6. Satanic Scavenger Hunt

“So, let me get this straight, one more time.”

With a long suffering sigh, Richard replied as patiently as he could manage, even as he led his companion once more through the gloomy streets of Hell; “Yeah, go ahead.”

“We are going… shopping.”

“Scavenging.”

“Right, scavenging. Despite the fact that we don’t need food.”

“Yup.”

“Or water.”

“Yup.”

“Or… er… toiletries.”

“Yup.”

“Ah.” After a few moments, John added faintly; “I still haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“That would be because I haven’t explained things,” Richard replied, glancing over at John with a grin; at seeing the other man’s expression (somewhere between frustration and pleading,) he finally relented, rolling his eyes as he began in that same gruff voice; “All righ’, well, lessee how best to explain this… among the changes made to the Realm of Darkness was one that was supposed t’keep the folks here always hopin’ for somethin’ better. It’s a well-known fact that most human beings who show up here will remain hopeful for gumdropped millenia if they think there’s a reason for it. ‘Cause of that, Administration likes to drop some genuine rays of fishtailin’ sunshine.”

“By fishtailing, you mean…”

“You know what I mean, dare it!”

“Right. Um… you were saying?”

Calming down a bit, Richard continued; “We’re lookin’ for these little bits o’ goodwill, basically. Food that tastes decent and won’t make you sick. A pillow that’ll probably hang around for a coupla days before goin’ poof and won’ be full of needles. Stuff like that.”

“And how can you tell between the good and the bad?”

“Eh, eventually you just… know. Human intuition’s a fridge-ing powerful tool, ‘specially when you ain’t weighed down by a fleshy human body. ‘Course, you have to keep your eyes open, an’ focus. Most folks get here end up on the wrong foot, and never get off it; they just drift along on pure momentum from one disaster to the next, ’til they curl up in some corner an’ refuse to move. It’s why the place is so deserted, y’know. Most of the folks in Hell are hidin’ somewhere or other, dealin’ with phantom hungers an’ thirsts and coverin’ the walls with feces and vomit.”

“Pleasant.”

“No, it dapper well ain’t.”

“Could you please… stop swearing? It’s not getting across the message you’re obviously trying to get across…”

“Whatever,” Richard grumbled, still scanning the street and alleyways they passed. Occasionally another person would be seen wandering through the area as well, but for the most part they didn’t acknowledge the existence of the pair, nor did Richard acknowledge theirs.

“Why does everyone remain so-?” Richard began to ask, before something in one of the alleyways caught his eye. Coming to a sudden halt, he squinted at it, not entirely certain he wasn’t hallucinating.

But no, there is was, plain as day; a white plastic bag with what seemed to be groceries poking out of the top. Sure, about an inch of the bag’s bottom was buried in some old, crumpled newspapers, (all of which were essentially filled with stories calling whoever happened to read them an idiot,) but there looked to be a loaf of bread and bottle of wine inside the bag, the former of which was wrapped in its own smaller plastic bag.

All of Richard’s reminders that Jonathan didn’t need food went right out the window, replaced instead with the strong desire for a few slices of white, fluffy bread and a good swallow of wine. Hell, maybe two good swallows, considering what had happened.

I’ll just have the entire bottle, Richard can find his own ray of sunshine…

He had moved into the alleyway, and was only a few feet away from the parcel, when Richard’s voice sounded from behind him; “John? What’re ya doin’?”

“Be there in a minute, Richard, just feeling like a little pick-me-up…” came the reply as John all but rubbed his hands together, already tasting the bread.

A heavy sigh sounded behind him as his unconventional guide leaned against one of the worn brick walls; “Y’haven’t been listenin’ to a word all this time, have ya? I’m guaranteein’ you’re gonna regret touchin’ that bag.”

“Nonsense, it is all about mind over matter.” This was spoken with a determined nod, even as John bent down, grabbing the plastic bag and lifting it upwards.

The bag lifted easily enough, but the moment it did, the smell of raw sewage filled the air; the bottom couple of inches were coated in the thick, viscous substance generally formed in the very, very bottom of garbage dumps, and even as John flinched back from the smell, centrifugal forces sent the bottom of the bag swinging right into his leg, leaving a large, smelly stain just below the knee.

“Told ya,” Richard said smugly; “Best you stop tryin’ right now.”

“Nonesence, that wasn’t… so bad…” breathing only through his mouth, John gingerly set the bag down on the cleaner pavement of the alley, snagging the top of the bag of bread and gingerly lifting it out. A careful inspection revealed no apparent stains, and it was with a triumphant grin in Richard’s direction that John turned his attention towards opening the bag.

It seemed to be sealed, not by any sort of tag, but rather one of those knots patrons would sometimes tie the top into when they wanted the contents to remain fresh. Since the bag was plastic, the tight knot was thick enough to itself appear opaque, but without enough coloring to reveal where one twist of the binding ended and the other began. John spent several moments running his nail along the knot, seeking some seam he could use to open the bag properly.

Every time he thought he’d found one, however, it just turned out to be a wrinkle in the plastic, and it wasn’t long before this simple act had John’s face turning a bright beet red, and his breathing all but held, except for the occasional gasp of breath when he tried to tug at a piece of the knot.

Finally deciding that he didn’t give a damn if he ripped the bag, he’d find some other way to keep the rest of the bread fresh. He tried to use his fingers to jab a hole that he could then use his fingers to widen, but although the plastic stretched and distorted under the pressure, it was not breached, no matter how far he pushed it. Before long his frantic tugs and prods had expanded the bag to twice its size, and it looked no closer to opening.

“Really, John, third time ain’t gonna be the charm…”

“Oh, shut up,” John muttered, trying (in vain,) to get it open with his teeth. Somehow he succeeded in biting his own tongue in the process. “Have you got something sharp I could use to…?”

“Oh, yeah, like I’m gonna go within five feet of anythin’ sharp down here…”

Finally tossing the warped bread bag to one side, John seized the bottle of wine, giving it a shake as he glared first at the container, then at Richard; “Let me guess, this won’t open without a cork opener. And somehow if I do find such an opener, I’ll stab myself in the eye with it. Oh, then I’ll burst into flames for no reason at all!”

Gripping the cork, John gave a mighty tug; the cork came out with no effort at all, as if it had been greased prior to being inserted in the bottle, and John’s overcompensation resulted in him striking the alley wall with his elbow, erupting into a painful dance that sloshed wine on his already-stained pants.

It took him several seconds to calm down, and for the ache in his arm to subside, and finally, eyes gleaming with victory, bottle held up like some sort of trophy, John panted, his words barely a gasp; “You see, Richard. With a little dedication, some hard work and, above all, patience, you do indeed get what you desire.”

He took a swig of the wine. Made a positive-sounding grunt. Swished it around in his mouth thoughtfully. Made a negative-sounding grunt. Spat the wine onto the pavement.

Tossing the bottle over one shoulder, he stalked by a thoroughly amused Richard, muttering; “Damn wine’s corked…”

5. The Ragged Welcome Wagon

“…you don’t say.”

“Actually,” Richard pointed out, grin widening; “I just did.”

“Oh, right!” Nodding, Jonathan repeated; “Right, right… so you did, so you did, very… a fallen angel. Wow. You mean with… wings and a halo…?”

Cackling and slapping his knee, Richard soon gestured for John to follow, hobbling down the sidewalk as he replied; “Yeah, an’ a glowing robe n’ harp. Don’ be daft. You don’ see fire ‘n brimstone ‘round here, do ya? Actually,” he interjected quickly, “don’t answer that, this place did use to be fire n’ brimstone, ‘fore the reorganizing.”

Jonathan now had a whole slew of questions, all in equally desperate need of answering, and it took him several moments to arrange and prioritize the queries; “All right, well, whatever the case… why are you fallen? I mean, if you made it to Heaven…”

“Well, lemme tell ya, just ‘cause you make it into Heaven, don’t really mean you’re guaranteed to stick around, ‘specially if you screw up somehow. Which, unfortunately, is exactly what I did, an’ only ‘bout twenty years after getting’ there.”

“…and exactly what did you do?”

“Coveted another man’s wife. Er, five times. Same wife, mind ya. She ‘n her husband hated each other but, go figures, they didn’ divorce while they were livin’, and you can’ find much in the way o’ lawyers to turn to up there so, what can ya do?”

“Covet, apparently.” Clearing his throat, John asked curiously; “How did you, er, get caught doing it?”

“Well, there’s the kicker, there. Up in the Great Beyond, nothin’s hidden amongst the lot of us, our thoughts included. Might as well be one big hive mind, and you try hidin’ an affair from a group consciousness! Was pretty dumb t’ try, I guess…”

“Actually, the dumb part might have been doing it five times…”

“Well, 20/20 hindsight must be a real joy for ya,” Richard sneered, then snorted, adjusting his shirt slightly; “Enough about me, though. Surely you’ve got some more interestin’ questions than local gossip, eh? Or, at th’ very least, less personal questions.”

“Well, matter of fact, I have a few…” Glancing around the streets, spotting a few more people shuffling about the sidewalks, John cleared his throat; “So. This is Hell, is it?”

“Yup.”

“Seems a bit… erm…”

“Cold?”

“I was going to say ‘lacking in agony.’”

With a snort of laughter, Richard flashed another grin; “Yeah, you say that now, wait ‘til you been livin’ here a few centuries. This place’ll grow on ya like a fungus… like your worst day ever, only over ‘n over ‘n over… an’ then a day that ain’t so bad, leavin’ ya with the hope that your lot might start improvin’. Then it starts again an’ you feel all the worse for it.”

“Well, it doesn’t sound… that bad…”

“Eh, you’ll see soon enough, I’m thinkin.’” Shrugging, Richard continued; “Now, Hell used t’ be all filled with fire n’ brimstone, but eventually the Powers That Be decided t’ rearrange the entire thing. Nobody knows why, an’ although at first th’ occupants were thrilled with the changes, after a few decades they almost started t’ miss th’ old lashin’s and havin’ the flesh seared off their bones.”

Rounding a corner, the older man pointed wordlessly at one of the many gray, featureless buildings, soon setting off at a fair pace with Jonathan trailing just behind. John couldn’t help but notice that Richard’s limp had all but vanished, the man’s steps now confident and purposeful.

“’They?’ You mean you prefer it this way?”

“Eh, if yer smart, and stay on yer toes, it becomes almost livable.” Lifting a single finger, he began to lecture solemnly, even as they reached the building’s thick wooden door. “Always keep in mind, you dun have a body anymore. Technically, you dun need food, water, rest… can’t get seriously hurt, or die.

“The trap, though, is yer mind; you see a snack machine, you’ll feel a gnawing hunger ‘till you get your mind off it, you even think ‘bout a bathroom break an’ suddenly you have t’ wobble for a toilet with your legs crossed-“

“Oh, so we get toilets, at least?” John asked, following Richard into the building.

“Oh, yeah, but every single’s one got a seat covered in piss, an’ not enough toilet paper t’ clean it up without gettin’ half of it on your palm. Still, you manage t’ take your mind off it, you won’t actually need t’ go.”

“Is it still… physically possible to go to the washroom?”

“Oh, yeah, it is, but I wouldn’ recommend peein’ standin’ up, not unless ye feel like paintin’ a pretty picture on the wall. Part o’ this place’s ‘charm.’”

“That’s disgusting…” John’s nose wrinkled slightly, glancing around the building’s small lobby. An old, rickety elevator stood in the center, around which spiraled with a staircase with steps that looked far to small for human feet to use.

“It’s Hell,” Richard replied with another shrug, wandering to the staircase; “Don’ bother with the elevator, boyo. Even if it opened, you’d just end up trapped in it for a few hours.”

The steps were just as difficult to navigate as they looked; only half of Richard’s total foot length could actually fit upon each step, even when he turned his feet slightly to one side, and so as a result the man found most of his weight being supported on the back of his ankles; after only half a floor of stairs, he could already feel them starting to throb painfully.

Finally, they reached the second level, John limping behind the apparently unaffected Richard. Stopping in front of the second door on the left side of the corridor, the older man pushed it open, brushing his hands off cheerfully as he stepped in.

“Home sweet home. Know the lack of signs can make navigatin’ a bit tough, but eventually you get a handle on it.”

John shook his head, running a hand through his hair as he paced back and forth across the apartment; now that he had a slightly better idea of where he stood, he could feel “I don’t want to get a handle on it, I want to get out of here. I mean, I don’t even know why I’m here… I didn’t do any coveting, I know that much! Isn’t there some sort of… appeal process? Loophole? Must be a whole slew of lawyers here, right?”

“Appeal process? Oh, yeah, they got those.”

John paused, blinking at Richard, who was standing on a windowsill with his head up a broken ceiling tile; “They… they do? Well, excellent, wonderful, perfect! How do I go about this process?”

“Later,” Richard replied, waving off the question and grinning, even as he reached up into the ceiling. After a moment, he stepped down, a ragged bag held in one hand; “Right now, we gotta do us some shoppin.’”

4. This Road Ain’t Paved With Good Intentions

“This must be a prank…”

Welcome to Hell…

It was at around that time that Jonathan’s more recent and, needless to say, more traumatic memories left their place of hiding and chose just that moment to flood his mind’s eye. After sitting there, mouth ajar, eyes wide, for several minutes, John’s ability to think coherently slowly returned, and with it the most natural reaction.

“That bitch!”

That’s what he tried to say, anyway. But, for a reason completely beyond his understanding, the words that came out of his mouth were;

“That blossom!”

A pause, and then, after clearing his throat;

“That bubble!”

A second pause, this one longer, with a slightly more violent clearing of the throat.

“That buttercup!”

It was at this point that he decided something other than his throat was very, very wrong. He could shout all the swears he wanted inside his head, but every time he tried to say one out loud, it came out as some completely random, and utterly harmless, word instead.

“…what the fudge… why did I just say fudge? Fiddle. Fritz. Funk! Foible!”

“Sir,” the driver’s voice piped through the intercom; “With all due respect, I do not believe you will succeed in cursing, no matter how many times you make the attempt.”

“What the Halibut’s happened to me?” John demanded, twitching ever so slightly as yet another attempted curse came out mangled. “I’m trying to swear, but every time I try to say arsenic or Chris… assistance or crumple… Aspen or cream… well, you see my problem?!”

“It’s quite normal, sir.”

“How is it normal?” John could feel his voice starting to rise again as he bellowed; “How in the Helium could this be fiddling normal? Is there something in the air that’s screwing with my head?”

“All will be revealed shortly, sir. Please brace yourself.”

“Brace my-?”

The limo came to a sudden, abrupt halt, neatly sending poor Jonathan hurling across the limo’s interior. Landing in a crumpled ball near the tinted glass separating him from the driver, he managed to reach up with one shaking hand, tapping the window.

“D-driver? Why did we stop…?”

“This is your stop, sir.”

Managing to painfully lift his head a few inches above his shoulders, all he could see out the limo’s windows were several dull gray buildings, each and every one virtually identical to the other, unless you counted the amount of grime and disrepair each had. On the sidewalks, several people wandered, a few occasionally glancing curiously at the limo, but usually carrying on their less-than-merry way.

“…but where is this place?”

“There is no name for it, sir, but this is nonetheless where you must disembark.”

Moving painfully back to his seat, John shook his head; “Oh, no, you are not dumping me out here, in the middle of nowhere, with a bizarre pamphlet and some sort of speech impediment… I want you to take me to your boss, and I want you to take me to him right now. I’m not leaving this seat until you do.”

Rather than reply verbally, the driver simply turned on the limo’s rear fans.

The fans that he had claimed were broken, and when John was exposed to them, he had to admit the man probably had only been half lying.

The smell that had consistently doused the car, but faded somewhat with the open windows, immediately began to intensify; John attempted to resist this obvious ploy, but it wasn’t very long before he was fumbling with the door (which, naturally, was locked for some ridiculous reason,) and all but tumbling outside of the limo, retching and clutching his throat.

With a squeal of tires, the limo took off down the road, nearly striking three pedestrians, and actually grazing one hard enough to send him spinning into a conveniently placed dumpster with a sharp cry.

“You grapedropping, mother furnishing son of a birch tree!” Jonathan yelled, lying on his back on the side of the road, still hacking as he worked to clear the stench from his nostrils. Rolling onto his stomach and climbing to his feet, John did his best to wipe some of the additional grit and grime that had accumulated on his clothing, giving up after maybe ten seconds. By this time, he could see that all the pedestrians appeared to have vacated the premises; he was nearly ready to give up and pick a random direction when a thought struck him.

Limping slightly, he hurried over to the dumpster the struck man had fallen in, plugging his nose as a small not-quite-as-offensive as the limo, but near enough, wafted from the opening. For all he knew, this was some other situation that could go horribly, horribly wrong, but at the same time the possibility of finding someone who could answer a few of his urgent questions proved too great a temptation to resist.

Stopping about three feet from the dumpster (he wasn’t interested in putting his poor nostrils through too much torture,) John cleared his throat, looking to either side of him to make absolutely certain this was his only option.

“Um… hello? Hello in there?” he finally called hesitantly, standing up on tip-toe as he tried to see inside the large metal container.

There was a lengthy pause, after which a similarly uncertain voice called back; “Hello?”

“Hi! Hi there. Er… are you all right?” Scratching his jaw and casting another glance about, Jonathan took another step closer to the dumpster, trying to breathe as little as possible.

“Well,” the voice called back, tinged with mild irritation; “Let’s see. I’ve been hit by a limo and knocked into a dumpster, so I’m a lot of pain. On the bright side, I don’t actually have a physical body, which means I’m not actually hurt. Unfortunately, that also means that there aren’t any actual painkillers to dull it down…”

“Well, I have a bottle of Advil here…” John began, opening his box.

“No! Throw the gumdarting thing away! Quick!”

“Wait, what?” John sputtered, taking a couple of steps back; “Why should I do that?”

“Sonny, let me tell you something, you can literally spent the rest of eternity working at that bottle. You’ll get broken fingernails, chipped teeth, foil cuts on your skin, but you will never in ten thousand years get a single Advil pill. Trust me, chuck it ‘fore you make your existence all the more miserable.”

Not willing to get rid of one of his few possessions so quickly, John nonetheless didn’t try opening the Advil bottle, placing it back in the box; “Well, is there anything I can do, then?”

A grimy hand jutted up from the dumpster; “Help me outta this thing.”

Wincing, John asked; “Do I really have to?”

“You’re new meat here, I’m guessin’. You probably want to know what’s goin’ on ‘bout these parts. I have the info you need, but I ain’t sayin’ sailor ‘bout furniture ‘less you get me out o’ this pile o’ crab.” The hand waggled slightly; “Well?”

Sighing, holding his breath fully, Jonathan stepped forward, taking the offered hand and tugging the disheveled older man out of the trash. Dressed in a stained woolen sweater and cargo pants, the man ran a greasy hand through graying hair and blinked, dark eyes squinting slightly at Jonathan.

“Thanks, boyo.” Releasing John’s hand and wiping it somewhat pointlessly against his pant leg, he added; “Name’s Richard. Don’t much remember my last name, though, ain’t that funny?”

“Um… Jonathan,” Clearing his throat and retreating far enough from Richard so that his smell became less offensive, he asked; “So, I suppose you also… died? And came down here?”

“Eh, technically,” Richard replied with a small shrug, tugging a banana peel off his shoulder and tossing it in the dumpster.

“…what do you mean, ‘technically?’” A low sinking feeling settled in Jonathan’s stomach, a feeling that told him things were about to get even more complicated.

“Well, if you want to get specific about it,” Richard replied with a toothy grin; “I’m a fallen angel.”

3. Highway to Hell

The interior of the vehicle smelled as if it had housed an entire rock concert, or maybe just Gene Simmons; urine, sex, vomit, and a half dozen other scents that he would rather not try to identify lurked in the roomy compartment, although there were no marks or stains to suggest where the smell came from.

It was just there.

“D-driver?” John gasped, breathing through his mouth. As it only seemed to ensure he tasted the scents, he said again, louder; “Driver?”

The tinted glass between the rear compartment and the driver’s seat didn’t budge, but after a moment a small speaker clicked on, even as the vehicle lurched into motion.

“Yes, sir?” The driver’s dry, emotionless voice piped through the speaker, not sounding the least bit concerned with the condition of his passenger.

“Driver, is there a fan or something you could turn on in here? The limo smells a bit-“ a hacking cough tore from John’s throat; “-rank.”

“Sir, my apologies, but the vehicle’s fan is broken. May I recommend that you open a window? The weather is lovely.”

“Yes, yes, thank you.” As the speaker clicked off audibly, John lurched to one of the windows, pressing the button to lower it. The window gradually slid down (far to slowly for his tastes,) but even after opening all the windows he could find, the smell showed no signs of fading away. Finally, desperate for some fresh air, John stuck his head out the window.

He was treated to a view of the golden fields of grain swaying in a light breeze, and a lungful of fresh air before a fly, apparently following some guided course, flew into his mouth and straight down his airpipe.

Hacking and pounding his chest, John pulled his head back in as he flailed about the interior of the limo, a low, alien-sounding rattle forming at the back of his throat. He could feel the damned insect fluttering around his windpipe, and it was several excruciating minutes before he finally managed to extract it. Either that, or it chose to fly out on his own.

Swatting angrily at the fly (and missing entirely,) John was suitably wary of sticking his head out again, choosing instead to just keep his face near the rearmost one, so that the car’s slipstream blasted a bit of fresh air into his face. He could still smell the horrid interior, but the scent was now diluted a little, until it was almost bearable.

“You know, driver… what’s your name, anyway?”

There was no reply, but the car did lurch a bit as it followed a gentle curve with all the skill and grace of a drunk fraternity member, (which, yes, is a redundant title.)

“Whatever… I’ll call you Drives Atrocious Vehicle Erratically. We’ll shorten it to Dave. That fine with you, Dave?”

Still no reply.

“Good to hear. Well, Dave, I don’t much remember how I got here… last thing I remember was that I was planning to walk down to the store for some breath mints, maybe stare shyly at the woman working the counter, and probably read a newspaper without buying it. Still, I have come to a conclusion, Dave. Do you want to know what that conclusion is?”

Predictable silence.

“That conclusion is that I don’t like this place one bit. I’ve had possessions not even my own broken and thrown about the room, was tackled and stripped down by two brutish fellows who look less as if they should be guarding anything and more as if they should be being guarded. Does that strike you as fair, Dave?”

Out of the corner of his mouth, John murmured in a gruff tone; “No, sir, that sounds completely unfair.”

“That’s right, Dave! Completely unfair, in fact it’s a crime. Then I come out here, expecting a nice, relaxing drive. Only the vehicle smells as if it once housed Jabba the Hutt, and when I tried to get a bit of fresh air, I nearly suffocated on a kamikaze insect. Now, I ask you, Dave, does that sound like a good time?”

“No, not at all, John, sir! How do you put up with me and my stupid, stupid town?”

“Because I don’t have a choice, Dave, my verbally challenged companion! Because I have no idea where I am, I have eighty five cents and a Blackberry that lacks a battery, and I’m fairly certain that murder is still illegal in this country.”

Jonathan was just about to start mimicking his gruff Dave voice again when the voice piped through the intercom; “Sir, with all due respect, you do have the brochure.”

John’s steadily building momentum of ranting rapidly collapsed from this simple, and yet incredibly helpful comment. Color flushing across his face, the man murmured; “I’m sorry, Da- er, driver.”

“Quite all right, sir.”

“No, I had no right to say what I did.”

“All’s forgiven, sir, you were frustrated.”

Feeling like a complete prat, Jonathan cleared his throat, opening his box of possessions and extracting the pamphlet. A closer look at the cover didn’t show much; the words ‘Moving Forwards, One Innovation At a Time’ and the silhouette of a man pointing… well, he just seemed to be pointing away, really. Maybe it was meant to represent looking into the future?

What was really odd was that the silhouette had bizarre protrusions, one popping up on either side of its head.

Grunting, John shrugged slightly and flipped the pamphlet open; the first interior page had what looked like a fork as the silhouette, and a few equally positive but mysterious comments.

-The Beginning of the End Never Looked So Similar.

-Now Lust Free!

-Just Like Home, Only Better at Being Worse.

The second page had a bizarre diagram; a campfire symbol had a large diagonal line slashing through it, while beside it a picture of Paris Hilton had a green checkmark running through it. Underneath the two images was, quite simply;

‘Our New Direction.’

The final interior page was a great deal simpler to understand, but it nonetheless left John’s head swimming, and his heart pounding; it was one statement, with a little happy face beside it.

‘Welcome to Hell.’

2. The Devil’s Doritos

It took five hours- which, because the clock was broken, felt like five years- to work out the misunderstanding; as it turned out, a pocketful of loose change (which had chosen not to make any noise when John had run,) had set off the metal detector. Of course, it took an incredibly awkward strip search to accomplish this, and the sight of a box of latex gloves on a shelf had driven John into a fit of begging and near-sobbing.

Some small measure of mercy had finally been provided, and so no gloves had been used, but John had nonetheless received a stern, very long speech about ensuring the safety of your fellow convict (John had asked what they meant by ‘convict,’ but had been pretty much ignored,) before being given a small box containing the possessions that had been found on his person.

The items were ones John was quite certain he had not possessed at the time of his death; the pocketful of change, which John had stuffed in his pants pocket without counting, the Blackberry, which was missing batteries, a bottle of Advil, and finally a pamphlet, titled; “Moving Forwards, One Innovation At a Time.”

Carefully walking out of the Security Office, the box under his arm, John was understandably more focused on his surroundings, head darting from side to side as if expecting something else to leap out and grab him. Still, once more, the terminal was deserted.

When John passed by a snack machine, he paused, glancing at it; a shining chrome and metal contraption, it was mostly empty, but still had a few chocolate bar and chip selections to choose from.

A snack will probably help settle my nerves… John thought sullenly, shaking his head; Then I can figure out where I am… and, for that matter, why.

Reaching into his pocket for the change, he extracted all of it into one palm and began to silently count the nickels, dimes and pennies as he approached. By the time he reached the machine, he determined he had a dollar and twelve cents. Squinting slightly, he glanced at the remaining chocolate bars, which were amassed along the top two rows.

One dollar and fifteen cents each… damn…

Shaking his trousers and suit jacket in an attempt to force some missed change to reveal itself, he did hear a musical jingle around his left pant pocket. Reaching in, however, he could find nothing; even patting the entire leg turned up no bumps that suggested coins. Worst of all, he was starting to feel hungry.

Irritation turned into mild relief as he saw that the chips, on the bottom rungs of the machines, were only one dollar. Shaking his head and muttering, John straightened and began carefully feeding change into the machine, one coin after another. Once the last coin was in, he keyed in the proper sequence for a bag of regular chips.

Absolutely nothing happened.

After pressing the sequence four more times, John caught sight of the small display just above the keypad.

$.98

“That can’t be right…” Shaking his head, John took a couple of steps back and glances at the floor, seeing if he had maybe dropped any change. He even got on his belly, peeking under the snack machine, but no coins revealed themselves.

After another futile pat-down of his clothing, he finally pressed the change-return slot; he only got eighty five cents back.

When he limped painfully towards the front door (he had given the machine a frustrated kick,) he once more found that he was not alone; standing just inside the door, an impeccably groomed man in a full tux stood, expressionless as he held up a large sign.

On the sign said “John Miler.”

John wandered over, straightening his worn suit jacket self-consciously. He was effectively ignored, even when he stood directly in front of the man with the sign, and it was after a few moments that John cleared his throat loudly.

The well-groomed man turned his head slightly, arching a brow; “Can I help you, sir?”

“Yeah, actually,” nodding, John gestured at the sign; “Think you might be here for me.”

“Are you John Miler?”

A pause, and another clearing of the throat, “Well, actually, no, I’m John Miller.”

“Apologies, sir, but I am looking for a Mister John Miler.”

“…right, well… you sure you don’t just have it misspelled?”

“Sir?”

“The name!” That came out a bit louder than John had intended, and so the rest was virtually a murmur; “I mean, isn’t it possible that you made a small mistake in spelling the name? Which would lead to mistaken pronunciation?”

“Why, sir, are you expecting a car?”

No.

“Yes, yes I am!” John barked, doing his best to look like someone who could order a personal driver on a whim. The fact that he wore clothing which could only have been considered ‘Formal’ or even ‘Presentable’ ten years ago made a considerable dent in this, along with the fact that his entire body was trembling slightly.

Still, after being subjected to a suspicious gaze, the driver finally nodded, stepping back and gesturing to the door.

Nodding briskly, clearing his throat and doing his best to maintain the self-confident façade, John stepped out of the building. He wasn’t terribly surprised to see that nothing outside helped to provide a clue as to where he was; beyond the airport’s deserted runways, there was only a long dirt road and a yellow field that seemed to stretch out for an eternity in all directions.

The car in question was nothing short of a limo, impeccably polished until the black paint job was gleaming in the sunlight. The driver strode to the door and pulled it open, gesturing to the interior and waiting for the passenger to enter.

Climbing into the limo with a small grunt, John dared to hope that maybe things would start looking up.

When the limo door closed, and Miller realized how wrong he was.

1. The End

This is the end.

That’s what Jonathan Miller’s first thought had been when he had seen the large truck barreling down on him, driver flipping him the finger as if it were actually his fault that he had attempted to cross the street while the ‘Walk’ sign was on. Most peculiar was that the driver had been a woman; had Jonathan been asked to predict the manner of his own demise, being struck by a crazy male driver would have been near the top of the list (he lived in New York, although he was native to London,) but being struck by a crazy woman driver would have resided substantially lower.

Always thought they were such a level-headed gender… the poor victim thought as the car’s grill caught him just above the kneecaps, flipping him end-over-end across first the windshield, and then the roof. Death was instantaneous, which was actually fortunate, considering the amount of blinding pain he would have been in had he survived for even a few moments.

For the longest time, John’s consciousness floated in a void without substance or texture, and through his mind perpetually ran the same thought; Women were supposed to be nice drivers. In the absence of any physical reality, he was finding some small degree of comfort in focusing with an almost obsessive zeal on this conflict to his normal worldview.

In the small eternity that seemed to comprise his non-existence, he began to wonder if maybe this woman who had killed him had had a bad day; maybe her husband had cheated on her, and she was upset about it. Maybe she had no husband, or boyfriend, and she was upset about that. Maybe she was going through her period.

So focused was he on delving into the psychological reasons he was smeared across a woman’s windshield, he began to forget why he was floating in nothingness to begin with, and he also failed to notice that slowly, subtly, substance was beginning to manifest. Like silt settling at the bottom of a lake, gravity and texture were gradually restoring themselves. John didn’t notice he had knees until he felt them starting to cramp out, and it was only when he opened his eyelids that he realized he suddenly had eyes. That, and there was something to see.

It was an airport. An empty airport, at that.

Looking down at himself, John realized that he was now dressed in a sweat-stained dress shirt, wrung and worn suit jacket and slacks that, for reasons he’d rather not have thought about, seemed particularly worn out in the crotch area. At his side, a large duffle bag lay, zipper open; a quick inspection of the contents revealed more clothes, some paper, pens, and a Blackberry.

“What…?” he croaked, immediately starting to cough; his mouth and throat felt as dry as cotton, and it took him several moments of swallowing and grunting to get some moisture to form.

Not interested in looking over the Blackberry at the moment, John instead picked up the bag and slung it over his shoulder, striding in the direction of airport security; he was a frequent flier, and so he could feel the slightly comforting routine of departure settling in; he was fully expecting to pass through security unmolested (since picking on those leaving an airport seemed to be overkill, even in these hyper-cautious times,) so he was more than a little surprised when he was stopped by two burly security guards.

“Sir, can we please see the bag?” One of them asked, even as the second one yanked the duffel bag from John’s shoulder, nearly taking his right arm with it.

As the accosted (and much smaller) John belatedly mumbled; “Yes, yes, go ahead,” the second guard strode to a nearby table and dropped the bag onto it. Opening up, the bruiser rooted around, soon emerging with a small silver object. Striding over to John, he held it up; “Mind telling me what this is, sir?”

“Um… a nail clipper?”

“And this?” A small attachment was rotated until it protruded from the clipper.

“A nail file, I guess… I’ve never used one…”

“Sir, do you realize that this could potentially be used as a dangerous weapon?”

“I’m trying to leave the airport… look, could you tell me where I am, I seem to be a bit lo-”

Cut off by a sharp snap as the guard broke the nail file in two, John could only jump slightly and yelp as his tormentor stomped back over to the bag, turning it upside-down and dumping the entire contents onto the table.

Socks, shirts, and the Blackberry hurled in all directions, the last item actually tossed gently to John as opposed to flung violently from one end of the terminal to the other. The next object that the man held up was, of all things, a bra.

“Sir, is this yours?”

“No! I mean, none of it is mine, but that certainly is not mine at all!” Oddly, even though the terminal had been virtually empty since John’s arrival, a second glance beyond the metal detectors revealed that a sizable crowd had suddenly, inexplicably materialized there, every single one of them glancing between John and the offending brassiere. “I have no idea how that got there. I mean, for that matter, I have no idea how I got here either-!”

“Sir this brassiere has an underwire.” The first guard interjected, the second one nodding solemnly.

“-and I… wait, what?”

“An underwire. Are you aware, sir, that a bra’s underwire could be used as a potentially deadly weapon?”

“Wait, what would I do with that, whip someone to death? Or wrap it around their neck and suffocate them over the course of five minutes?”

“You seem to have given this a great deal of thought, sir,” the second guard noted suspiciously.

“I haven’t given it a great deal of thought, you dumb son of a-“

“Insulting a security personnel could be construed as a declaration of hostilities, sir.”

“I believe we should give him the full search,” the first guard added, glancing at the second.

“That would be the prudent course of action.” Came the agreement.

“Wait!” John interjected, waving his hands in front of him; “Look, fine, fine, if you think that the stuff is dangerous, then keep it, keep it! Keep the goddamned bag, too! I just want to get out of here and get my bearings, all right?”

There was a long pause, both guards glancing between John and each other, an apparently complex code of lifted eyebrows, shrugs and grunts passing between the two of them, and a less complex code of glares and scowls directed at John. Finally, they seemed to come to some form of arrangement.

“Very well, sir,” the first guard agreed sullenly; “We’ll keep the bag and most of its contents. You may keep your electronic device. This is your first and only warning, however.”

“Yes, yes, thank you.” Swiveling on heel, mostly interested in getting the Hell out of there so he could find out where the Hell he was, John all but dashed across the terminal, failing to notice the metal detector before he stepped through it.

Naturally, it went off.

John didn’t even have time for a comforting swear or two before he was viciously tackled from behind, the combined bulk of both security guards driving him to the ground and nearly knocking him out.