one with twenty. The total comes to 47.
“So Bean, what was your number?”
“I’m a little confused, but I picked 73.”
Hmm, carry the one and you get 3431. Wow, looks like Jim will be in Hell for a long,
long time! On to Bean.
“Well Bean, you’re next as I’m sure you can guess. Now I’d like to start with the fact that
being gay is not the reason you’re in Hell. If you recall, you stole some candy bars from
7-11 when you were sixteen years old. Now this isn’t a Hell-able offense, so to speak.
Just so you know, though, we caught that. Theft is not a good thing for someone to
indulge in, but it looks like the rest of your life was led very cleanly.”
Judging basically good people is always easy. You know where they’re going and the
time limit is completely arbitrary. Who cares how long someone has to spend in a basic
mini-Heaven? I roll a four sided die and get a two.
“You’re going to go hang out in Limbo for a year or two. It really isn’t that bad, like the
Greek idea of the Elysian Fields. You’ll get to meet Virgil and such, and then you’ll be
allowed to ascend to Heaven and do the whole eternal bliss thing. You’re a good kid
Bean, don’t sweat this afterlife stuff.”
Bean thanks me, apologizes for the candy bars, and walks around my desk towards the
Hell door. He stops just as he is stepping into Limbo and asks me a question.
“Out of curiosity, why does God let people like my dad believe that people like me are
evil and all? It seems a little cruel at times, ya know?”
I’m shocked at the question, since most people don’t ask “why” something happens
they only ever argue why it shouldn’t happen to them. Since I like Bean more now that
he’s proven to be as good as his file suggests, I answer him honestly.
“It’s to weed out the jerks; God loves free choice. Just ask Lucifer. Oh, and tell Aristotle I
said bingo next Wednesday, will ya?”
Death: A Short Digression
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NEWS: 10/28/07: Initial Testing and Set-up Complete 10/26/07: Site Launched |
