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.”