there, after all – but, being Italian, when it came time to write it up he couldn’t resist making it seem romantic. Hell is about as romantic as a soup kitchen. A soup kitchen where everyone is naked, dirty and dead.
Hell is half-assed. Demons flog screaming souls but they swing from their elbows, never getting their shoulders into the blows. Flesh is indifferently flayed with dull knives. Once, lining the road between the Sixth and Seventh Bolgias, there had stood an impressive arcade of crucifixes. Over time their crossbeams cracked and their arms broke, leaving them lopsided and, rather than actually taking the trouble to repair them, the demons just made do. The result was an avenue of the crucified who had one hand waving free and, occasionally, a foot, too. It looked very stupid, but no one cared. It was Hell.
Hell was the Broken Windows Theory in reverse: as more and more small things were ignored and the minor aspects of the realm fell into disrepair, it caused a ripple effect across the realm. A feeling of despair infected every corner of Hell, and not just the normal Hellish despair of souls bound in eternal torment, but a more Earthly “Why Bother?” shrug. Fifteen-minute coffee breaks became hour-long naps. Where once Centaurs had scourged, violated and destroyed souls now they just scourged and violated them and their violations were by-the-numbers at best. Gluttons had once been drowned in hot lead, but now the lead was microwaved until it was merely lukewarm. The gluttons suffered, but mostly from boredom and lead poisoning.
The budget cuts didn’t help. A demon who lost his trident or whip knew that it was unlikely he’d be issued a replacement. The Malebranche’s famous lake of pitch was now more of a pond and well on its way to becoming a wide puddle. The flatterers of the Second Bolgia had once been buried in human excrement, but now there was only enough excrement to bury them up to their necks and as a consequence they wouldn’t shut up. It drove the demons appointed to stomp on their faces crazy.
With so few physical resources at its disposal, the important thing about Hell was keeping morale up, which is why self-starters like Minos, who took genuine pride in their work, were so important. And that was why it was even more disturbing that he and his crew were now on strike.
Satan and Nero arrived at The Gates of Hell where a mob of demons were walking a picket line. A small clot of souls were sitting nearby, suddenly seized by a deep commitment to social justice which required that they never cross a picket line. They hoped that their newfound solidarity with labor would spare them from the fires of Hell for a little while longer. Standing on a rock by the Gate was Minos, chanting on his bullhorn. Seeing Satan and Nero approach, he redoubled his efforts.
“Four, six, eight, ten, we won’t be burned for Satan!”
“Hey hey, ho ho, toxic fumes have got to go!”
“One, three, five, seven, give us benefits like they’ve got in Heaven!”
“I’m going home,” Satan said to Nero.
“You must take decisive action, sir.”
“I don’t want to be decisive,” Satan whined. “I’ve got a killer headache.”
“Excuse me?” Nero shouted at Minos. “Excuse me?”
“Whaddaya want?” Minos yelled back.
“I’ve got his attention, sir,” Nero said. “Now talk to him.”
“Hi, Minos,” Satan said.
All the demons were suddenly staring at him. Satan figured he needed to do better than “Hi.”
“So, what’s going on?”
Instantly, Satan regretted saying this because a) he didn’t actually want to know and, b) it sounded weak.
“We’re on strike,” Minos roared from his barrel chest. “And if you don’t meet our demands we’re gonna get you put on the lista Unfair Metaphysical Employers.”
“This is Hell,” Satan said. “It’s supposed to be unfair.”
“Didn’t you read our signs?” Minos asked.
He pointed his long, scaly tail at a placard held by a minor demon that read, “UNfair doesn’t mean UNsafe.”
“Do you know what it’s like ta live the life of a demon?” Minos asked, rhetorically.
The mob murmured.
“We work around open flames all day long with no protection,” Minos bellowed, playing to the crowd. “We may be fireproof, but our hair ain’t! I useta be a hairy guy, now look at me! Bald as a bat! All day long we inhale offensive and hazardous odors. I may be a demon from Hell, but does that mean I don’t like nice things? Why can’t we have some potpourri in da break