tinfoil 0 #1 February 11, 2004 Guess I just have a dramatic flair. This is a short story that was in Maxim magazine Oct 98. Though I would post it here because most people who read it seem to like it. If anyone can give the the authors name, it would be nice, thanks. hope you enjoy Go To Hell! The hottest travel destination in the universe during the Halloween season is none other than Satan’s stomping grounds. We sent an unsuspecting writer down this fiery lakeside resort to check out the sights, sounds, and giant bloated flies. Maxim, October 1998 “You want me to go where!?!” I had been called to the Maxim editorial office to do what they loosely referred to as a travel story. But the particulars, like where I was going, had not been mentioned until now. “We’d like you to go to Hell and interview Satan,” the editor calmly repeated. “But…but I’m not dead,” I argued. “Maybe you guys haven’t thought this through.” The editor responded by picking up his phone and whispering, “Hold my calls.” Then everything happened really fast. One guy reached over, slammed my head down on the desk, and held me there. Another went to a closet and pulled out the biggest ax I’d ever seen, with the Maxim logo imprinted on its blade. They both started chanting something that sounded like the theme song from The Patty Duke Show backward. Then the bastards cut off my head Hello! My Name Is Xghzqtk The first thing I see when I wake up in the under-world is my headless body on the ground. Then I see who is holding my head. Neither is a pretty sight. “MY NAME IS XGHZQTK,” the demon says in a thunderous voice, “I AM SATAN’S PUBLICIST.” Xghzqtk is nine feet tall, with Teflon scales and a head shaped like four megaphones pointing north, east, south, and west…each with a five-foot tongue hanging out of it. His other distinguishing feature is a right hand so large that when he makes a fist, it’s as big as a prize watermelon. He’s a little touchy about his name and threatens to punch me in the face every time I mispronounce it. Unfortunately, Xghzqtk is impossible to say correctly unless your throat is lined with fully opened Swiss army knives. I expect to be punched quite a bit in this trip. Me-owwwwwwwwww “LET’S GET YOU FIXED UP,” says Xghzqtk. My headless body is lying on what, oddly enough, appears to be steaming-hot kitty litter. Darkness surrounds us, the only light a faint bloody glow emanating from the demon. In the background I think I hear the sound of cats meowing. Xghzqtk picks my body up, sticks my head back on it, and, using his massive fist like a hammer, drives a three-foot nail straight down through the top of my skull with the expertise of a carpenter. He tells me that during the French Revolution, he was the busiest demon in Hell. Wistfully he asks if there is any chance the guillotine may come back into vogue as a means of capital punishment. To cheer him up, I lie and say that Texas is considering it. With my head firmly (if somewhat painfully) in place, the next order of business is some light to travel by. It’s now that the mystery of the meowing is solved. Xghzqtk stalks off into the gloom and returns seconds later with two cats skewered on poles. He quickly sets them on fire and hands me one of the poles, and we make our way across the kitty-litter plain by the light of their burning fur. We walk for miles, heading toward a faint, distant light: the ferry port. It’s hotter than Death Valley and pretty damned smoky from those cats. There is an occasional breeze, but it smells so bad, you can hardly call it a relief. Xghzqtk informs me that to the north sits a demon the size of the moon who eternally feasts upon dark beer and baked beans. His name is Flatulus The closer we get to our destination, the more roadside vendors we see. One yells, “Last chance to but aspirin before the Gates of Hell!” I stop for a quick purchase at Xghzqtk’s suggestion. Another offers to sell me racy photos of what my wife’s doing now that I’m dead. We pass a pathetic-looking Italian man dressed in aged, shit-stained medieval garb who holds a sign saying WILL RHYME FOR FOOD. Two burly guys in togas are giving him a wedgie. Slow Boat to Hell Rush hour at the ferry port is well…pretty bad. Millions of people, no information booth, 75-mile-long ticket lines, and there’s only one bathroom, which has been occupied for the last 2,500 years by a demon named Urinicon…the Bladder of Satan. Luckily, Xghzqtk knows which palms to grease with human fat, and before you can say “Ozzy Osbourne” we’re boarding. The boat is a human turd, two miles long, 100 yards wide, with some benches on top. I’m about to sit down when I notice that they are covered with six-inch spikes honed to the finest points possible. “I can’t sit here,” I complain to the Ferryman. “Damn right!” he exclaims. “This is first class.” Xghzqtk leads me back to coach, where I immediately sink straight down to the bridge of my nose in turd and remain that way for the 15 years it takes to reach the other side. Free Willy is the in-voyage movie. It plays over and over again, 27,345 times. As relaxing as I usually find boat rides, it is with some degree of relief that I sight the port of Pandemonium, Hell’s capital city. Xghzqtk is kind enough to agonizingly yank my head around so that I can see the statue of Charles de Gaulle standing on its own little island at the mouth of Hell’s harbor. Much like the Statue of Liberty, this monument was a gift of appreciation from the French people and is truly a magnificent sculpture. General de Gaulle stands a good 1,729 feet high, Gallic sneer on his face as he lifts his middle finger skyward. The plaque at his feet is eloquent in its simplicity. IF YOU THINK FRANCE TREATS VISITORS LIKE CRAP…JUST WAIT Hell ’n’ Ready I’ve been half expecting to see a huge three-headed dog guarding the Gates of Hell, but Xghzqtk says that when Satan succeeded the Greek god Hades, he got rid of the mutt because it kept humping his leg. Now a thousand-armed demon stands in front of the gates, passing out buy-one-get-one free coupons and club passes. I score one for a free kick in the balls with every one purchased. “LUCKY YOU,” comments Xghzqtk enviously. The actual Gates are in reality a series of pillars 100 feet in diameter, stretching up to infinity, and composed entirely of mouths. Some mouths moan, some snicker, and some sing Helen Reddy tunes off-key. But, unfortunately, most of them just spit on you as you walk by. Once we’re through the gates, I just con’t resist a souvenir photo. They have cardboard likenesses of Satan and Jesus, with a hole cut out where Satan’s head was so your face can be on the devil’s body. I choose the one where Satan is tying Jesus’ shoelaces together, but the one where he’s taping a KICK ME sign on His back is pretty funny, too. “COME ONE,” says Xghzqtk impatiently, “WE’VE GOT A SCHEDULE TO STICK TO.” Then he hauls off and punches me incredibly hard in the face…but in a playful, good-natured sort of way. Who says that demons don’t like to kid around? Sin City Although Hell is boundless, everyone who’s anyone makes their home in Pandemonium. Satan’s palace is here. Beelzebub, Mammon, Belial, and the other top-ranking demons all have mansions up in the trendy Canker Sore Canyon area. Pandemonium is also where you’ll find Hitler, Stalin, Genghis Khan, Judas, and loads of other famous beasts from the past. Just about everyone in the music industry is here, too, as well as most New Yorkers…and the guy responsible for those annoying Mentos commercials. It’s a good thing I have Xghzqtk with me, because even the most experienced world traveler would find Pandemonium challenging to navigate. First, since intersections resemble crosses, there are none. Roads stop, start, swirl, snake, and circle but never meet. It can takes years to get somewhere no more than 200 yards away. The second problem is that every night, Pandemonium completely rearranges itself, so the next day even people who have lived there for centuries wake up totally lost. Not that there is a next day. It’s always night in Pandemonium, but it’s hardly depressing, because the city is alight with the flames of a million burning-cat street-lamps. Everything is open all the time; misshapen people run naked through the streets, laughing psychotically, screaming in pain, and occasionally stopping to fornicate joylessly in huge orgiastic dog piles or to hawk their souvenir THIS SHIRT HURTS T-shirts. We are standing in an open-market square, but there’s no time for shopping, as Xghzqtk is already hailing us a cockroach. We hop aboard the 20 foot-long insect and scuttle off to my lodgings. Three hotel chains cater to the tourist trade here in Pandemonium. The Hellton is by far the best, offering amenities such as a wake-up whip for business travelers who need to make early meetings. For the midrange pocketbook, Holiday Sin is not a bad deal. But they tend to book 60 to a room, and there’s something of a giant-fly problem. Unfortunately, Maxim has me booked into Motel 666: Hell’s economy-class lodging. We go to the front desk, and I reach for my wallet. But Xghzqtk stays my hand. “EARTHLY MONEY WILL BUY YOU NOTHING HERE, FOOL.” “Well, what form of currency do you use?” I ask. “THE SCREAM.” Before I can move, the manager hauls me over the counter and beats 70 screams out of me, going rate for a room. Then the bellhop leads me to a wall with a tiny three-inch-wide crack in it. “Your room sir.” He picks me up and shoves my entire body into the crack, headfirst. “Will that be all, sir?” “Yes.” Saturday Night in Hell Xghzqtk stops back a few hours later to pull me out of my room. “BAD NEWS,” he says while bludgeoning my three-inch body back into shape. “THE MASTER CAN’T SPEAK TO YOU UNTIL TOMORROW NIGHT. HE’S GOT A GIG.” It turns out that despite all the unimaginably sick and decadent ways one could spend a Saturday night in Pandemonium, everyone in fact does only one thing: listens to Satan tell ready bad jokes. It’s mandatory…and it goes on all night. On the way over to the AAAAAAAAAAAAHmphitheater, we make one fast stop at the strip mall (and I do mean strip mall) to check out a few topless bars. The one we go into is called Ladies First. Onstage is a decrepit ld woman dressed in Colonial-era split-crotch panties and tassels that looks disturbingly like Dolly Madison. “NOTHING BUT FIRST LADIES OF THE UNITED STATES,” chuckles Xghzqtk. “I JUST LOVE THESE THEME JOINTS.” We stay for a few minutes, but when the announcer asks us to give a very warm welcome to Eleanor Roosevelt, I look at my watch and tell a disappointed Xghzqtk that we’d better catch a cockroach if we don’t want to be late. Although admission to the show is a little steep (2,00 screams), the place is packed…because it’s mandatory. We take our seats and I can_sq_t believe my good luck. Sitting to my right is Jim Morrison of the Doors. He’s wearing a powder-blue tux and his hair is cut short, but it’s definitely The Lizard King. Apparently his gig in Hell is to play in a bad bar mitzvah band for eternity. The lights go down and the MC comes out. “Let’s have a big hand for the guy that God Himself loves to hate. Your eternal tormentor and mine…SA-A-A-A-A-A-TAN!” I’d love to say that it’s the best show I’ve ever seen, but, again, that wouldn’t be Hell. For the next 12 hours, the most evil entity in the universe stands up there and tells horrible knock-knock jokes. “KNOCK, KNOCK.” “Who-o-o-o’s there?” screams every last damned and tortured soul in Hell. “LUCY.” “Lucy who?” “LUCI-FER, YOUR LORD AND MASTER THROUGHOUT ETERNITY. HAHAHAHAHA.” And then 5,000,000 volts of electricity run through every seat in the house…Satan’s idea of an APPLAUSE sign. My Dinner with Satan Sunday’s in Hell aren_sq_t much better than Saturday nights. Everyone is forced to go to Our Lady of I-Told-You-So Cathedral for a nine-hour high mass in Latin that won’t do anyone a bit of good, since thay’re already damned. Behind each infernal parishioner stands an enormous hairy demon in a nun’s habit wielding a 17-foot-long concrete ruler, which applies frequently. But at long last the moment comes. I’ve been in Hell a little longer than I Planned, and I’m eager to do this interview and get back to Earth. So here I am at a table for two in Satan’s favorite bistro, the Mug o’ Snot, waiting for Nick. Suddenly the place is swarming with Infernal Service agents with one hand to their ears, speaking into tiny microphones. They secure the area for The Big Red One’s imminent arrival. He appears suddenly, impeccable in a dark pinstriped Brioni double-breasted. His handshake is firm, if somewhat scalding. Easing himself into a seat, he offers me a cigar and asks if I’m enjoying my stay in Hell. We make small talk about the weather (it is currently raining feet) and the food (unfortunately, the name of the restaurant is also the menu). Then I hit him with my questions: “So, was pride really why you got cast out of Heaven?” “NOT AT ALL. THE TRUTH IS THAT WHEN WE WERE ALL LITTLE ANGELS, ME AND MY FRIENDS USED TO BEAT UP GOD’S SON ON THE PLAYGROUND. WHO KNEW DADDY WAS SO DAMNED PROTECTIVE?” “A lot of actors have portrayed you in movies. Any particular favorites?” “JACK NICHOLSON. HE’S THE ONE WHO LOOKS AND ACTS THE MOST LIKE ME…ESPECIALLY OFF-CAMERA. I’LL HAVE TO THANK HIM WHEN HE GETS HERE.” “You’ve had a lot of what you would probably consider successes in you career: the Garden of Eden, the Black Death. What are you most proud of?” “CD CLEANERS. THEY DON’T REALLY WORK. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” “Why do good things happen to bad people?” “I WISH I COULD GIVE YOU A PHILOSOPHICAL REASON…BUT HONESTLY? BECAUSE IT’S SO DARNED FUNNY.” “What’s the worst torture you’ve ever devised?” “DID YOU HAPPEN TO MEET JIM MORRISON WHILE YOU WERE HERE?” “Uh, yeah. You’re a cruel entity. How about Armageddon? Has Don King asked for pay-per-view rights when you and God finally duke it out?” “LET ME PUT IT THIS WAY. HAVE YOU EVER SEEN ME AND DON KING TOGETHER IN THE SAME ROOM?” “No. Do you mean…?” “THAT’S ALL I’M GOING TO SAY ON THAT SUBJECT.” “Can you tell me when the Armageddon will occur?” Unfortunately, right at that moment one of Satan’s assistants whispers into his ear. “SORRY. SOMETHING JUST CAME UP, AND I’VE GOT TO GO.” “But I’ve spent 15 years riding on a turd just to talk to you.” Satan turns to me, and his eyes begin to glow like two tiny Chernobyls. I decide not to press my luck. “Well, thanks for your time. Maybe you could have Xghzqtk [Satan reaches over and punches me in the face] show me back to the boat, so I can get home to file this story.” “OH, YOU’RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE. MAXIM SAID I CAN KEEP YOU AS LONG AS THEY GET YOUR NOTES. HAND THEM OVER.” A couple of brawny demons then haul me off and install me in my own little slice of eternal damnation. But as they walk away, I just have to know: “Will I be getting a byline?” “- - Sumo is the greatest of sports. It has power, grace, speed and cluture. And most importantly, two fat bastards smacking the shit out of each other. ” Quote Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
tinfoil 0 #2 February 11, 2004 Some random info that was at the end of the story. WHO’S IN HELL Even the underworld has its social circles. And according to 14th-century poet Dante Alighieri, there are nine of these circles, or levels, each one lower, hotter, and more torturous than the last. Here’s a partial listing of who’s frying on which floor. Anyone you know? Circle One Both Darrin Stephenses Fourth-grade gym teachers who made you shower even after square dancing. Benedict Arnold’s mom Circle Two Anyone who doesn’t like pirates Amish people who watch TV when no one’s looking Bosses who use nautical expressions like "Welcome aboard" and "I like the cut of your jib." Circle Three People who take part in Civil War reenactments Anyone named "Hans" Men who, through no fault of their own, resemble Saddam Husein Abba (just the guys) Circle Four Anyone with a vanity plate Jerry Springer The younger of the two brothers Grimm Toto (the dog and the band) Circle Five The richest guy at your high school reunion Every "hombre" Clint Eastwood shot in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly Balloonists Circle Six People who have consumed human flesh…more than once Everyone who has ever appeared on Jerry Springer The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band Carpetbaggers Circle Seven Men who cry when they haven’t actually been kicked in the balls U.S. citizens who smoke Cuban cigars (they’re illegal, you know) John Philip Sousa People who know their resting heart rate Circle Eight Anyone Charlton Heston doesn’t reall, really like The guy who’s always blatantly picking his nose at traffic lights People who watch Jerry Springer Circle Nine Anyone who votes for Dan Quayle in the next election People. People who need people Every person who ever had sex with Milton Berle All the Who’s in Who-ville Readers of Details HELL AT A GLANCE • Temperature: .00000001 degrees hotter than you could possibly stand • Total square miles: Never mind…there’s always room for one more • Highest point: The steel spike driven into Wilt “Hey, I’m Not Dead Yet” Chamberlin’s head • Form of government: Totalisadism • Legal holidays: National “Your Balls Swell Up to the Size of Schnauzers but Remain Inside Your Sac” Day Festival of a Thousands Paper Cuts Shin-Bashing Week • Unit of currency: The scream • Major exports: Wet dreams, murderous thoughts, and novelty Valentine’s Day Candy • Major imports: You “- - Sumo is the greatest of sports. It has power, grace, speed and cluture. And most importantly, two fat bastards smacking the shit out of each other. ” Quote Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
