Spoiler! :
It was a formal sign. Neat. Tasteful. Elegant. The kind of sign that says "Hey, look at me, I'm better than you." to all the lesser signs of the world. It stood about four feet tall, suspended by a gold pole that shot up from the floor. Ingrained upon a black background in shining silver letters was the following introduction:
--Welcome to Hell. No smoking, please--
--Bienevido a Infierno. No fumen, por favor--
Randy and I stood staring at the message. High above us Willie Nelson crooned over a set of loud speakers.
"Are you freaking kidding me?" I asked, gesturing towards the sign.
"I know, bit hypocritical of them. Didn't figure Hell's waiting offices were bilingual.”
"Yes, cause only Americans go to Hell, Randy."
Randy shook his head. "Don't be so narrow minded, Bill, a whole variety of people speak English. For example, so do the English.”
"Lot of them down here, are there?"
"I'm sure they have a decent representation."
We would have kept on arguing had a striking young woman not approached us. We shut up real fast.
"Wow.”
A fiery red skirt and jacket hugged her form. Brown hair drifted down her cheeks and across her neckline, illuminating bright blue eyes. Despite the color, the clothes appeared to be office attire. Her heels clacked against the tile as she made her way across the lobby.
She spoke in a flat, business-like tone, shaking both our hands in turn. First Randy’s, then mine. "Mr. Bigsby. Mr. Kline.”
"Actually I'm Mr. Bigsby," said I.
"And I'm Mr. Kline," said Randy.
"Of course, please come with me."
I followed. Randy continued to stare. "For a spawn of the underworld she sure has got a great ass."
"Shut up," I hissed.
"What?"
"I'm sorry, but I don't think it's smart to make crude remarks about a creature of the night while she's just a few feet away from us."
"So you're saying I can make lewd comments about her as long as she's not within earshot?"
"I don't want you to say anything! Come on, let's get this thing straightened out," I said, pushing Randy forward.
We followed the vixen to the lobby elevator. The lobby itself was pristine; clean and polished with columns of marble that rose to the ceiling. The smell of Pine-Sol filled the air. A security guard sat behind a towering desk of carved slate, his head buried in a copy of Anne Rice's latest novel.
"Hello Gary. Still reading filth, I see," the vixen remarked as she pressed the 'up' button.
"Hey, not everyone reads Dickenson, Emily,” the guard said, chuckling at his own joke.
"Not everyone reads," Randy interrupted.
I kicked his ankle.
The guard lowered the book with a sigh. Red hair fell in tangles over his pale face and freckled brow. Two crooked horns emerged from either side of his skull.
"You—" he began and stuttered, knocking aside his coffee as he hastily raised his hand to his forehead, covering them, "Shoot! Sorry, hope I didn't freak you boys out, we're not supposed to show newcomers the horns."
"It's okay,” I said, “Harold drove us here.”
The guard’s face brightened. He chuckled, lowering his arms and wiping the coffee off his desk into the garbage bin below. "That must have been a fun ride."
"Indeed."
The elevator rang. "Step inside, please.”
Gary had already returned to his reading. We entered the elevator as our guide pressing the highest number on the switchboard. Seventh floor, ironically enough. Willie Nelson continued to play inside.
Randy rocked on the balls of his feet, still watching the woman. "May I ask you something, miss?"
"Of course."
"Why country? I figured the devil's choice in music would be more..."
"Violent?"
"That's putting it delicately."
I kicked Randy. He ignored me yet again.
Emily smiled but her face was ghost white, voice shaky. "Heavy metal and rage music might, well, enrage you, but nothing eats away at the soul more like a slow country song."
"She has a point," I said.
Randy shrugged. I could see by the strained expression on his face that he was trying to recall how many Garth Brooks CDs he currently owned. He was thinking for a while.
"So what's it like working in Hell?" Randy asked.
"You ever worked for the government?"
"Yeah."
"Something like that."
The elevator button dinged. We'd reached the 7th floor. The doors opened and we stepped into a long, narrow corridor. Randy kept close to Emily. I kept my distance out of fear that he might say something stupid, prompting the demon to burst into flame. You can never be too careful.
Randy shuffled behind the demon, studying her face. "Are you okay? You look a little upset.”
"It's these corridors. I'm a bit claustrophobic.”
"Really? So am I!"
Emily raised her eyebrows.
"Not that that's something to be happy about. I used to be, but therapy healed it. Got it from when my brother locked me in our basement for a day. Kids, you know? What about you?"
"I was imprisoned within a holy artifact for two hundred years."
Randy bit his lip. "Well…that must've been unpleasant. My basement was pretty dark though."
She laughed, we walked, Randy talked, and we kept walking.
Emily continued. She seemed to loosen a bit when she spoke to Randy. It was odd. I’d never really known Randy to get a girl to open up. Most of his conversations with the fairer sex tended to end with a slap to the face.
“Yeah, it was a while ago. I was only a couple centuries old at the time. Some kooks tried to perform this ritual and trap my dad and a few other demons in this big box.”
“Like Ghostbusters, but for demons, right?” Randy asked.
So much for the charmer. I covered my face with my palm, trying to disassociate myself.
“I guess so. Anyways, Dad rescued me. Took him a while to find me. Guys really didn’t want to be found. Then again, it probably would have been less painful for them if they’d given me up sooner.”
“I’d do the same thing if anyone ever took my girl. Your pop sounds like a standup guy,” I said.
“That’s one way of putting it.”
Randy glanced over at me, a confused look splashed across his face as he pondered the girl’s remark. I shrugged, thinking it best not to dwell.
“So how’d you guys get here?” Emily asked.
“It’s a long story.”
“It’s a long walk.”
I checked my watch but it was dead. I'd forgotten about the whole 'time doesn't exist here' deal. “Alright…”
***
I woke with a sharp pain in my chest. Randy lay beside me. I sat up with great difficulty and studied our surroundings. We were in a desert, lying in the middle of a hot asphalt road. Randy stirred with a grunt.
A long line of skid marks ran across Randy's forehead down to the side of his neck. He groaned as he massaged his temples. His face wasn't deformed; it was still as plain and uninspiring as always. Yet the marks remained despite him rubbing his Van Halen shirt over sweat drenched cheeks, hissing in pain from the apparent aftereffects of head butting an automotive grill.
"Jesus, I feel like I got hit by a bus," he said.
"Randy, we were hit by a bus."
It was a truck, to be more precise, but I exaggerate for effect. My chest was burning. I rolled my shirt up. On the skin below my ribcage was the imprint of a custom license plate for a Texan owned 4x4 truck. LVR BOY, it read. Of all the guys that could have hit me, I got the one douche bag who names his plates after a gay porno from the early 70s.
"Bill?"
"Yes Randy?"
"Are we dead?"
"I believe so."
"Crap."
I scanned the barren land. Dirt and sand as far as the eye could see. A tumbleweed bounced across the road, heedless of our presence and content to go along its merry tumbleweed way.
"Where are we?" Randy asked.
"Hell if I know."
"Looks like the set of The Road Warrior."
"That the one with the Braveheart dude?"
"Yeah."
"He dead?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Then how’s about we focus on the problem at hand?"
A horn sounded; the same type of horn used by the college students who party too much. That annoying fiesta jingle. We truly were in Hell.
From over the horizon a massive rust colored bus emerged. Most of its windows were broken, its sides smeared with dry mud. A set of steer horns sat mounted on the fender. Written across the top in black spray paint were the words ‘Hell Bus’. The vehicle crawled to a stop in front of us.
With a hiss the doors swung open. From the driver's seat a creature arose. His teeth stretched long and sharp, stained black as a midnight cave. His eyes blazed, horns arching around his shoulders. He towered over us as he leaned forward, mouth wide and fangs bared.
"Welcome to the Hell Bus, partners! Name's Harold, I'll be drivin' ya today," he said in a thick country accent, sticking out his hand in welcome. My reply was somewhat less hospitable.
"AGGGHH!"
"Bill..." Randy whispered, apparently embarrassed by my reaction.
"AGGGHH!"
"Oh yeah, sorry ‘bout the horns, mister, forgot to hide 'em."
"AGGGHH!"
I figure I fainted somewhere around that point.
***
I woke on the bus, my head smushed against a fine leather seat.
"Randy?" I muttered, wiping a smear of drool away from my chin.
"Hi Bill. Hey Harold, he's awake!"
"What?"
Randy appeared beside me, followed shortly by the Hell Bus driver.
"Was worried ya hurt yer noggin' on that fall. Don’t seem to be any damage. Jus’ take it easy durin' the ride."
The driver's horns had vanished along with his fangs. His red eyes remained, but as a softer hue. A Hawaiian shirt adorned with patterns of dancing horned ladies covered a beer belly slung over a belt far too tight. He shook my shoulder, snapping my neck from side to side, and returned to the steering wheel. The vehicle appeared to have been in motion during the entire conversation. I laid back, listening to Randy and Harold discuss the benefits of manual and automatic transmissions.
The vehicle was unexpectedly clean and well kempt, the inside resembling a luxury Greyhound bus. The soft hum of the air conditioner mixed with the grinding of the aged engine. Aside from me and Randy, only one other passenger was riding; a mousey, bald man with an oversized black top hat and the air of someone important. The fact that he was dressed only in his boxers detracted from that air. He sat with his hands folded neatly in his lap. I figured it best not to engage him in conversation. I glanced back at Harold.
"So you're a demon, right?"
"Yep."
"Where you taking us?"
"To see the Big Man," Harold replied.
"The Big Man? You mean God?"
"No, not God, ya think God hangs out round here? Nah, we're going to see Satan."
Randy stopped fiddling with the tread tracks on his face.
"Satan? As in: 'Prince of Darkness', Satan? As in: 'tortures mortals into insanity', Satan?" I asked.
"Relax. He ain't that bad. Quite nice actually, all ya got to do is get on his good side."
"How do I do that, kill a puppy?"
"No. No, he got over that phase. Jus’ don't piss him off and you’ll do fine."
Randy scooched closer, his arms crossed and resting on the seat.
"So how long you been doing this, Harold?"
"Hmm...‘bout eight hundred years. I just love the open road. I tell ya, it never gets old."
I glanced out the broken window at the desert that surrounded us.
"Yeah, lot of variety to the scenery."
"That there is," Harold continued, either ignoring or not catching my sarcasm, "so what you fine gents do fer a livin'?"
"I'm an accountant," I said.
"Thrillin' job, eh?"
"Yep, blows the mind. Randy here's a dentist."
“I prefer the term ‘Licensed Orthodontist’.”
“I know you do, Randy.”
"What about you, partner?" Harold asked, glancing at the boxer wearing man.
The man looked up, tipping his top hat back so we could see his face. His left hand remained in his lap. "Me? Oh, I'm a serial rapist."
Randy's mouth fell open. Harold shrugged.
"Just kidding! Got you good, didn't I? I'm really a lawyer."
The man chuckled to himself and pulled his hat back down, whistling the theme from ‘Leave it to Beaver’. Randy met my eyes and smiled. "I think I liked him better as a rapist," he said.
I kicked him.
***
"I can't believe I'm in Hell," I said, rubbing my hands across my dry and crusted eyes.
"Don't feel too bad, partner, it ain't all that bad."
I cocked my head at the Hell Bus driver. "Really?"
"No. No, I'm lyin', it's pretty horrible, least fer humans."
Overhead the stars, or whatever they were, twinkled in the sky. It was night. That is not to say it was actually nighttime. Remember, time does not exist here. I only mean to say that it was dark outside. Randy and the boxer man were both sound asleep. Only Harold and I were unable to rest.
"But the thing is, I never did anything wrong. I love my family and my children. I've never killed or stolen, never cheated on my wife. I've never even gotten a parking ticket."
"Sounds like something you should take up with the Big Man."
"You mean Satan?" I asked.
Harold smiled, lifting his hands from the wheel which continued to steer itself.
"No. I mean God."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it. If what ya say is true, then ya got nothin' to worry ‘bout."
I stared at the empty plains. A sign that read ‘ped-xing’ whooshed by.
“I miss them already,” I whispered.
“What’s that?”
“My family. I miss them. It’s my daughter Sarah’s birthday Tuesday. I’m the only one who knows where her present is hidden. Now who’s going to give her the talking Patrick Star doll?”
“What’s a birthday?” Harold asked.
I shook my head. “You’re kidding me, right? You don’t have birthdays in Hell?”
“Not to ma knowledge.”
“Well what do you do when someone close to you gets a year older?”
“Try not to bring it up?”
“Wow.”
Harold pulled down the mirror flap above his seat. A set of pictures were taped to the inside. A chubby little boy with foot long horns sat atop Harold’s shoulders. A woman with a puffed out perm and a plus sized t-shirt that read ‘I’m with Stupid’ stood beside Harold, her arms wrapped around his waist. “That there’s ma star. The wife, Doreen. Tike’s name is Ronald. Good kid.”
“He’s got your horns,” I said.
“That he does, and ma charmin’ personality, if I might be so bold as to say. He’s gonna be a hit with the ladies when he grows up. Hard to believe in just twelve hundred years he’ll be drivin’ and gettin’ into trouble.”
“Twelve hundred years? That’s a long time.”
Harold kissed his hand and touched the picture before flipping the flap back up. “Maybe, but it don’t seem like it.”
"You know something, Harold? For a demon, you're a pretty nice guy."
"Common misconception, my friend, most of us hell spawn are pretty decent folk. It's you humans that make this place so dangerous.”
I laughed. The driver joined me. I shut my eyes.
***
"Well boys, we're almost there!" Harold shouted, honking the party horn and waking me from my slumber.
Up ahead stood three shining buildings, contrasting harshly with the blazing desert sand. A large sign hung from a single lamppost.
--Welcome to Hell's Assignment Offices. Please enjoy your stay.--
Randy watched as we neared the clandestine structures.
"Wow. What are they for, Harold?"
"Well, two are used to assign ya to yer sector of Hell based on the degree an’ severity of yer damnin' sins. Ya know, firs’ circle's the best, seventh circle the worst. One's fer people with last names A to L, the other M to Z. Looks like you two will be takin' the firs’ buildin'. The one on the right. Mr. Leonard, you'll be on the left."
The boxer clad man nodded.
The bus slowed to a halt between the two assignment buildings. I glanced up at the tallest structure situated behind the offices. Hundreds of decorated balconies stuck out against its bleached frame. Tacky pink flamingos and peppermint patterned parasols graced them. Credence Clearwater Revival blared through a set of distant speakers.
"And what about the third one?" I asked.
“That there’s where me an’ ma fellow demons live."
I turned to the driver and held out my hand. He grasped it. "It's been nice knowing you, Harold."
"You too, partner. Good luck clearin' yer names."
Behind us, Mr. Leonard had risen. He passed by and stepped off the bus, turning to face us. A silver handcuff hung loosely from his left wrist. He raised his right arm and removed his top hat, bowing. A bullet hole passed from one side of his head to the next, allowing us to see through his forehead to the buildings beyond. He smiled and returned the hat to his head, covering the wound.
"Pleasure meeting you gents," he said, and with that, turned and began to make his way toward his designated building.
I met Randy's gaze and shrugged. Sometimes things are best left to the imagination.
***
I finished my tale and glanced over at Emily.
“That’s about it, I guess.”
“That was a long story.”
“And this is a long walk.”
We’d been traveling for what seemed to be hours down the same stretch of corridor. Our guide had increased her pace. Finally, a doorway came into sight. We stopped before the entrance.
The frame was simple but sturdy. A plaque nailed into the wood read the following:
--Satan. Prince of Darkness. Lord of the Underworld. CEO of BP Corporations.--
A fuzzy welcome mat with a picture of Garfield lay at the foot of the door.
"Here we go," Emily said, rapping lightly on the entrance.
The door swung open and we entered the Dark Lord's office.
***
I have to admit, Satan has style. The office was cozy and extravagantly decorated, no surprise considering to whom it belonged. An oversized desk stood in the middle of the room, topped with neatly organized stacks of paper and a set of silver ball bearings. Numerous photographs of famous politicians adorned the walls, Richard Nixon most prominently featured. A hint of cinnamon floated in the air. And there, behind the desk and resting in his easy chair, sat Satan.
First of all, he wasn't red. He had no tail, no hayfork, no pointy black beard; he was simply an unbelievably good looking man. His skin was bronzed, his slickly combed hair a deep shade of black. He wore a suit of pure white, even the tie. He stood and shook both our hands. "Lovely to meet you, Mr. Bigsby. Mr. Kline."
"Actually I'm Mr. Bigsby," said I.
"And I'm Mr. Kline," said Randy.
"My mistake. Please take a seat.”
He motioned towards the two chairs in front of the desk. Emily hovered behind us. "Anything else I can do for you, sir?"
"Emily, how many times do I need to tell you, it's okay to call me Dad at work. I'm fine."
Randy's jaw flew open. I offered an awkward cough which, as it turns out, doesn’t tend to help much in those kinds of situations.
"Okay then. I'll see you later, Dad."
Emily turned and opened the office door.
"Goodbye, Mr. Kline," she said with a smile, and left.
Randy's face was on fire. He attempted to cover his crimson cheeks. We waited in silence. The Dark Lord sat with his hands clasped together, and studied us. I don’t think he ever blinked.
"Can I get you boys something? A sandwich perhaps? Some coffee?"
"I'd love a sandwich," Randy said.
Satan snapped his fingers. A puff of smoke arose from the center of the desk top. When it cleared, the area was still vacant. Satan pulled open a drawer and removed a plastic bag from its depths. Inside were two white bread sandwiches.
"No magic tricks here, gentleman. My daughter Emily seems to think that I don't eat enough. Silly girl makes me three a day.”
Randy reached across the desk and took a sandwich from the bag, shoving the treat into his mouth.
"Wow. This is great, Mr...Satan?"
"Call me Frank, everyone does. Take a sandwich, Mr. Bigsby."
I stared at the lone sandwich within the confines of the zip lock bag. It seemed to mock me.
"That's it, a free sandwich? No strings attached? I don't have to sell you my soul or anything?"
Satan smiled. A soft chuckle escaped his lips.
"Just take the sandwich.”
I removed the sandwich from the bag, raising it up and nibbling at the corner. It was delicious.
"Wow, this is great! What's in this?"
"Human liver," Satan replied.
Randy and I proceeded to spit half chewed pieces of bread and meat across the deck. The stylishly dressed demon laughed hysterically, clutching his sides. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding! It's tuna. You should've seen your faces."
I laid the food down. I'd lost my appetite. Randy continued to stuff his face.
"It's just simple, everyday tuna. But this is the afterlife after all, special spices and the works, you know the deal."
"Yeah."
Satan cleared his throat. "Before we begin, is there anything you would like to ask me?"
"You gonna eat that?" Randy questioned, pointing to my sandwich.
"No, go ahead. You sure seem to be pretty involved in politics, Frank."
Satan nodded. "Indeed, especially during the 60s and 70s. Vietnam was so inspiring. So much corruption and scandal. Gosh, Nixon was fun to mess with."
"You and Nixon?"
"Oh yeah, me and him, like two pieces of a puzzle. We drifted apart after the whole Watergate Scandal. He went all saintly, building shelters and libraries and 'supporting the communities', but it didn’t matter in the end. I still own the bastard. Not as many backdoor dealings with me today as you might think but I manage to grab an unknowing soul now and then. How do you think Bush beat Gore and Kerry? Nice kid. Dumb as a stump, but a nice kid. Anyways, I'm babbling, you were saying?"
"Do you happen to know how to get in touch with God?" I asked.
"This again,” Satan groaned, rubbing his brow. “Every day someone wants to meet him. The Prince of Darkness is sitting right in front of you, yet all you care about is having a little chat with God. Besides, I doubt he'd have much interest in speaking with you," he said.
"Why?"
"What with you two being mass murderers and all."
"Wait...what!?"
Randy spat sandwich for the second time.
"Would you please stop doing that?" Satan asked, sweeping stray crumbs into the waste basket beside his desk.
"We're not mass murderers!"
" Of course not. Neither am I."
"Look, Randy and I—"
"Randy?" Satan interrupted, turning to the hungry dentist.
"Yeah, Randy and I—"
"Your name's not Sam Kline?"
"No."
The demon began to shift through a stack of papers. "And you're not Richard Bigsby?"
"That's my cousin," I whispered.
Randy scratched his chin. "Holy crap, Richie's a killer? That's a mild surprise.”
"Mild?"
"Well considering all the crazy stuff we've seen today, demons and hell buses and such, it's not that much of a stretch. I tell you, your next family reunion's going to be very awkward."
Satan raised his hand. Randy fell silent.
"So you're not Samuel Kline and Richard Bigsby?" he asked.
"No."
"Huh...that's a shame."
"A shame? I'm not supposed to be dead!" I said.
"Don't worry, my friends, I'll have a nice talk with the Big Man to see if we can sort this whole mess out."
I shook my head, making sure I didn't have any gravel still stuck in my ears.
"You talk to God?"
"Now and then, we're still acquaintances."
"Didn't you try to overthrow him?" Randy asked.
"Just because I try to destroy him every millennia or so doesn't mean we don't converse anymore. Plus, I want to have something to gloat about next Thanksgiving. His offices handle the death times, but none of those screw ups has ever landed someone down here. Normally this would be fixed quickly, but we don’t have the funding they get. This must be their first mistake in days."
"Days?"
"Well what do you think happens when someone whose heart has stopped for two minutes suddenly reawakens, healthy as a horse?"
Randy stuffed the last of the sandwich into his mouth.
"So what do we do now?"
"I'll give you the keys to a guest room in the employee apartments. You should hear back from me within a few days."
Satan reached into his back pocket and produced a small, silver key. He placed it in my hand.
"Well thanks, Frank. You know you're not so bad," Randy said.
The demon smiled. "Yes I am."
The two of us rose from the easy chairs. Satan placed his hand on Randy's shoulder, delaying his exit.
"You go on ahead, Mr. Bigsby, I'm gonna have a little chat with your friend. Just head down the hallway and out the building, I'm sure you've seen where the hotel is."
"Alright. See you in a bit, Randy."
"Bye, Bill."
I exited through the doorway and started down the hall.
***
Satan and Randy stood alone in the quiet office. As the demon paced, Randy noticed that Satan wore what appeared to be open toed sandals over a pair of white socks, but thought it best not to comment.
"Mr. Kline. Randy. As I'm sure you know, I'm well acquainted with the idea of human lust. It's a wonderful thing. My favorite sin. Brings out the most primal animal instincts in us all. Please take a seat."
Randy was forced backwards into the easy chair. Satan spun to face him. The chair shifted forward, dragging the office rug with it. Randy was slammed into the desk, pinned between hard cedar and soft fabric.
"Did I do something to upset you, Frank?" he gasped, struggling to breathe.
Satan's eyes had darkened to a cold, soulless black.
"Listen to me closely, Mr. Kline. I saw the way you looked at my daughter. I want you to know that if you give into, I should say embrace, your lesser animal instincts, if you touch her, I will cut off your nuts and feed them to you. Trust me; it hurts just as much down here as it would on Earth. Are we clear?"
Randy nodded, his lower lip trembling.
"Do you have anything else to say?" Satan asked.
Randy swallowed hard and glanced across the desk. "You have any more of those sandwiches?"
Satan eyes returned to their original shade. He smiled. The chair slid back into its original position.
"Of course, can't eat tuna and mustard in a white suit. You may go."
Satan tossed a bag containing a single sandwich towards Randy. Randy stood, clutching his back with one hand while snatching up the plastic bag with the other, and exited the office, shutting the door behind him. He turned to leave, breathing a sigh of relief that ended in a whimper.
He was face to face with Satan's daughter.
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