A guided tour of hell

                                                                                                              A guided tour of Hell
- By James Holiday

Arriving in the pit, the faint stench of sulphur gets me every time, the place is covered in it. A red sky overhead, the ground I walk on looks like a poorly maintained volcanic slope. How stereotypical. The screams of the damned are only slightly overshadowed by the screams of joy of their caretakers. Every demon for themselves, instead of some democratic assembly,  has become a feeding frenzy, no art, no class. Just mass production of suffering. The quality suffers for it. Or so I am told.

As I continue on to my destination I am reminded once again that subtlety and irony no longer exist in the vocabulary of the guards of hell. If crass commercialism and mass market consumerism have found their way into the hearts of the humans above from us, it has found its way down. Every torture device the same for a thousand miles. Whatever happened to every scream is unique? Now volume seems to be the main thing. How loud they were, was never the issue, how you got them was important.  It is said that the whole idea came from here in the first place, a carefully thought out plan to make humans destroy themselves through debauchery. And now we do the same things, how’s that for irony?

Doctor something or other, I can't be bothered to remember names of such lowlife creatures, claims to have gone back to our roots, and has requested my presence at what he describes as some sort of hospital. While personally I am disgusted by all such attempts, glorifying as they may seem to be to themselves, I feel as though this entire realm is beneath me. Another part of me though applauds any and all originality, the rest of me dreads what this man will show me. If man is even the right word. Such grand plans I had, all for nought. Should I have known better? Perhaps, victory might not have been a possibility, but certainly a bit of dignity would have sufficed. Instead we have this.

I arrive at his facility, an abandoned hospital on one of Hell's mountains. No screams, the quietness is what I first notice, far away from the chaos that is the pit, it seems almost peaceful here. Outwards it indeed resembles some kind of hospital, perhaps a mental ward. Aware of the disquieting effects of hospitals for humans, when done right of course, this would have sincerely disturbed any human soul passing through. Modern architecture supplemented by that awful combination of greyish white and sterile hospital green.  All of it overgrown of course with dead plants, demons are not the best gardeners. No state of neglect is complete without vandalism so naturally graffiti is sprayed on several select parts of the building, stating things such as gluttony and similar cries. Were it not for the location and the view it offered from the mountain top, you might have believed it was a genuine abandoned hospital. The view in case obviously being the realm of damnation.

I am greeted by the doctor as I approach even further. I wonder, where did he acquire the title? Was it merely something he thought fitting, an atmospheric piece? Or did he follow some sort of course? Was it possibly even his occupation before he arrived here, before this place transformed his features into the disgusting ones he has now. His face, while not exactly demonic in nature, in no way resembles that of the human he once must have been. Obesity has inflated his face, added layers upon layers of skin. Unshaven, filthy, he is, one might say, in many ways the opposite of my perfectly maintained image. While indulgence is certainly common among the lower class of demons I judge this one to be, his doctors outfit is positively cracking at the seams.  Perhaps he followed the directions of the graffiti? I assume him to be of low class, but he himself seems brimming with pride. Pride of his own, non-existent importance.

At seeing me, his chest inflates even further. He nearly drags me inside, at the last moment, probably thinking better of it, he doesn’t actually touch me. Still, he gestures with enthusiasm I do not share. Briefly I consider faking a smile, but disdain has the upper hand. It is of no consequence eventually, perhaps such an expression is even expected of me. That too, brings an unpleasant taste in my mouth, doing what is expected. I settle for a neutral look that could swing either way, depending on what he shows me.

As he leads me through the corridors, I see others like him, dressed in lab coats, playing at being doctors. I see signs with terms usually found in hospitals, such as O.R. or waiting room. At the very least some effort has gone into this, though I cannot fathom as to what end.

Then he shows me his patient room. The smell when he opens the door crinkles my nose, it’s worse than the sulphur. Or is that because the sulphur has now become a familiar smell? Inside the room are seven extremely obese children. Whether they have regressed to this age, or died as children is not clear. They are kept tied down, with funnels fastened to their mouths. Twisted, gnarly versions of nurses keep them well supplied with some sort of gruel, pumping it in until they nearly burst.

Ward after ward it’s the same distasteful display. The doctor seems proud of what he believes is an original way to punish gluttonous sinners. I refrain from making a comment about how many times such a thing has already been done. It never ceases to amaze me how disgusting punishments like this are. It’s like a boy trying his first smoke and then being ordered to smoke the whole packet. Where is the class in all this? The zeal and the misplaced pride of the doctor is starting to annoy me. Is this the grandeur that he was preaching about? Hardly a revolution.

And to what end? Not just this dreadful display, but what is the point entirely? Why do we punish these souls? To even utter the question could be considered blasphemous, I grin inside at the joke.

One of the creatures, identified by her clothing to be a nurse, comes to us, she tells the doctor that one of the patients is at his limit. I gaze curiously at the doctor, wondering what he plans next. He grins widely and gestures for me to follow him to an operating room.

There a boy, so swollen with the fat he must have been fed for months, lies strapped to the table. The doctor has now changed into a surgical costume which fits him no better than his doctors outfit from before. With glee the doctor describes what he is about to do. He cannot contain his enjoyment of his task, a sickening grin split on his face. Apparently the boys jaw will be broken, and then removed entirely to allow more food to be stuffed into him. The boys fear is palpable, and he tries desperately to escape from his captivity.

In my mind this travesty has gone on long enough. While I do not wish to stifle creativity, I personally prefer more elegant and less messy solutions. The mind is a tool much better suited to torture than any physical device, both for the torturer and their victims. With a small, unseen motion, I loosen his restraints just enough.

He breaks free, just one thing on his mind, to get away. I enjoy single-mindedness, to a certain degree of course. There are few things more enjoyable to watch, then an individual with a single coherent thought.

The boy is running, but he doesn’t know where to go, not that he could make any progress if he did. The small stumps his legs have become can’t carry him far in any case. But the change in the doctor's emotional state makes this pantomime seem most worthwhile. I enjoy watching his little world crumble around him. Just this one jailbreak is enough to shatter his confidence. No longer does his face beam with pride. I guess it’s the little things that matter. He orders his entire staff to go after the boy, even though it’s impossible for him to get far. I shake my head in amusement, his coat isn’t the only thing cracking at the seams.

Then another thing happens that the doctor did not anticipate. Because of the lack of supervision, other ‘patients’ have now broken free. When they stumble out of their rooms, their goal is rather more advanced than simple escape. But still it is something shared by the entire group. As one, the group grab the good doctor and drag him towards his operating room. As despair grips the doctor as he is dragged away, he shows me something not unlike a begging look, as he shouts for me to help him. I smile, and silently watch him disappear from my gaze. Then the silence is returned again as the screams of the doctor are slowly drowned. Nourishment, it appears, is something to be enjoyed silently. I afford myself a last public thin smile, before I make my way towards the exit.

As I exit the building, I see that a lot of the souls trapped inside have made their way outside as well. Thinking that they were free at last no doubt, they are now faced with the vastness of this realm. Uncertainty grips them, but the only way further is down. To trade one hell for another can be quite disheartening. They only struggle with their decision briefly. As they make their way down the slope, a thousand demons look up, all with a single thought: “Fresh meat”.