“What’s your name?” asked Absalom with a smirk.
“‘Fuck you’ is my name,” he responded, glaring back. “Where the fuck am I?”
“You’re in Hell,” answered Amnon with a chuckle.
“So Hell isn’t burning hot?” asked the bewildered new arrival as he looked around. “I thought it’s supposed to be like a pit of fire.”
“It used to be, for the worst sinners, 600 years ago,” answered Absalom. “It’s been on the North Pole since 1850.”
“What are you here for?” Amnon asked.
“For shoving a broom stick up some nigger’s ass,” said the new arrival in a tone that threatened the same fate to anyone who messes with him. This is an attitude he learned from serving 30 years in federal prison.
“Hey I’ve read about you, you look familiar,” said Anmon. “You that NYPD officer who got 30 years for that ass fucking shit. And then you put it in his mouth, broke his teeth, right?” Amnon grinned. “You, you’re Justin Volpe! Awww, you sick fuck!”
Justin wanted to say something but couldn’t figure out what to say.
“Yeah it’s him, Justin Volpe, right here!” Amnon said while pointing to the mug shot on his tablet.
“There’s internet in Hell?” a startled Justin asked.
“Of course,” replied Amnon, as Absalom handed Justin a tablet.
“This mine?” a confused Justin asked.
“It’s yours,” Absalom responded. “Your work schedule is in the calendar and use it to check for messages from Santa and the Misses. The rules and regulations of Hell are also in there, I’ll review them with you later.”
“Santa?” Justin asked.
“Santa is Satan, and Hell is the North Pole,” Amnon answered with a taunting grin. “Welcome home.”
Justin had always thought Santa was a creepy motherfucker. That’s why, as a child, he refused to sit on Santa’s lap, even though his Mom wanted him to so she could take a photo of it.
“Our job is to help Satan spread his message,” said Absalom. “Misery loves company.”
“How do we do that?” Justin asked.
“How does a child molester molest children?” asked Amnon. “Talk sweet and give lots of candy. Like that Dr. Nasser who did that to those gymnast girls. He lives across in the hall across the street. That’s where they keep the child molesters.”
“What did you do to end up here?” Justin asked, pointing to Amnon.
“I raped my sister.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“What about you?” Justin asked, looking at Absalom.
“I killed that fucker for raping my sister,” said Absalom, gesturing at Amnon. “Still don’t feel bad about it. What really got me in trouble was when I tried to kill my dad and raped 10 of his concubines in public to show everyone that I was the new king,” Absalom explained nonchalantly.
Justin then asked the elf who’d been quiet the entire time, “What’s your name?”
“Phreaky Phil Dickhead.”
“Phreaky what?” Justin asked bemusedly, laughing for the first time in his afterlife. “What kind of fucked up name is that?”
“This is Hell, and his name is part of his Hell,” Absalom explained. “It’s even tattooed on his ass. Look. Phreaky, show him.”
Justin didn’t want to look but did. Stamped on that ass in red and purple big block letters, “Phreaky” just above the ass crack, “Phil” on the left cheek, “Dickhead” on the right.
“What did you do?” Justin asked Phreaky Phil Dickhead
“I bludgeoned an asshole juice bar owner who put my name — you guessed it, Phreaky Phil Dickhead — on his menu. Killed him while he was fucking my mom. Amazing part is he didn’t stop fucking her until he died. He lives a couple of blocks away in a house for motherfuckers.”
“You know,” Justin said while looking around,” if this is Hell, Hell ain’t that bad. You can do a lot worse in Federal prison,” said Justin.
Absalom chortled. “It’ll get a lot worse,” he warned. “You’ll see.”
“Awww yeah,” Amnon agreed. “You’ll see.”