first pits of Tell

hell: ihe first May the first morning | woke

feeling more rested than | had in years. The inaugural
astonishment: There wasn't enough fire to roast a
marshmallow. Hell it seems burned out long ago and a
cool drizzle since then has turned everything to a slimy,
black char. You notice familiar faces right away, asshole
buddies from home in long, single file, squeezed along by
the devil's jellies to the flatball factories. For most of
them, this work is the first real discipline in a long time.
Hell doesn't seem too bad. I've only seen the male Hell,
however. A river of boiling plasma separates it from the
Woman's Hell.

lio bpotes? Few kids, no animals, an absence of

clouds, no tobacco--those things hit me Day 2, and the
dimness of the sun and the half-cooked flesh soaked in
mother's milk at every meal. No brutes to be seen.

Lights O0¢ Whipped the devil's rear end. He was

a little too easy, | thought, a tiny man, bearded, jockey
undershorts. Much nicer, frankly, than your average joe
deity. Word is he gets worse every day you're here, that
he hangs out at Light's Out, a Wichita-based death spa,

 

when on Earth.

Hell fowled, cowld close; dead bad to ‘Heaven

C.M.--How you hangin’, Scratch?

D.--I've just come off a 30-day fast.
Best thing I ever did. Since Lot's
wife, Fay. Lot.

C.M.--Talk about her_

D.--She had very ripe tomatoes,
man.

C.M.--Do you garden? Is Hell
arable?

D.--No. And how about yourself?

C.M.--Is it true, the one about the
motorboat?

D.--You mean the one where the
two guys have gone to Hell and
they're standing neck deep in shit,
and one says, “Well, it's not too bad.
I thought it'd be worse. And the
‘other says, “Yeah, but wait till that
skinny, bearded guy comes by in
his motorboat.”

C M.-- Where's Hell located?

   

 
  
  
  
 

      

D.--It’s ubiquitous. In the utmost
solitude of nature, in toilet bowls.

C.M.--Is it anywhere else? Will the
willfully wicked on Earth continue
so in the other world?

D.--Yes and yes. In churches, in
nice homes. The wicked get worse.
The good go bad. Only the
indifferent remain the same. The
average joe can't understand it.

But who cares? We get him
anyway. When Earth disappears,
I'm opening a branch Hell in the
space left behind.

C.M.--Once and for all now: Is Mark
Twain with you?

D.--You mean Sammy? The
poker-face bastard that runs the
gaming barge on the Styx? He's
ours. Thinks of himself as the best
of the dead American writers.

C.M.--When and how did Hell start?

 

 
   
   

    
   
    
  

 

   
  
 

   
 

   
    

    

    
 

 

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D.--4004 BC. 9 am. The Comet
Kohoutek hit ancient Des Moines
and made a Hell of Heaven, 60 miles
beneath the crust of Earth, in the
primal brie overseen by Enos
Slaughter, Roy. Campanella and me.

C.M.--Have you got a plan for the
next eon?

D.--What the Styx has done to my
Deep Shaft trade doesn't bear
repeating. You can't make strong
whiskey without corn. You need
good water. The Styx doesn't have
it. It’s 60 miles underground and
we get every seeping drop of
effluent from the Upper Midwest.
Were drinking herbicide and
running out the ass with
salamander mutants. We are in
extreme financial straits. If it
continues at this level, I'll shut Hell
and your dead bad will break down
Heaven's gates like angry midgets
at a carnival.

C.M.--And make a Heli of Heaven?

D.--Leave me alone. I feel a hot,
caustic dump coming. Let's end this
interview, for god's sake. Whoops.
Look at it. Burning through my
briefs. Hot.

C.M.--That's a take. Can it.
City Moon copyrighi Jaterview.

Alf Fights Reserved Forever.
Helf, £985. Box 591. Copies. $5