Infernal Dialogs
Copyright 1995 by Mu Kraken
Scene Three: A CARTOONIST IN HELL
The fat little marshmallow of a soul shifted nervously before
the Devil. The office chair in which he sat was custom
designed to produce an emulation of acutely-infected
hemorroids around the rectum of whoever sat therein. The wool
suit, in which he'd awakened to the afterlife, itched and rubbed
in the worst places. He noticed that the thermostat, enclosed in
razor wire, was set at 113 degrees F.
The Devil looked up from the marshmallow soul's file (its
edges ragged where it'd been ripped from The Book of Life),
frowned, and spoke.
"You didn't see youself as an inspired cartoonist and you
were enormously insecure about your masculinity. To compensate,
you sucked up to the other bigots by taking cheap shots at
liberals and women. You made a bundle cranking out low-grade
humor you stole from old joke books and Bob Hope movies. To be
frank, you made youself rich and famous at the expense of
those who had done you no harm. Your own fans suffered most
from your actions. By encouraging their inclinations to
narrowmindedness, you helped ensure that they would end up here.
In summation, you lubricated many small-minded idiots' downhill
path to Hell. Bad enough that you condemned yourself, but you
worked yourself in even deeper by helping to mislead others. This
brings things right down into the arena of personal vengeance."
"In God's name, why?"
"It will do you no good to use such language in my presence.
The reason this has become personal should be obvious to
you. You assisted thousands of bigoted imbeciles in their
own damnation, sending them here to me, here where we
already have morons up the wazoo. Now I have to find somewhere
to put them. Now my staff has to waste valuable time and energy
figuring out creative ways to keep them busy while providing the
optimum in terms of agony and anguish. I have to recruit
hundreds of Negroes, Jews, Gypsies, and Beatniks from the ranks
of the Heaven just to handle the Nazis and white
supremacists. Saints willing to pose as demons, and possessing
the acting skills to pull it off, are hard to come by.
Yahweh's been getting impatient with the draw on His
personnel. He's begun to mutter about charging me per diem
for every angel and saint He subcontracts out to me."
"But, how can you condemn a man to Hell for all eternity
because he simply followed his beliefs?"
"Oh that's a good one! Firstly," the Devil said,
counting on his claws, "none of these anal-retentives was
really following his beliefs. Like you, each and every
one was sucking up to the racist-chauvinist crowd, trying in
vain to bolster his poor sick self-image by belittling
anything and anyone the least bit different from him. Secondly, I
don't condemn anyone. They all reach this Place by their own
actions. Thirdly, nobody is here-- or anywhere-- for all
eternity. All anybody has to do is just walk out that front
gate."
"Me too? You mean all I gotta do is just walk out and I'll
be free?"
"Yes, but you won't do it, no more than they will. Nobody--
and I mean NO-damn-body," he sighed, "leaves this place till he's
learned his or her lessons. Some of these fools will be here for
years before they attain the courage and outright savvy to walk
out the gate and be reincarnated."
"But you enjoy it! You're Satan!"
"Please don't call me 'Satan'. That was my one of
my predecessors, an old desert nomad with no imagination."
"Predecessors! I thought you were the Devil, the Serpent of
Old, Prince of Darkness, Father of Lies, enemy of God and man
since time immemorial?"
"Boy howdy, have you got a lot to learn! First of all,
this business of being the Devil is an Office, a job like
anything else. It's been inhabited by different entities
periodically ever since Yahweh got the idea for Hell from the
Christians some 1,700 years ago. When the entity currently
serving as Devil gets burned out on the job (no pun intended) it
retires from the Office and moves on to undergo Karmic
Recovery, refurbishing its soul through a combination of R&R
and good works.
"In the meantime, the angels exectute a manpower
search. First they prepare a list of candidates. They go
down the list, offering the Office to the candidates one-by-one.
The first one to accept is It.
"This time I'm It. Two-hundred and forty-seven people turned
the position down before they got to me. Like a fool, I
accepted. It was nice at first, what with tormenting my
enemies and performing unnameable acts of depravity. But that
gets old pretty quickly, and one has to get down to the nitty
gritty of educating the damned as to the error of their ways--
A MONUMENTAL TASK sufficient to drive any self-respecting
divinity to drink. And then I have to waste time with
nincompoops like you and your fans. I have better things to
do. I would never have taken this job if I'd known I'd have to
put up with your kind in such vast numbers."
"Sorry to have put you out," the marshmallow soul sniffed.
"So, can I go, now?"
"Certainly, be my guest," the Devil sighed.
The marshmallow soul stood and marched out of the office.
He strode toward the Gate with steely stare, daring any to
stand in his way. As he neared the Gate, he began to slow down.
The Gate Demon grinned and held the Gate wide for him. The
marshmallow soul stopped, hesitating before the portal.
"Well, go ahead," the demon smiled. "No one is going to
stop you, and you can change your mind and return at any time,
with no retributions, no hard feelings."
He looked up at the demon. "No strings attached?"
"No strings attached."
"How do I know you're not lying? How do I know you're
not playing cat-and-mouse with me? How do I know you won't jump
out and grab me back in? Or yank me back by some invisible
cord that I don't even know is hitched to the seat of my pants?"
"How do you know the exit isn't just an illusion? One that
will disappear to reveal that you've walked into a cauldron
of boiling pitch? Answer: You don't! But then, we don't have
to trick you in order to enact whatever torment we choose.
I could have you in a stream of lava just by a wave of my hand.
But it's all irrelevant. The fact is, we don't want you here.
You and your kind are just more work for us. Go-- if you will."
The marshmallow soul hesitated for several more minutes,
mulling it over.
"Well?"
"No-- no, I don't think I will. I don't know what's waiting
for me out there," he said in a quavering voice. "Besides, I
still think you're trying to trick me, and I'm not going to fall
for it. Even in Hell, a man must have some shred of dignity
left. Yeah, that's it! You are trying to trick me, for all your
talk! And I won't fall for it. Yes, in this small way, I
defy all your power, all your Satanic majesty! I am still a man!
I shall not go!"
"Have it your way, chum," the demon smirked, slamming the
Gate.
[continued in the next magma tube]
. . .
From INTIMIDATIONS OF MORALITY, by Ellis Quazey:
Who needs religion, when reality is so weird? Why seek the
supernatural, when the natural is so divine? ...
... During the Reconstruction Era, we southerners were ignorant
and narrow-minded due to cultural isolation and poor education.
Nowadays we are ignorant and narrow-minded because it's part of our
cultural heritage.
...
Copyright 1995 by Mu Kraken
VERBAL CRUX! THE INFAMY!
by Mu Kraken
It was with a feeling of relief, almost surrender, that Bucca
switched his briefcase to his right hand and pulled the bellrope,
cunningly constructed to resemble a puff adder, that hung before the
huge brass gate. He felt as if a great burden of karma were about to
be lifted from his shoulders. His trapezius muscles, tense as piano
cords and icy cold from centuries of circulatory constriction induced
by frustration and ire, were already beginning to relax in
anticipation of release to come.
With a vast creaking sound, much like that of a truckload of pigs
descending an Aspen glissade after spring thaw, the gate swung
wide to reveal a somewhat chunky figure with red skin, flaming
eyes, full beard, horns, and a barbed tail.
"Welcome to Hell, Bucca," said the Devil congenially, ushering
him in. "What took you so long?"
"Well, Death and I both have impossible schedules. I couldn't
stop for him, and he's no longer kind enough to stop for me. So I
just continued my business as usual."
"So what happened? One of you get an unexpected break or
something? Cancellation of a cataclysm or two, maybe?"
"No, not yet. In fact, I never did die."
"Really? Well, now, this is novel! We don't get many live ones
Down Here. Planning on staying awhile? Eternity, perhaps?"
"No, not really. I'm here on pleasure, not business. Came to
help torment the cruxiverbalists."
"Cruxi-who? Say, you're not on some kinda religious kick, are
you?"
"No, I stopped kicking religion centuries ago."
"Cause if you are, we got whole sectors devoted to clergy of all
faiths. You should see what we're doing with teevee preachers these
days!"
"No, no, no. Cruxiverbalists. People (more or less) who
construct crossword puzzles."
"Oh, them!" Satan scowled. "Rather nasty lot! In that case,
I'm glad you decided to stop by. We could use a little help with the
buggers."
"That's what I'm here for. As a matter of fact, the Big Guy
Upstairs sent me to introduce a new program that may result in some of
them leaving Here to be reincarnated in the Earthly sphere."
"Now you're talking!" the Devil grinned. "But are you sure you
want to do that? I mean, much as I despise humanity, I don't think I
could wish that on them. I wouldn't curse a rabid rat with the
company of these crossword vermin!"
"The Big Guy and I think they'll be truly rehabilitated by the
time they leave Here. Otherwise we wouldn't dream of it."
"Hey, in that case you can have as many as you want! Take all of
them, and I'll be forever indebted!"
"All in good time, old fiend, all in good time. Now, if you'll
kindly tell me where they can be found--"
"Sure thing, Buc ol' bud. Anything for a pal. I'll never forget
those jams you pulled me out of back in the twentieth century."
"Hey, compadre, 'sawright. I enjoyed it as much as you did.
Now, where do you keep these cruxiverbalists?"
"See those steps over there? Go down them past the Necrophile
Sector and the Serial Killer Sector. Take a left at Racial Bigots and
go a couple of sectors. When you get to War Criminals, you'll find
another set of stairs leading deeper into Perdition. Descending about
three or four flights, you'll come down to the level of plastic surgeons,
corporate attorneys, and nearly everyone who ever worked in broadcasting of
any kind. Go down one more flight to arrive at the sectors for
Munitions Manufacturers and Dealers, DEA Agents, Censors, and Amway
Representatives. By and by you will come to a special sector devoted
to talk show audiences. Exactly thirteen meters past that sector
you'll come to a fake wall. You can recognize it because there's a
strange flourescent slime-- not my doing, I assure you (as Topsie
said, 'It just growed there!')-- Walk straight through the fake wall;
it's only a hologram. There beneath a throw rug will be a manhole
cover. The slime is caustic, so you'll want to scrape some of it off
the cover with anything you find handy. Lift the cover and proceed
down another hundred feet till you get to a vast dungeon. Say the
magic code words I'll give you, and a huge, till then invisible, iron
door will swing open. Nevermind the hoots, moans, and screams of
maniacal laughter. Go right in. That's where we keep the cruxi--
cruxi-- crossword puzzle makers."
"Hmmm. Okay, think I got that. Well, time and torment wait for
no man. Guess I better get moving while I can still remember those
directions," Bucca said, hefting his briefcase.
"Sure thing, Buc," the Devil answered. "But wait!" he added
suddenly. "You wouldn't happen to have a hit or two of good old
fashioned Cthonthorstrok Blue on you by any chance, would you?
Hmmm? Hope-a, hope-a hope-a?"
"Now Sate, you know the Big Guy Upstairs won't let me bring
anything like that Down Here!"
"Awwww. Well, it was worth a shot, anyways. Ah me! How long,
oh Lewd, how long?"
"Yeah, well, gotta run. Bye."
"Sure thing. Have fun!"
Bucca made his way down the brimstone corridors and stairways as
the Devil had directed. Eventually he found himself standing before
the great iron door barring entry to the Cruxiverbalist Sector. He
spoke the magic words and the door swung open. Whether it creaked or
not, Bucca was never to know, because his ears were immediately struck
by a chaotic cacaphony of shrieks, groans, wails, and shrill laughter.
Shuddering, he walked through the doorway. The sight that met
his eyes was ghastly beyond description. So much so, in fact, that it
were best not to detail it too closely here, where children, wives,
and dogs might catch wind of it and go into shock. Even here on
Earth, in the best of circumstances, with 9-1-1 and CPR readily
available, the sight of a crowd of cruxiverbalists has been known to
ind uce recurring nightmares in strong men. People unprepared for the
sheer gruesomeness have sometimes died outright from pure revulsion.
Reaching deep into his briefcase, Bucca pulled out a megaphone.
"AWRIGHT EVERYBODY, LISTEN UP!" he boomed, and the vast chamber
echoed, "UP-- UP-- UP-- UP--"
Silence. Thousands of pointed heads lifted red-rimmed eyes up to
gaze at him, mouths hanging open as virtual cataracts of drool
descended grimey, zit-spangled chins.
"My name is Bucca, and I've come to offer you all a chance to get
out of this Place and be reincarnated as less offensive creatures--
trapdoor spiders, perhaps, or pileated warthogs. All you have to do
is perform a simple-- heh, heh, heh-- task for us."
He paused to reach into his briefcase again and pull out an
ornate bottle, stoppered with a cork. He yanked the cork, and
multi-hued smoke billowed out, surmounted by a large green-skinned and
turbaned apparition with muscles that made Charles Atlas look bolemic
in comparison . Atop its broad shoulders rested a footlocker big as a
bus. The apparition immediately flew down among the cruxiverbalists
and began handing out sheets of paper the size of American flags at a
used car dealership.
"The genie is passing among you now with the test papers. You
will note that each one is covered entirely with a rather hefty
crossword puzzle. Each puzzle, by the way, is different, so it will
do you no good to copy off each other. Once you have filled in every
one of the-- approximately 500,000-- words on your own individual
puzzle, why then, you are free to leave! Just to be fair, my team of
imps back Earthside has drawn every clue on each puzzle from previous
puzzles constructed by you in your past life on Earth. And they are
some wonderful clues: Hawaiian hardwood! Shoulder of a bolt lock!
Base groove on a gas lamp! Vingt ans apres figure! Bud Fisher
cartoon character! Of course, no one will receive clues from any of
his own puzzles!"
At this point the multitude broke out into a heartbreaking aria
of whimpers, whines, and sobs.
"SHHHH! QUIET!" Bucca said through the megaphone. "It's far too
late to repent your Earthly deeds, now! You should've thought of that
way back on Earth when you chose your lifetime occupation. There was
nothing to stop any of you from assuming more humane careers-- as
repo men, collection agents, bail bondsmen, or slaghterhouse workers,
perhaps. But nooooo! You decided to become cruxiverbalists!
"Besides the obvious crimes of sadism, mental cruelty, outright
laziness, hidden slander, and psuedo-intellectual snobbery garnished
with megatrivial erudition, you also stand guilty of faulty grammar,
illegitimate usage, and puns so opaque that my team of genuine
verbalists-- including Shakespeare, James Joyce, the Marx Brothers,
Firesign Theater, and Anton Wilson, among others-- couldn't decipher
half of them. Face it, folks: You deserve this. This and more!
However, the Big Guy Upstairs has decided to give you another chance--
Who knows why! As a further manifestation of His mercy, we will
provide you with the reference works needed to solve the puzzle
clues-- or most of them, anyway."
As he spoke, the genie waved his hand. Suddenly the walls were
lined with bookcases filled with huge tomes: dictionaries, poetry
anthologies, encyclopediae, theasaurii, Guiness Books of World
Records, geography texts and atlases, samplers of Victorian proverbs,
sacred scriptures, comicbook anthologies, classics, almanacs,
grimoires, and in general the entire range of reference books
available in the English language.
"Now, there is only one copy of each book, but don't be fighting
over them or you'll never get out of here. Well, it's been fun folks,
but I gotta go. Hate to miss the festivities, but you know how it is.
Commitments on the physical plane beckon. I'll leave the genie here
to film it all on video for viewing later-- sometime when I'm feeling
extra vengeful.
"Oh, and one more thing. I told you that the clues came from
crossword puzzles you all had constructed in the past. Well, that's
not completely true. I couldn't resist adding a few clues of my own
to each of your puzzles. I hope the genie remembered to include a
Korean phrasebook in the reference library he gave you.
"Okay, everybody got a pencil? You may begin."
FINIS
Vino and Veritas
