To Party in Hell

To Party in Hell

             You know, it’s funny how people think about Heaven and Hell. Most people think that Heaven has pearly gates and streets of gold, that it’s a place of perpetual, painless joy. People think Hell is all flames and pain and agony. It’s too bad they’ll never know the truth until they die. Heaven’s nice and all, but it’s not everything it’s cracked up to be. A mansion in the sky?--bullshit. The only homes in Heaven are tiny straw huts. Only the saints get mansions. And would you believe it? There’s even pain! Comparatively less pain than anywhere else, but when you've always been told that there are no more tears in Heaven, you tend to imagine Heaven without pain. But what’s even funnier is all the misconceptions about Hell—wait, I’m sure you’re probably wondering how I know all this. Let me start from the beginning.

             The last thing I saw before I woke up was a crack in the windshield covered with blood (I knew I should’ve worn that damn seatbelt). When I awoke, I found myself alone in what appeared to be a waiting room. But it wasn’t like a  waiting room in a hospital or doctor's office. The light was dim and red, and the walls were painted such a deep black color that I felt caught in the wall's void. The ceiling-speaker in the room was blaring Slayer instead of that vomit-inducing elevator music you normally hear in waiting rooms (by this time I knew this was no ordinary trip to the gynocologist). I saw a stack of magazines on a small table, which interestingly enough had six legs. The stack of magazines included Playboy, High Times, and Reader’s Digest, just to name a few. I also noticed a clock hanging on the wall, but I immediately noticed two odd things about it: the clock contained a pentagram, and the second-hand on the clock was moving at a very slow pace. I could tell that the clock was moving, but five seconds on that clock would have been five hours on any other. I got up to check the back of the clock to see if I could find anything else that was different about it. It didn’t have any batteries.
   
      “What the hell?” I thought to myself, “Where am I?”

      I immediately made a lunge for the door. However, as soon as I opened it, I found a large man dressed in a snazzy black polo shirt and khakis waiting for me. In his hand, he held a folder, much like a doctor would. It had a file with my name on it. I looked down at his left breast and saw what appeared to be a name tag, though at the time, I didn't take the time to read it. The eerie blood-like glow from the room reflected off of its surface. He looked down at me with piercing yellow eyes consumed by fire. I could feel him peering into my soul. He began to speak with a cool, crooked smile. I wanted to run, but my feet remained steadfast and frozen to the ground.

    “Welcome to Hell,” he said, “I am Mephistopheles. I will be your tour guide today.”

      It took a moment for me to register what he had just told me. I stood there silent, dumb for lack of comprehension. He tugged at my blouse, and I came out of my stupified state of consciousness.

    “Wait just one midget-tossing minute. What did you just say?”

    “I said you’re in Hell. I will be your tour guide.”

    “Let me get this right—Mephi--"

    “Mephistopheles…”

    “Thank you, Mephistopheles. So, I'm dead?"

    "Sure seems that way."

    "And you're a 'tour guide' ?"

    "Actually, I'm THE tour guide, but yeah."

    "I don't quite follow."

    Mephistopheles smacked himself in the head with an open palm, indicating his frustration.

    “OK lady, here’s the deal: it’s not my job to tell you why you got here. You should know by now how things work, you’re—” He stopped skim my file until he found my age.

      “You’re 28 years old. You’re a fully grown adult. Way past the Age of Accountability. I’m afraid all I can do is show you around. Don’t be so afraid. Judging by your file, I think you’ll like it here.”

    I'm not quite sure what he meant by this last remark. Perhaps he was referencing my past sexual habits. I had been known to please many a man in my younger years.

    “Speaking of judgment, shouldn’t I have seen someone else before I came here?”
   
      He glanced at my file again, presumably so he could speak to me by name.

      “All right, here’s the deal, Allison. You humans have it all wrong. There is no judgment after you die. Judgment is a perpetual process of life. Your soul either sinks to Hell or floats to Heaven, depending on what choices you’ve made. If you carry the weight of sin with you throughout your life, it follows you in death. Do you understand?”

    “Well yeah, I kind of assumed that, but here lately I’ve cleaned up my life. I accepted Jesus as my Savior and started going to church and trying not to sin and all that. Hell, my husband and I only have sex in the missionary position! Does all that not count for anything?”

      Mephistopheles fumbled frantically with the file in his hands, flipping the pages in search of an answer to my question. Finally, he gave up and slammed the file closed.

      “Shit! Why does this happen all the time? We really need to get this system fixed. Look, I’m sorry about this misunderstanding, Allison. Usually when that happens there’s a receipt in your file for Jesus’s purchase of your soul. Since there’s not a receipt here, we’ll have to go to the head honcho and talk it over with him. We may even have to take this to corporate. But at least let me show you what we have to offer here. By the end of the tour, we will have reached my boss’s office and we can have a discussion about what we should do.”

    A sigh of annoyance left me as we vacated the forboding room and headed down a wide corridor. Paintings of famous people adorned the walls of the hall. It was strange seeing some of them. People you wouldn’t expect hung there: Don Knotts, Ray Charles, and Gandhi. They followed me with their eyes as I passed. Mephistopheles let me know that I wasn’t just seeing things and let me know that this was the Hall of Human Heroes, a place where great pagan humans were honored in Hell.
   
      A smirk appeared on his face as we came to the end of the hall. The threshold was a crossroads of sorts. Three distinct corridors jutted from the center and continued into eternity. The halls were lined with evenly spaced, numbered doors, and each door had a file-holder next to it. Above the entrance to each of the halls was a sign displaying the principal sin for which the residents of these halls were guilty.

    The first sign read Theft/Robbery. The second sign read Rape; the third said Murder.

    Mephistopheles began to explain the criteria for punishment in Hell.

      “We have three levels here in Hell. The first level is for the lesser unforgiveable sins. I know you hear 'lesser' and wonder how murder could be a lesser sin. That is why we have the second level. The second level is for the unmentionable sins. Genocidal dictators, crazy cult leaders, and terrorists are held there.

      A stupor befell me as I cocked my head in disbelief, staring blankly at the signs above the Halls of Sin.

      “Here, I’ll show you.” He opened the door to one of the rooms in the Hall of Rape. Mephistopheles advised me to read the file for the soul in the room before we entered.  It had the soul’s entire life story—his name, who his parents were, what his childhood was like. He had died in 1993. His name was J.D. Fletcher and he was a thin white male. His picture was deceiving, for he looked like a perfectly normal, attractive guy. But his file revealed that he had raped more than 28 women in his lifetime. Even more deplorable was the fact that he posed as a close friend to all of them. I finished browsing the file and Mephistopheles led me into the room.

      The room was small, but completely different from the waiting room I had woken up in. In the center of the room was an aged cot-like bed, next to which a nightstand stood supporting a bottle of lubrication for sex. The blankets on the bed were decorated with flowers. It reminded me a lot of my grandmother's bed. There was someone in a blonde wig chained to the bed with his face buried in the pillow, screaming for mercy. As we made our way into the room, I could see that it was the sinner in the profile I had read. It was J.D. What struck me as strange is that nothing was happening. Just as I began to ask my guide why we had come to this room, another figure burst through the door, holding the file in his hand. Upon entering, he boisterously greeted Mephistopheles with a high-five.

    “Mephisto, buddy what’s up!”

    “Oh not much, Bee'z. Just showing Allison here around. She’ll be on the third level.”

    “Cool. She’ll like it there.”

    “I don’t know, man. She might be leaving us before she settles in. Seems there may have been another one of those Jesus misunderstandings.”

    “Oh, that’s too bad.”

    “Yeah…”

    “Well, buddy, I gotta get to work. You know how the big boss-man gets. You guys can watch if you like.”

      Beelzebub then proceeded to drop his pants. He had the build of a well-endowed porn star. I wanted to feel sympathy for James, but I really felt like he was getting what he deserved. However, I had no desire to see the punishment in action, so I motioned to Mephistopheles that I was ready to go. He chuckled heartily as we left the room, which was now filled with screams of agonizing pain. Upon leaving the room, we heard the sinner scream, “It burns! At least use some lube!” I giggled to myself, and found myself so surprised at my pleasure in someone else’s eternal pain.

    Mephistopheles turned his gaze to me once more.

    “You think you can handle the second level?”

    “I think I’ll pass on that one.”

Mephistopheles took a double-edged dagger from his side, something I hadn’t noticed when I first beheld his figure. He carefully etched a doorway and a button onto an empty space in the wall. A button and an elevator appeared before us. Mephistopheles pressed the button, which coincidentally, contained a pentagram much like the clock in the waiting room. The doors opened and Mephistopheles pressed the button to take us to the top level. It was like being in the waiting room again. Music played from the speaker in the ceiling.

      “Dave Matthews? But wh—”

    “I don’t know either.” Mephistopheles caught my thought in mid sentence. “I’ll have to ask the boss about that.” He snapped his fingers and the speaker immediately switched to Black Sabbath.

    “Much better,” Mephistopheles sighed as the elevator traveled to the top.
I slowly realized that he hadn’t told me exactly what the third level was for. After the conversation between Mephistopheles and Beelzebub, my curiosity had been sparked and I decided to ask what the third level was all about.

    “So, what’s the deal with the third level? You told me that the first two levels are for the ‘truly evil,’ but you didn’t tell me what the third level is for. What gives?”

    Just as I finished my question, the doors opened and I immediately realized why Mephistopheles had such a big grin on his face as we stepped out of the elevator.

    “This is where all the harmless sinners go. They’re the drunks who never drove off and killed somebody, the pot-heads that wanted to expand their minds and never hurt a fly, the people who like to have casual sex because it’s fun. There are even people here who lived perfectly normal, decent lives. It’s just that all these people didn’t believe in God and Christ. They either knew about them and rejected them or were raised not to believe in them and therefore never knew how to. There are also some believers who recanted their beliefs in favor something else later on life.”

      He paused so dramatically that I swear to this day there were horns playing that little BUM BUM BUUUUUUM moment in the background. Then he pretentiously proclaimed, "This...is Dis."

      As my eyes protruded from their sockets in a fruitless attempt to take in what I was seeing, I wanted to say, "Oh my God," but the words somehow escaped me.

      This was not a hall with doors like the first level; this was an entire city, a metropolis. I started to ask how this could be possible, remembering the tight quarters of the 1st floor, but I refrained from asking as I came to the conclusion that (of course) Hell is not confined to the laws of time or space.

      We exited the elevator, which rested on a plateau above the infernal city. From the plateau I could see the outskirts of Dis, where the souls of all the pseudo-sinners were walking, talking, and just doing their thing. I recognized many from photographs or television. Jimi Hendrix was shredding away on his guitar while Janis Joplin sang "All Along the Watchtower." Bob Ross was painting happy little trees, and Dale Earnhardt was drinking a beer with some other dead race car drivers. Couples made love in the grass in the park. Everyone looked perfectly happy and content. My astonishment rendered me speechless. Metphistopheles turned his (strangely warm and not at all threatening) eyes of fire to me once more.

    "You don't need God to be happy."

    We continued our walk until we came to an ominous skycraper with obsidian glass for windows and doors whose marble entrance bore the pentagram I had seen in the waiting room and the elevator, along with some new, strange markings I remember seeing at some point in my life--maybe in a book or something; there was a goat head and some strange letters written outside the circle. Its graven image was clean and refined, comparable to that of a corporate logo. The tower reached so far into the charcoal sky that I could not see the top.

    Mephistopheles strolled up an chivalrously held the obsidian door open for me. Inside the hellish erection, I observed goddesses and gods, beasts, and demons scrambling through the halls with paperwork. In the center of the lobby stood a reception desk surrounded by flames. On the desk sat an ebony name plate for the receptionist. I didn't notice her until after I had read the name--Venus. For some reason, I really can't remember what happened next. All I know is that I had to pick myself up from the brimstone floor, my knees weak like a newborn fawn. My legs trembled, and I had that wonderfully exhaustive feeling that I get after sex.
   
    "Sorry, Allison, I should have warned you about that," Mephistopheles said with a chuckle as he patted me on the back. Then he looked to Venus.

    "We need to see Satan," he told her, "Her file is missing the Jesus receipt."

    "Really? Another one? I don't know what has gotten into those people in the filing department. Maybe the job-cuts demoralized them." She paused, as if pondering what to do. Then she said, "I will page him. Go ahead and have a seat. He will call you into his office as soon as he finishes his daily conference."

      We waited for what seemed like five minutes. Then a serpentine voice sounded through the intercom at the desk. Venus glanced at us and said to Mephistopheles, "He's finished now. You may go up to his office."

      We walked into the nearest elevator. It was unlike the previous elevator we had been in. For one thing, it was already there. The door was emblazened with the same symbol I had seen outside the building, and there was no set of buttons to push for which floor we wanted to go to. Instead, there was a number pad--like the kind you would see at a pay phone. As I scratched my head in bewilderment, I watched as Mephistopheles keyed in the number 666. The elevator began its ascent, and before I knew it the elevator had stopped and we were standing in front of a massive door bearing a hand-carved version of the logo that was so prominent in this place. Mephistopheles knocked on the door.

    "Hey boss, it's Mephistopheles.  Got a fresh one for ya. No Jesus receipt."

    "Come on in!" replied the voice from behind the door. This time it was a booming, petrifying voice. I became frozen and unwilling to move forward, but Mephistopheles pushed me into the room.

      He nudged me into the room slowly and I staggered in amazement at all the cool little devil figurines I saw. There must have been thousands of them lining the bookshelves, all different images or takes on the Devil. On one of the walls I saw a plaque that held what looked like a diploma. I squinted to read it and saw that it was a Certificate of Rebellion. My eyes darted uncontrollably around the room until they came upon him. He wasn’t big, and he wasn’t intimidating at all. He was hunched over, and his hands held a putter. He tapped a flaming golf ball across a strip of artificial turf in the direction of a small hole. The ball found its destination without veering from its path even slightly. Satisfied, he stood up and greeted us.

    “What is the meaning of this, Mephistopheles?" he sighed and scolded my guide, "You’re going to make me late for tee-time with Yahweh and Jesus."

    “Well, you know that problem the filing department has been having with the Jesus people lately? We got one of those.”

    “Goddammit, I thought they had that fixed!” He looked over at me with uncertainty, as if contemplating what to do. “O.k., here’s what we’re going to do," he said, stroking his slate goatee, "Since I have to meet up with Yahweh and Jesus before our golf match, I’ll let them take a look at this case and see what they can do about this whole misunderstanding. I hope you’re not upset, ma’am.”

    He was nothing like I had imagined. I was so shocked at his charming demeanor that all I could do was shake my head with my mouth agape. No wonder so many people like the Devil and his ways!

    “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t formally introduce myself. I am Lord Satan, supreme ruler of Hell. Come with me and we’ll get this taken care of.”

    Satan picked up his golf bag, shouldering it, and put his hand in front of me so I could take it and follow him. I took it without hesitation as he led me through a seemingly solid portion of the far wall in his office. We immediately found ourselves on a calm beach that seemed to integrate itself into the sky. Inland, I could see bland spires of granite in the distance and straw hut dwellings with puffs of chimney smoke lightly stroking the air on the edge of Heaven's infrastructure. Directly in front of us we saw an enormous gate, composed entirely of tampons (The phrase "pearly gates" will never be the same!) with the words None shall pass before being checked in inscribed on a sprayed-gold plaque that hung crookedly at the center of the gate. Just to the right of the gate was a small gazebo. The gazebo held an opened book, but I was unable to see the title. Guarding it was a bald man with a long white beard. He wore sunglasses and a Hawaiian shirt. He looked kind of like Billy Gibbons from ZZ Top. He sat, patiently watching. He saw us coming and began waving.

    “Satan, buddy, long time no see! I see you have a golf game with Yahweh today,” the old man greeted us..

    “Looks like you brought a friend. What is the occasion? Wait, don’t tell me it’s another one of those—”

    “I’m afraid so.”

    “Oh, all right. Let me look in the Book of Life and see if her name is here. Could you fill out this form for me, ma’am?”

    “Why certainly,” I answered. He handed me a blank form. It looked like all the forms back on Earth that ask for your name, address, zip code, and all that stuff. I guess they need to know who you are and where you were from to get the right person if someone has the same name. I filled out the form and gave it back to him. He then scanned through the book that lay in front of him. When he found my name, a look of relief came to his face.

    “Ah-hah! I found the problem. Allison, you’re not really dead. You’re just temporarily out of it for awhile. That car wreck you had put you into a temporary coma. Looks like you’ll be regaining consciousness in just a few days. When this kind of thing happens, you wind up in Hell for a short period of time because your life hasn’t truly expired. Once you actually die, Jesus’s receipt will be in your folder. In the meantime, you’ll have to wait it out. Would you rather stay here or go back to Hell?”

    "Hold on a sec, Pete," interjected Satan, "Shouldn't you talk to Yahweh about this or something?"

    The saint replied, "Due to the unusual number of similar circumstances here lately, he told us to just give them the choice. She'll be leaving soon anyway."

    "Very well then. Allison, would you like to take a look around here and decide, or are you ready to decide now?" Satan inquired. As he said this, I could see a hint of a grin forming at his mouth.

    The answer may seem obvious, but as I looked around, I didn’t see what I expected. I could see through the gates, and I saw people bickering. I saw people tripping and saying, “ouch,” (I had been taught that there was no such thing as pain in Heaven). An old couple played gin rummy at a fold-out table. Geriatric men crowded around a platform to play shuffleboard, and a small gathering short, chubby Southern couples fervently line-danced to "Achy Breaky Heart." I shuddered at the mere thought of the song, and I was slightly depressed in my disappointment, for I saw nothing appealing about Heaven.

      I looked to St. Peter and asked an arbitrary question to which I already knew the answer. I wanted verification.
 
    "So, is there anything here that I might like--ya know, something fun like?"

    The old man at the gazeebo cocked his head and looked at me as if I were crazy. Then he coldly stated, "Whoever said Heaven was supposed to be fun for people like you? Heaven is designed with the faithful in mind. New converts are at the bottom of Heaven's List of Accepted Leisure Activities."

    So I thought about it. There was no booze, no sex, no good music--no fun at all. Heaven differed so much from my personal expectations that I couldn’t see myself there. I looked at the guardian in the gazebo and then looked at Satan. “You know, I think I’ll stay in Hell. Also, tell Jesus I want my soul back. I feel cheated.”

    The guardian looked at me solemnly and said, “As you wish.” He crossed out my name in the book at leaned back in his chair. “See you later, Satan!” he exclaimed.

      Satan led me back into his office and back into that realm of Hell where the party never ends. He told me that he was glad I decided to stay for good. Then he left for his golf game while I had a blast until the time came for me to leave, of which I was notified by one of Satan's many legions of demons.

      I awoke from this incredible dream just days ago, lying in a hospital bed with my head bandaged. Thankfully I’ll be leaving soon. The doctor says I might even be able to leave by the end of the week. But I’m glad you stayed with me and listened to my story, because I needed the company. This place is almost as nauseating as Heaven. And hey, maybe you think I’m crazy from the blow to my head. That’s fair enough; you can find out for yourself. As for me, I think it’s better to party in Hell than be bored in Heaven.