| Chapter1-Liz | Chapter11-... And Back | Endnotes |
Liz and Satan climbed down the rebar ladder to the bunker entrance tunnel, managed the e-blocks lock on the bunker door and were greeted by Rex -- his tail wagging enthuseastically. "You guys took long enough." Rex said.
"Well, Yeah, things didn't go exactly according to plan."
"Really, they rarely do. Been keeping up on what's been going on in Hell since your departure?"
"Haven't had a chance. Don't even know how long in your mundane time we were gone."
"Eight days, more or less."
"So, things in the nether world have settled down? Have they given up searching for us?"
"Not exactly. But things have changed quite a bit down there. Why don't you haul a nice juicy steak -- bone in preferably -- for me out of your magic backpack? I'm really tired of sawdust flavored kibble. And get something for Liz and yourself as well. I'll brief you. Then you can tell me where you've been since Tuesday last."
They walked to the control room and pulled some chairs together. Satan hauled a couple of submarine sandwiches and beers and a huge T-bone steak out of his backpack. Rex dragged a mat he had apparently confiscated from the bunker's gymnasium over, flopped down on it, ripped a sizable chunk of meat off the steak and sighed contentedly.
"OK." Rex said. "I'll assume that you left hell not too long after you left the Hexagon building?"
"Indeed." said Satan. Liz nodded.
"But you were responsible for the riot at the Hexagon?"
"I guess. But I wouldn't describe it as a riot. More of a demonstration of the power of brotherly love that perhaps got a bit out of hand."
"Perhaps, Anyway, what seems to have happened is that the ruckus in the grand entry hall and the parking lot outside drew every single entity in the building out into the parking lot. Unfortunately someone seems to have left something on a lit burner in the sixth floor cafeteria."
Liz raised her hand. "I'm afraid that was me. I came across a really delicious looking pizza in the fridge up there and I was trying to thaw it over the gas burner when all the excitment started. I guess I forgot to turn the gas off. But, y'know, I don't see how that pizza could have started a big fire. The pizza wasn't that big and it was in a kitchen on a stove. Are stoves in hell flammable?"
"Were I you, I'd maybe keep that information to myself. The entire place except for the infirmary and a few adjacent rooms that were somehow flooded with holy water burned to the ground. Rumor has it that there are a couple of platoons of process serving demons trying to recover 573,678,415,827 sheckels in reparations from whichever unfortunate soul they can manage to hit with a writ."
"What about the insurance?" Satan asked. "Surely that'll cover must of the cost of reconstruction,"
"Funny thing about that, It seems your successors switched insurance carriers from that ancient, nameless Swiss outfit you'd been using since the twelth century to to some outfit called HadesCorp. And HadesCorp is owned, after you get through 16 or 17 layers of anonymous shell corporations, by none other than those selfsame successors.
"But wait, there's more. HadesCorp invested the insurance premiums in some cryptocurrency called VaporCoin. The problem is that VC futures are quoted at 5 cents asked, nothing bid. VC has filed for bankruptcy listing a bushel full of debts and zero assets except for a fridge with 13000 promotional VaporCoins that look like gold but vanish in a puff of noxious smoke when heated to 20 degrees Centigrade. In fact, the actual premium money seems to have vanished. As have the directors and staff of HadesCorp.
"And here's where irony strikes deep. Those dudes locked down Hell BEFORE the Hexagon building burned. The lockdown failed to catch you. But the odds are that they themselves are trapped somewhere in the underworld."
"So," Satan asked "Who is running hell in the absence of its management?"
"Well, No one actually. As you're well aware, demons actually like doing dull, repetitious, pointless work. So things are kind of chugging along normally. TV is working. The busses are running. The Cudweiser brewery is shipping product. The fallen angels have put together a sort of temporary hexagon shaped tent city in the Hades Heritage site, so the Hexagon workers have a place to go and do their meaningless paper pushing. Of course there are a few problems. The portals are still sealed and soul transports are backed up clear to the orbit of Neptune. The fires of hell have been acting up, but no one remembers who to call to get the machinery looked at. Stuff like that. But overall, the place is sort of running itself."
"And the United Dieties haven't done anything?"
"The UD tried to pass a resolution to appoint a committee to look into possibly suggesting a tentative course of action. But the Taoists vetoed that because their I Ching reading for that wasn't propitious. The Mormons were trying to organize a food supply mission. But Athiests Unlimited pointed out that everyone in hell is either immortal or already dead so even without food, no one is going to die. So the LDS kind of lost interest. The Catholics and Protestants have agreed that what happens in Hell is none of their damn business and that everyone there is there because they belong there. The Evangelicals have been planning a huge Save The Damned rally, but they seem to be bogged down in disagreements about TV rights and how to divvy up the proceeds. The Israelis are said to be ready to bomb the bejeesus out of Hades, but they haven't actually offered yet. They are spending most of their time arguing amongst themselves. The Bhuddists and Hindus just babble about Karma. And so it goes."
"Are they still looking for Liz and I?" Satan asked.
"Officially, I think so. Unofficially, I think you are yesterday's news and that they are devoting their entire efforts to finding your successors. They're really quite annoyed about that insurance thing."
"Does anyone have any idea where those successors are hiding out?"
"The social networks in hell have about a million theories of course. Your successors have disguised themselves as demons and are down in the fourth circle, tormenting the greedy. They've paid Charon to ferry them across the Styx and are hiding out in the Greek Islands drinking Ouzo. The Hellfire Gazette checked that one out. Charon says he hasn't seen a soul, living or dead, since the transports shut down. He's got the ferry up on a boat lift while he replaces some planks. They somehow got someone out to the Greek Islands and he/she reports that it's the off season and the islands are dead. No recent large groups. And he/she says retsina hangovers are a memorable experience. Splitting headache. Burped turentine for hours. Back to the rumors. The managers are hanging from the ceilings in the catacombs disguised as bats. Etc, etc, etc.
"Another steak?" Satan asked.
"Don't mind if I do. But make it a small one. I have to watch my boyish figure."
"How about you Liz?"
"Another Beer would be fine."
Satan fumbled in the backpack and came up with a steak and two mugs of beer. He handed one of them to Liz and the steak to Rex.
"So, if I have this right, the ship of the damned is moving right along on a steady course and making good time, but no one is at the helm and the captain is nowhere to be found?"
"Pretty much."
"And if I were to walk in, announce that I've returned from meditating in the wilderness, and start giving orders, do you reckon folks would follow them?"
"Most Likely"
"Liz, we may not need that ring. I sense that I am about to embark on a great mission of salvation and enlightenment."
"You're going to be saved and enlightened?"
"Of course not. I'm nearly perfect just the way I am. It's others who seek salvation and enlightenment. I'm considering providing that."
"In hell?"
"Initially. Perhaps later Earth and then who knows? The universe is damn near boundless. And perhaps it can all be ours. Let me sleep on it and we can discuss it again in the morning. In the meantime, Liz can brief you on our trip through the sets. It was pretty much business as usual for me, but I think she found it interesting and rather exciting."
Liz proceeded to spend an hour and forty minutes telling Rex about the journey. Then the three of them yawned, said "Goodnight", and retired to their customary bedchambers.
In the morning, the three met over coffee (Satan and Liz), yougurt(Rex), and croissants(All) provided by Satan from the backpack. Satan leaned back, sighed, and spoke. "OK, unless you two as my advisors object, here's my plan. Yes, I'm going to return to Hell and try to take control. No, I won't move on from there to Earth, Heaven, and the universe in general. I'm not sure I really wan't to run Hell. I'm quite sure that I don't want to run Hell and a bunch of other things. A quasi-diety's got to know his limitations.
"Liz, I apologize for running you all over time and space fetching that damned ring. I'm not sure what we'll do with it, but we won't be using that in Operation Return_of_the_King. For the time being, why not stash it and its carrier in that bush over there? We'll find a more permanent home for it later."
Liz nodded, arose, unslung the ring carrier from her neck and pushed it into the dirt around a potted palm that had mysteriously appeared in a corner of the bunker. "I won't miss that. Is it my imagination, or has the darned thing been getting heavier?"
"Probably not your imagination. Something to do with Special Relativity perhaps. Have you noticed it trying to exceed the speed of light? In any case, those rings are perverse. No knowing what it's up to. My inclination is to destroy it, but I suppose I'd best consult with the Council Of Dieties. No knowing how the COD will mismanage its handling. But it's unlikely that they'll reach a decision in less than three centuries.
"But onto the matter at hand. My plan is simply to walk into Hell, open up an office, and start issuing orders. Maybe they'll be obeyed. Maybe they won't. If they aren't. I'll be back here in a couple of days. Hopefully not with a pack of hellhounds baying at my heels.
"Liz, I very much enjoy your company. But I don't think you're cut out for the role of Queen of the Damned. If you really want to come along with me, you're more than welcome. But you've seen the netherworld. Dismal place. By design. Do you really want to spend the next twenty thousand millenea there? It'd be like spending twenty thousand millenea in Detroit.
"What I'd suggest is that I conjour up a big batch of convincing benjis so you can spend a few years or decades looking at the best Earth has to offer. I'll throw in a set of forged transit papers. They won't get you into heaven except on a tour. But they'll be good enough for you to visit whatever afterlifes look interesting to you, Frankly, Elysium is about as good as the afterlife gets and I expect you'll end up there.
"Rex old friend. I truly value your freindship, advice, and assistance. But I can't envision you in Hell. If there is ever anything I can do for you, just invoke my name and chase your tail three times widdersheins and I'll do my best to help you out.
"The two of you are welcome to stay here in the bunker for as long as you like. Now that I can use magic freely, I'll set some spells that should protect you against intrusion if that damn B-Lock somehow doesn't. But I can't do anything about the food here, so I don't imagine you'll want to stay here forever.
"Whenever you two want to leave, just go up the rabbit hole then stroll over the hill to the 7-11 and call a cab.
"Liz, you'll probably need to help Rex up the hole to the surface. I conjured a rig that can do that and put it out in the tunnel. It's pretty simple. I'm sure the two of you can figure it out. But if something goes wrong just dial 666 on any phone and I'll help you out. In fact, call occasionally just to let me know how things are going. I'll miss you two.
"So, any questions before I set out to Make The Netherworld Great Again?" +
Rex shook his head. Liz asked, "If and when I'm ready to leave Earth, how do I get to the afterlife?"
"Well, self-immolation or jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge should work, but if you're too much of a sissy for that, go to Tokyo and go to Shinjuku Station. Take the Yamanote line -- the one with yellow-green cars -- toward Ueno Station. But don't get off at Ueno. Just stay on the train until it gets back to Shinjuku in about an hour. When you get off, you should be in the grand entrance hall to the afterlife. You won't need to deal with those ridiculous stairs from the reception depot. Follow the orange line to the Admissions Office and proceed to Elysium." Liz nodded.
"Do you reckon that you could leave us a month or so supply of edible food from th backpack?" Rex asked
"No Problem." Said Satan. He reached into the backpack and hauled out several dozen shopping bags and two boxes. He waved at the boxes. "A folding microwave oven and a folding fridge. Assembly instructions are in the boxes. There are some cups, glasses and plates in one of the bags. Any other questions?"
There was a long pause.
"OK then. I hate long farewells. I'll be off. I'll call the phone in the bunker every evening for a while and let you know how things are going.
So saying, Satan spun around rapidly, sending a cape that he had somehow acquired swirling outward. A cloud of juniper perfumed smoke engulfed him. When it cleared, he was nowhere to be seen.
After a few minutes of playing Retrieve The Sock, and Catch Me If you Can and some enthusuastic belly rubbing, Liz and Rex turned to their customary consoles and life in the bunker returned to normal. Around dinner time a bit of Microwave asssembly hindered by the fact that Part K was incorrectly pictured in the instructions and Part GG3 was an imperfect fit fo Slot R, got the Microwave assembled and dinner warmed. Rex was curled up for a post-prandial nap and Liz was looking at movie schedules on her monitor when the phone rang.
Liz answered the phone. "Happy Valley Funeral Home. You pop them, we plant them. How can we help you today?"
There were a few seconds of staticy silence then Satan's familiar voice asked. "Yes. Happy Valley indeed. Do you folks have bulk discounts?"
"Why yes, we do have quite attractive Group Discounts. Unfortunately, you just missed our 30% off sale. I don't suppose you have a coupon? Did you make it to Hades yet? Or are you still in transit?"
"I'm in Hell and I guess things are going pretty well. You remember that ambiguous factory just past the heritage site? Turns out that's where they make Devil's Toenails. After I explained the alternatives them they graciously offered to lend me their office for a month or three. They're operating out of a corner of their warehouse for the duration.
"It's a small space, but all I really need. Since I can apparently do real conjuring and such now without fear of consequences, I've set up a duplicate of my old office in the Hexagram Building, installed phones, and plumbing and such. I'm working on getting folks to actually report to me here. Time consuming and tedious, but necessary. Fortunately they general attitude seems to be that bad though I may be, I'm less obnoxious than the folks I displaced. So they are probably going to go along with me.
As for my predecessors, tracking them down and making them the first human settlers on Pluto is my number one priority. As we suspected, they've left one heck of a mess. Took all the cash when they left. I've already printed up a new batch, and have a bunch of bats and toads out trying to find any that they stashed and convert it to Tesla Bucks.
They sold off most everything portable of value -- which thankfully wasn't much. I've got a team inventorying what's missing. Mostly Vlad The Impalor coffee cups and stuff like that. I expect a full report in a decade or three. I've got a team of accountants -- no shortage of that lot in Hell -- trying to find their way through sixteen or seventeen layers of shell corporations to find out what's being siphoned out other than insurance payments. We know about those. The only problem there is that accountants think that sort of work is fun. Those people weren't sent here to have fun. No matter. We'll just throw in some extra tribulations -- maybe a plague of boils are some such -- for any whose Permanent Record shows enjotment from this task.
"That's about it from the netherworld. How are things in the bunker?"
"Same old, Same old. Rex and I talked it over. We're not sure how long we're going to hang out here. But we'll give it a couple of weeks in case you need what megher support we can offer. Rex wants to know if dogs are allowed in Elysium. I didn't see any while I was there. But I wasn't there very long."
"Tell him of course they are. Most of the hounds there are from the local pack, but occassionally one drifts in with a client or just shows up somehow. As far as I know, they fit right in. At worst, like most groups that think they are vastly superior to their peers, there may be some sort of preposterous pack intiation ceremony, but nothing that will leave scars.
"On the other hand, getting Rex to Tokyo would be a drag. And they'll probably want to quarantine him for three months. And I'm not sure that Japanese polite-ness extends to letting animals Rex's size ride the Yamanote Sen even with a ticket. Tell you what, let me know when you folks are ready to leave and I'll provide transport of some sort to the Elysium entrance portal."
Things settled into a routine with Satan calling in every evening to explain how things were going in his efforts to get the Netherworld under control, moan about bureaucracy, and reveal his latest discoveries about the cupidity and mendacity of his successors/predecessors. The later, incidentally, were still managing to stay hidden despite extensive attempts to track them down. Liz and Rex continued to report ... Nothing.
On the tenth evening the phone rang as usual. Liz picked it up. "SPQR overstocked and reconditioned war chariots. Check out today's special on near pristine Daimler-Benz Panzer tanks. How can we help you?"
"We found the bastards. They were hiding out in plain sight in the fourth circle pushing big rocks around with the rest of the greedy. But their rocks were made out of styrofoam. Found them when a gust of wind blew their rocks away. As you know, demons aren't very bright. But even they thought that was a bit odd. So they called it in to the task force."
"You found all of them?"
We think so. They aren't talking. Not even name, rank, serial number. We're doing a head count and trying to match police mug shot/passport/driver's license photos from our files to their faces. Not as easy as it sounds. The file photos didn't catch those dudes on their best day. And the demons say all humans look alike to them. So all the matching has to be done by the enitity in charge of the fourth circle -- Plutus. Plutus is not what you'd call a workoholic. But we're making progress. Albeit, slowly."
"What are you going to do with them?"
"Haven't decided yet. But probably just provide them with real rocks -- big heavy ones -- depleted Uranium or kryptonite maybe -- and leave them where they are. They're nothing if not greedy. We'll need Plutus OK for that, but I doubt that'll be a problem."
"So, what now? You going to build a palace and golf course, buy an expensive sports car, and reign in Hell for all eternity?"
"Well, running this place is what's expected of me. And it is what I'm trained to do. But I have to admit that micromanaging the tormenting of the damned doesn't give me the same kick it did twenty or thirty centuries ago. Maybe I'm coming down with a case of mid-life crisis. But what would I do instead? It's not like I have a marketable skill set. I reckon, that I'll hang out here for a few decades, then maybe get my resume up to date then start looking at some job search sites."
"So we, Rex and I, should start planning our future presumably far from the bunker? Will you come visit us? Maybe on holidays"
"Sure, why not? This place really can run itself. Short term anyway. And after I forget how many millenia, I have an incredible amount of accrued vacation time. How about I come and see you folks every Halloween and every Walpurgisnacht? I can find someone else to preside over the annual festivals here. Not that they're all that festive."
And so it came about that a few weeks later toward the end of the nightly phone call Liz said. "Beels. Rex and I have been talking it over. Neither of us wants to stay in this bunker forever. And we think that Elysium is probably as good a place as any to while away 100,000 years. But first, we thought we'd do a wanderjahr and spend some time looking at some of the wonders Earth has to offer. Is that realistic?"
"Realistic? Probably. Although when you've been around as many millenia as I have my dear, you begin to realize that one place is pretty much as good as another -- as long as it isn't Texas in Summer. But that's something you need to figure out for yourself,
"You shouldn't be a problem. I can just set you up with a numbered Swiss Bank Account and a passport and you should be good to go. Rex, however, might be something of a problem. In Elysium he can be a dog. They probably won't even be surprised that he can carry on an intelligent conversation. But an awful lot of humans are under the mistaken impression that they are a higher class of beings than canids. Travelling with him is likely to be a royal pain. For both of you. Cages, leashes, quarentines at borders, etc, etc, etc.
"Rex. How would you like to masquarade as a human for the terrestrial part of your journey?"
Rex thought for a while and finally said. "Well, honestly, and no offense intended to either of you, I hate the idea. Like all dogs, I grew up thinking that humans are big, powerful, nasty and thoroughly rotten dogs. Pit bulls on steroids. I have no desire to be human. But I understand the necessity. I suppose I'll have to wear clothes? And shoes or whatever you call those ludicrous boxes on your hind paws? You aren't going to make me get a job are you?"
"Well, yes. Clothes will be a necessity except maybe in Las Vegas and a few beaches here and there. And footware as well. Human feet aren't as tough as your paws. A job? Heavens no. You're not being punished for anything.
"Do you have any preferences as to appearance, sex, age, etc?
"Well, I guess I'd like to remain male. Probably adult? Not too fat. And not too old. I'll leave the details up to you and Liz."
And so it came about that Rex was painlessly given the form of a moderately handsome mid to late 30s male human who could be presented as Liz's father, husband, brother, cousin, boyfriend, friend as the occasion demanded. He and Liz both sported credible credit cards, passports (Canadian--Nobody except a few Greenland fur poachers much hates Canadians) and numbered Swiss bank accounts.
Satan took a day off from managing the netherworld. The three of them enjoyed a backpack provided feast. "So, what are your plans in general?" Satan asked.
Liz thought for a moment. "I ... We don't have a real agenda. We thought we'd do Petra, and Bethleham. and the Western Wall, then duck into Egypt and see the Sphinx and the pyramids and the Cairo Museum. Then maybe take a few days and see Victoria Falls, and maybe do some sort of tourist safari in East Africa.
"I've been keeping track of Melinda. Last week at least, she was tending bar on some Greek Island neither of us can pronounce. I'd like to meet her in person, so we'll try to catch up to her and see what she's really like.
"After that, we'll do Europe. I'd like to see The Mona Lisa and de Nachtwacht and the Colisseum in Rome and if we're still in Europe come Winter, spend a day or two skiing in the alps. Then on to India, Cambodia to see Ankor Wat, and China, and Japan and Bali. We'll skip Australia, but spend a while in New Zealand. Then then Hawaii and the Americas. Then ... I dunno ... probably on to Elysium."
"How about you Rex?" Satan asked.
"I guess while we're in Paris, I'd like to see Rin Tin Tin's Monument. And it has written that all good dogs should make a pilgrimage to pee on the plants around The Balto statue in Central Park once in their lifetime. Problem is that if you try that as a dog and you don't have a human accompolis, they bust you for being off-leash. And I suppose if you're dressed up like a human the bust you for indecent exposure. I'll probably have to settle for looking at it and leaving a bone. Other than that, my plan is to go where Liz wants to go."
They cleaned up, shut down, and mothballed the bunker. They then climbed to the surface, and closed and covered up the rabbit hole. Satan somehow pulled an SUV out of the backpack which he drove to Damascus where he deposited them in front of a five star hotel with handshakes and hugs all round. He assured them again that if/when the needed him, they should dial 666 on any cellphone -- working or not -- while turning Widdershins (counterclockwise).
He left the SUV in what he thought was likely a bad neighborhood with the keys in the ignition.
The next morning, Satan settled into his familiar leather chair and took an inventory. His computer was there unchanged. So was the seven line phone with calls on lines 2, 5 and 7 on hold.. His Palm Pilot was missing. He looked in the desk drawer. It was there next to a Daytimer. His Cell phone was on the corner of the desk and a Notebook computer rested in a docking station on the table along the wall. Two beepers in their chargers next to the FAX machine and copier. Ready to go. What about the day's agenda? 8:00 Building Committee re delay in five year renewal plan. 8:30 Planning Committee re overpumping of the Styx aquifer. 9:30 Resolve jurisdictional dispute between International Brotherhood of Trolls and Kobold Solidarity Movement over which controlled prisoners in the salt mines. 9:45 Speech at Bob Jones University. 10:12 Presentation by Disney on deal to cater all social functions in Hell. 10:37 Presentation by amicus infernalae on the dangers of letting Disney control anything. 10:56 ...
The devil turned his Palm Pilot off and dropped it in the paper shredder. He hit the power switch and peered in curiously. At first the shredding wheels simply skidded on the smooth plastic, but then somehow gained purchase. There was a loud crunching. Then the paper shredder made a loud noise. The lights dimmed. The shredder stopped. A tendril of acrid smoke drifted up.
The devil looked at the wreckage pensively. If the paper shredder couldn't deal with a palm pilot, it clearly wasn't going to be up to a fax machine or PC. He picked up the phone and tapped a button. "Maggie. The paper shredder seems to be on the blink" ... "We'll yeah, I did put in more than five sheets of paper." ... "Tell you what, let's see if instead of reprogramming me, maybe we can come up with a sturdier shredder. Maybe something along the line of a tree chipper.
"Oh yeah. The Building Committee will be around in a few minutes. Feed them coffee and Danish and tell them that they are now the Planning Committee and they have 48 hours to come up with a realistic plan to stop overpumping the Styx Aquifer. Tell them that if they blow this one, they will end up refilling the aquifer by hand.
"And the Old Planning Committee will drift in about 9:25. Tell them that they are the Building Committee now and that their next five year plan better be accomplished in five years if they don't want to end up learning ancient Egyptian construction practices from the ground up as it were.
"Call Bob Jones and tell them that I can't make it for the speech. Tell them I can get them Adolph Hitler or just about any of the regulars on the Sunday Morning Talk Shows. ... Look, I wouldn't recommend Hitler if I didn't think it would work. He speaks flawless English nowadays as he's just as spellbinding in English as he was in German. Hosts a talk show if you must know ... No, not that gawdawful thing ... Yeah, that one ... Of course he'll use a pseudonym. Wouldn't get much work even from the Klan if he didn't. ... Mostly on the talk circuit he does tree hugging and anti-globalization, but I imagine that for a suitable honorarium he can dredge up a few words on the virtues of separate but equal. ..."
What else? Oh yeah. I imagine that if you handle it right, you should be able to get a bribe out of both gangs of labor goons. Tell them I'm out of town, but that I'm watching on the Conference camera. Let em talk to the dead mike for 40 minutes each then keep them waiting for awhile 'while Satan contemplates the problem'. Then award control of the gooks to whichever one pays you the most. You keep 60%. I get the other 40%, OK?
"Cancel the rest of my appointments and find James Carvill and Newt Gingrich. Get them up here quick as you can, but try to make sure they don't run into each other. I don't need them punching each other out, and I sure as hell don't want them planning anything without adult supervision.
If someone can track down the Disney guys, get them over here early. And have someone find the Amicus Infernalae dudes and assure them that I'm onto Disney and I surely don't want a crew smarter and sneakier than I am running around loose on my shift. That should keep the AI from chaining themselves to the benches out front -- for a while anyway.
The devil spent the next two hours making lists with titles like "In progress-OK"; "In Progress-Stupid", "Really should do", "Bad ideas" and "places with no extradition treaty". "Bad idea" got so long it ended up being split into "BFIMOKFSE - bad ideas for me OK for some other sucker", "ISBRRWP -- ideas so bad that ever Ronald Reagan would Pass". But most of his time went into s list with the cryptic title of PSETTTJ -- "People Stupid Enough to Take This Job". Unfortunately, the last list PSETTTIJASETDI -- "People Stupid Enough to Take this Job and Smart Enough To Do It." remained blank.
Toward the end of the two hours
...
The epiphany came in the middle of yet another fruitless interview. Satan looked up at the man opposite him who was pontificating on the need to bring staffing practices in Hell into the 20th Century. "thank you Governor, or whatever you prefer to be called. Don't Call us. We'll call you." The man rose slowly and -- while obviously looking for a way to salvage a situation suddenly gone bad -- started for the door. The devil added "oh yeah, and Jerry, will you please sign up for some remedial math training. I don't give a damn if you can't figure flat tax rates, but the demons in Ward 267 are getting really tired of not knowing what the hot water temperature will be because you can't get the right amount of coal ordered. Just a friendly word of advice. One more water temperature complaint and you'll be shoveling coal, not ordering it. "
The man scuttled off. They devil sighed. You'd think anybody capable of talking a rock star into wandering around Africa with him would have more to offer. Maybe the lab jockeys were wrong about the affects of second hand smoke from exotic substances.
Anyway, there was a thought... Now where was it? Oh yeah. The devil reached down into his mind pushing aside shiny baubles and slimy mollusk-like things and seized it. He snatched the thought out into the open and examined it. It was compact, well constructed. Not a bad concept at all. No obvious ties to anything else. No baggage as it were. He admired it then finally slit the wrapper with his thumbnail. Inside, it said, "Your thumbs, Bealsie. Use your thumbs."
===
Satan arranged pictures. His desk had pictures of real estate. Disneyland, Disneyworld, Disneyworld Japan, Universal Studios Hollywood, Six Flags here there and everywhere. The Mall of America, The West Edmonton Mall. The Ginza. Nishi-Shinjuku. Wall Street. Fleet Street. This Street. That Street Vail. Cannes. Gstaad. Beverley Hills. The Hamptons. Greenwich. Georgetown. The keystones of modern consumer culture.
The walls had pictures of people. Henry Kissinger. Rupert Murdoch. Donald Trump. Bill Gates. Saudi Oil Princes. African Presidents For Life. American, Canadian and European politicians. Overpaid athletes. Even more overpaid entertainers. TV writers. Talk show regulars. Texas oil men California techies. New York culture frauds. Socialites. Evangelists. Cultural icons. Arbiters of taste. Publicists. Lawyers. platoons of Lawyers. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them.
Satan inventoried the lot. Seemed right. But something was missing. Labor leaders - nope they were over on the bar. Brutal prison masters. On the transom. Crooked Cops. By the lightswitch.. Women. That was it, Women quickly pictures started to line up on the floor. Margret Thatcher. Madonna. Hillary Clinton. Oprah. Martha Stewart. Feminists. Rock Stars. Self helpers. What else? Media people. Tens of thousand of media people. Fascists. Thousands of them. Millions of them. Those who preyed on others. Scavengers. Parasites. Genuinely nasty people.
Next he started crafting individualized alterations and sticking the thoughts to pictures written in cryptic shorthand on postits. Disneyland got a ME tag -- "Matterhorn Erupts". Wall Street got RW -- "Real Wall" (around the whole thing. No doors, No windows). Washington, DC got TS - "Truth Serum" (in the drinking water).
Satan leaned back and looked upon his work. And the work was good.
He took a deep breath and put his hands together. His thumbs started to rotate. In Japan, Russia, Finland, and the Upper Volta. In Ireland and Bolivia and the US. in thousands of places, the sun dimmed. The air turned dry. Electricity crackled. Tiny cracks spread out across pavements and lawns and gravel walkways and dirt roads and rocks.
The door opened and a man poked his head in. Satan looked up and stopped twiddling his thumbs. In Japan, Russia, Finland ... and a thousand other places the skies cleared and a fresh cool breeze swept away the hot, humid, sulfurous air that had been collecting. In Anaheim, a bucket of lava slopped over the top of the Matterhorn, but the welling magma pool gurgled back down the crater. In New York, a thousand trucks headed for the quarries in Hartford turned off the Turnpike. 6,000 stonemasons laid their mallets and chisels aside while opening another beer. The Wall was on hold. The devil smiled. with genuine pleasure "Moron! Que Pasa roomie?"
The man who entered was a full two meters tall; male model skinny without an ounce of fat. Muscles bulged where muscles belonged. his hair was a blow dried wonder of blond masculinity. From his back sprouted two sweeping white wings. In his hand, he carried a slender, graceful horn fully a meter in length.
The devil studied Moroni as he entered. "And in full dress uniform I see. Relax and make yourself comfortable. Beer is in the fridge."
"Don't mind if I do" Moroni shrank 6 inches and put on 10 kilograms as the crossed the room. The wings folded, atrophied, and vanished. The tan faded and the hair darkened a bit. The man who reached the refrigerator was still handsome and well built, but looked more like a local TV News anchor than a Greek god.
"Haven't seen you since you caught the Latter Day Saints detail. Holding up OK?
"Not so bad. They're a bit batty, but they aren't vicious. It's not like dealing with Southern Baptists. Overall, it could be a lot worse."
Satan gestured toward the horn. "Can you play that thing?"
"Of course I can play that thing. So can you. So can any man and most mammals heavier than 30kg. It has one note - a sharp E-flat with a nasty rasping overtone. Sounds a lot like fingernails on a blackboard, but it sure gets the attention of the faithful when you want to deliver half a ton of gold tablets."
Moroni popped of the tab and fired it with uncanny accuracy at a wastebasket. He then chugged about half the can.
- " You spossed to be guzzling that stuff?"
"Beelz, which of us is the expert on Biblical injunctions here? What the bible forbids is the drinking of STRONG drink. This isn't strong drink. This is weak drink. I know, because I've tested kegs of the stuff and none of it was the least bit strong." Moroni returned to his chair, sat and visibly relaxed.
The devil paused. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Jehovah has a few issues he wanted me to bring to your attention."
"And why didn't he come himself?"
"He said that within 15 minutes you'd have him so tangled up that he'd be helping you sabotage the grand plan. He figured that you could turn me, but I wouldn't be much help. Miracles and Happenings wasn't my best subject in school."
"It's true that your Loaves and Wine left a bit to be desired." Both men grinned.
"They said 'fish'. Nobody was specific about what kind."
"...And anyone could confuse Ethanol and Turpinol."
"And its not my fault that the loaves didn't rise."
Both men stopped, remembering the specter of nasty pre-teen youths pelting one and all with rock hard, fist sized loaves while thousands of ill-tempered pirhanas snapped at anything that moved and burning pots of turpentine illuminated the scene with flickering light while choking pine flavored smoke engulfed the square of Nazareth. "Shame about burning down the Temple" remarked Moroni.
"Not a shame at all." replied Satan. It was an ugly ass temple. If everybody hadn't been afraid that nutcase Roarke would blow them up next, he wouldn't have gotten the commission to build it. There was a long pause finally broken by Satan.
Issues? What issues did Jehovah have in mind? "
"Well, as I understand it, You're planning to eliminate centuries of labor by your office in one fell swoop. Is that prudent?"
"Prudent, smudent. I'm tired of making the world safe for Assholes. If Jehovah wants to take over the job of rewarding the undeserving for atrocious conduct that's his lookout. I'm bored with the rich and famous. They're shallow and tedious. I think I'll take a millennium or two off and go find some interesting drunks. to slosh down Margaritas with.
"talk about tedious .. drunks. Wheh. Unless they give up drinking they all turn into the same guy eventually. He's 58, overweight, boring, wears a hunting outfit and either is Earnest Hemingway or thinks he is."
"You should talk.
"Touche! Why yes, I think I WILL have another"
"Open one for me too" Moroni walked to the fridge and hauled our two bottles of German Beer. He threw one to Satan who popped the cap and gave the bottle a look that discouraged any thought the bottle might have of foaming over..
Satan tossed down a mouthful. "It's my domain and I can do whatever I want. Says so in my contract." He said somewhat plaintively.
"Well" said Moroni quietly, I believe there is some issue about whether 'full creative control' includes shutting down the office. There's some talk about getting an injunction."
"An injunction!" Satan choked. "Exactly how are they going to do that when all the lawyers and judges work for me?"
"Not all the lawyers, just all the successful ones. I understand they have lined up some recent law school graduates to work on 'Operation Holy Redemption'. And there are a few incorruptible judges."
"There are a few judges who haven't been caught yet ... But I suppose if I can buy them, you guys can make a higher bid. All in the interest of what is right and proper of course."
"Of course!"
"So you're here to stall me until God can conjure up a writ?"
"Of course not!!! I'm here to stall until God can conjure up a writ or until you agree to a deal. Different thing entirely."
"What sort of a deal?"
"You downsize the effort and we disguise you as Jimmy Carter, hide you until the heat is off, and get you to some place with no extradition treaty."
"And you think THEY won't notice that there are two Jimmy Carters?"
"There won't be two Jimmy Carters. The real JC will be on ice. All you have to do is wander around, talk in a drawl, and do good works until the heat dies down."
"I ... do ... *GOOD* ... *WHAT*?"
"Sorry. Give the appearance of doing good works. Aren't two people in a thousand can distinguish the two. Just don't start babbling about '1000 Points of Light?'. That's intellectual property. Point is that it's OK to look like JC might be on speed or getting ready for a nervous breakdown. Just don't get some reporter with tennis shoes and too much testosterone researching the details."
"Intellectual? We're talking about an inbred aristocrat who can't construct a complete sentence without making it a family project."
"We're getting a little afield here. Any chance we have a deal?"
Satan leaned back in his chair and took a swig of beer. He looked around, grew a pair of beaver like upper teeth; frowned; shrugged, and returned to his original form. "Naw, lousy fit. Got any other ideas?"
"Jehovah said that the fallback was to appeal to your better nature."
Satan laughed uproriously. "My better nature? Really? You're kidding, right"
"Sadly, no. That's really and truly the best he could come up with. But he does have a point here.
"Look, you've always been critical -- publically and privately, of the great flood, and the destruction of Sodom And Gomorrah, and the persecution of Job and his neighbors. Wasn't 'disproportionate' the word you used in that interview with the Afterlife Observer? How is this effort you are undertaking any different?
Satan turned red and took a deep breath obviously formulating a blistering reply. Then he slowly calmed. He looked pensive. Then sheepish. "Not all that different I guess." He muttered. Then he added pleadingly. "... But the bastards deserve it."
Moroni smiled. "Indeed they do. Some of them anyway. I believe that Jehovah might be open to a more measured response. Perhaps even a joint effort."`
"A joint effort? Like the inquisition?"
"Yes, I think that's what he had in mind."
"No thanks. Do you have any idea what that fiasco did to this place? Torrents of tormented souls with papers consigning them to hell, and no real heinous crime to make penance for other than not having proper respect for a particular church. No place to put them. In most cases, they weren't even heretics before the brothers got ahold of them. Even the demons felt sorry for them. In and out in days. And the paperwork, My God, the paperwork.
"We aren't doing THAT again."
"OK, OK, Perhaps another inquisition wasn't exactly what Jehovah had in mind. Maybe simething a bit ... milder?"
"Like what? Maybe another AIDS epidemic to discourage immorality? Are you folks up there aware that AIDS had no affect on human behavior. Our statistics folks say none whatsoever. Behavior unchanged to six decimal places."
"No, not that either. What Jehovah thought might work is for you to put together an unsolicited proposal and have your people give it to his people. He promises that he'll give it his full attention and get back to you within a week. Ten days at the most. Is that a deal?"
Satan thought a bit. "Sure, why not? We have all eternity to work something out? I should be able to put something together in a few days.
"In the meantime, is there any beer left?"
Moroni opened a bottle, and tossed another to Satan. They spent the afternoon rehashing old times. drinking beer and shooting pool on a table Satan pulled from his backpack.
================A NEW DAWN===============
====A PROPOSAL TO RESTRUCTURE THE AFTERLIFE====
Respectfully submitted by He Who Shall Remain Nameless on DATE REDACTED
INTRODUCTION
As we all know, the afterlife is facing a multitude of crises. There is one root cause for almost all of them. The afterlife was designed many millenia ago to handle the needs of a human race consisting of a few hundred wandering tribes and a few modest villages. The designers were wise. They knew that in time those villages would grow into towns and even some cities. They built the capability to scale up afterlife services to a human population of around 250 million.
A population of 250 million was reached around the time of the Roman Empire and held remarkably steady for many centuries. Those of us managing the afterlife facilities had little difficulty keeping up with the slowly increasing client stream. That is until the end of the 17th century. Then between 1700 and 1800, the population grew from 600 million to 1 billion. By 1900 it was above 1.6 billion. Then, thanks to the ill considered introduction of improved agricultural technology and medicines that actually worked the lid blew off. 6 Billion people by 2000 and still growing. They are all going to die. Every single one of them, The afterlife is in no way capable of processing and housing that many souls.
Nobody much noticed the lurking problem until it descended upon us in the closing years of the 20th century. All of a sudden waiting rooms in admissions became Standing Room Only. There were lines of waiting souls where no lines had ever been seen before -- not even on the day after the great Shaanxi earthquake of 1556. Admittance demons and archangels suddenly found themselves working 36 and even 40 hour weeks -- something their unions objected to at great length and deafening volume. They instuted a Work_To_Rule policy that made a bad situation much worse. Fortunately they grudgingly relented when the slim employment prospects for unemployed spiritual entities was pointed out to them. The Heavenly Host was mobilized and sent forth to manage the unweildy throngs. Unfortunately their training had never anticipated that sort of situation and their efforts were deemed to be underwhelming.
Somehow we all muddled through by defering essential maintenance, redefining the nature of tasks and the criteria for successful performance thereof, cancelling projects, the use of one time resources for recurring problems and other similar dodges. Inevitably, we will pay for that later. Clearly, we -- Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, Nirvana, the Happy Hunting Grounds -- are all running on borrowed time.
We can not remain on our current complacent path. Things must change. The sooner the better. In this proposal, we will review and critique the known "solutions" to this problem that are under discussion as well as several new ones. We will then propose a final solution that might, and we emphasize might, represent an acceptable course of action.
SUGGESTED SOLUTIONS
CATASTROPHY
NUCLEAR WAR
PLAGUE
NONAGINATION
ASTEROID IMPACT
ROBOT REBELLION
The above and many similar schemes are popular in bars and internet social media sites throughout the afterlife. That in itself should probably give one pause. However it is always conceivable that some internet meme or other will someday have some merit. Even a stopped clock is said to be right twice a day.
However, it won't likely be one of these schemes that will prove to be the exception. What they universally overlook is the obvious. If the afterlife can barely cope with dispositioning and housing 100 million souls a year, what are we going to do if seven or eight billion souls arrive in a period of days or weeks?
LEBENSRAUM
Another popular "answer" is that we should expand the afterlife to adjacent celestial bodies. The moon is of course the first choice. Never mind that lunar days are 28 Earth days long and that the maximum difference between daytime and nighttime temperatures is around 250 degrees centigrade vs about 57 degrees centigrade on Earth. Or that the surface area of the moon is less than 8% of that of Earth. The moon is clearly not likely to be a popular setting for outdoor activities. The other bodies in the solar system are, if anything, worse. Venus at 464C is hot enough is hot enough to melt Lead, Tin or Zinc. Maintaining proper hydration is likely to be near impossible even for demons and angels. Mars (average temperature -55C) on the other hand, is. as Elton John has pointed out, cold as hell. And it is the garden spot is the outer solar system. Elon Musk is certainly free to go to Mars, As nearly as can be determined no one in the afterlife other than a few useless ice worms is the least bit interested in accompanying him.
There's another objection to this and similar schemes. Where are we to find the staff to run these extraterrestrial empires? If staff somehow turns up, we can probably manage to train it. But it's not like demons, angels and such breed promiscuously. Or at all. In our experience, these agents needed to be created by supernatural entities.
In point of fact, no one currently involved in soul management is sure what those entities were/are or where they are to be found at this time. God, has testified under oath that while he may have created the heavens and the Earth during what he refers to as his 'Hazy Years', he/she is quite certain he did not create the afterlives, the tower of babel, disco, the crusades, or the American healthcare system. Some other dude did it. He/she does admit that he/she- might have been at least partially reponsible for quantum mechanics and has repeatedly apologized for any part he/she may have played in its creation.
So. what entities created and staffed the afterlife? There is no doubt that they once existed. Legends, no doubt well embolished, abound. And perhaps they watch us and will take notice of our problem. If we build, they will come and help us out. Perhaps. Or perhaps not.
HIGH FRONTIER
This scheme involves building huge orbiting hives many kilometers in breadth, width, and depth. "Gravity" will be provided by centrifugal force. Proponents of this idea argue that with a thousand or more floors, each hive would have more surface area than Texas. Not to mention hopefully far better climate control. In fairness, a few dozen such hives really could greatly alleviate the looming floorspace problem in the current afterlife.
One big problem here is that those hives would be highly visible to the residents of Earth who will no doubt, once they develop sufficient technology, use the hives for target practice. And/or they'll paint them with graffiti or, worse, advertising. Possibly we could discourage such activities with a few strategically placed thunderbolts or a plauge or three. But still, the hives will remain an attractive nuisance. Resources would be required to protect them. Think of the budgeting issues.
And there's another issue. Housing billions of souls in these complexes envisions an institutional environment little different from a high security prison. Endless corriders lined with small "apartments" differing from jail cells only in name and perhaps a few ammenities. Assuming the budget can support ammenities. Appropriate for Hell perhaps. This vision does not seem like most people's idea of heaven, the happy hunting ground or other residencies rewarding a life well lived.
RETURN TO THE SEA
The idea here is for the afterlife to "colonize" the Earth's seabed. After all that's 70 percent of the Earth's surface area. Lots of room there. Maybe enough to meet future afterlife needs if humanity can somehow be disabused of the notion that exponential population growth is not only desirable, but is a non-negotiable divine directive. The techies assure us that seabed colonization would be feasible, and really quite inexpensive compared to orbiting hives.
There are, as one might expect, drawbacks. First and foremost, the institutional environment issue is the same as that for the orbiting hives. True, a few fortunate souls might have a window through which sealife can be observed. But the braintrust says that, barring a happenstance battle between a sperm whale and a giant squid, 99% of humanity will lose interest in the wildlife in 4.239 minutes or less.
Second, in technologically advanced eras, our undersea domains, while less obvious than the hives, will doubtless be discovered and used for target practice, graffiti, and/or advertising.
EXODUS
This is another Internet chat group favorite. We should all -- dieties, quasi-dieties, demons, angels, the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, the reindeer, front-persons, hangers-on -- each and every one of us in the afterlife and associated domains -- simply pack up and leave. Let the dead souls of Earth manage their own affairs -- a task which we can safely predict they will bungle spectacularly. Then they'll be sorry.
It is hard to deny that this has a certain appeal. But there are, as usual, a few problems:
- Unlike humanity, those of us in the afterlife do not know much about our origins. Humans have dozens of origin stories to choose from and some actual fossil data. We on the other hand simply are. We have no idea where we came from, or why. Those qustions simply have never seemed to have any relevance to our activities. If, as seems plausible, we were created to handle souls after their body's demise, it seems not unlikely that our creator(s) will view our massive dereliction of duty unfavorably. It/they might punish us. Or it/they might simply vaporize us.
- There appears to be no place to which to go. See Lebaubsraum (above),
- Even if we somehow found a suitable destination, there is no guarantee, that the magic that many of our activities depends on will work there. Indeed, since it often appears that the magic violates physical laws like Conservation of Mass-Energy, it seems quite likely that it will only work in our current environment that somehow fineses those laws. Speaking for many, probably a majority of those of us here in the afterlife, we would be MOST unhappy if it turned out that I had traded a comfortable if hassled existence here in Hell or some other afterlife for a situation where we actually had to work for a living. We certainly lack the training and probably the aptitude and inclination as well for gainful employment.
THE AB NEGATIVE GAMBIT
What is proposed here is that we concoct and disseminate a virus that sterilizes all of humanity except the 1% or so with type AB negative blood. The result would clearly be a population decline to miniscule levels over the next 80 years or so without any sudden transient bulge in afterlife admission levels. The techies assure us that is probably possible although they don't currently have such a virus on their quite extensive shelves. The braintrust says that would be a bit risky as there is a chance the resulting birthrate would be so low that important elements of the human genepool might be lost.
There are drawbacks. For one thing, techies have been known to be wildly optimistic. They have, for example, been trying for seventy(!) years to scale Hydrogen fusion from city cleansing capability to power plant size. And they still apparently have decades to go.
We asked the braintrust about that, and they told us that yes, overoptimism was a potential problem and that if AB Negative is Plan A, a Plan B is pretty much mandatory. They add that having Plan C in case both Plans A and B founder, wouldn't be a half bad idea. When we asked how long we could wait before invoking Plan B, they hemmed, hawed, "consulted" (whatever that means), ran a bunch of computer models, and finally told us two decades, three at the outside.
OUR INVESTIGATION
We started by reviewing all the written material available on afterlife crises. After which we conducted extensive interviews and discussions in bars, hairdressing parlors, social clubs and such in those afterlives (23 in number) where we felt that it might be possible to provoke something that might pass for serious discussion. After completing those efforts, we felt had a good grounding in the nature of the problems and the possible solutions. We convened several spectacularly unproductive academic symposia. Finally, we set up a number (six) of internet forums/chatrooms -- two of which actually produced some insightful discussion. The others unfortunately were sidetracked by interminable discussions of the plight of the Galapagoes Tortise, How much illumination hydroponically grown cannabis requires, whether the United States should annex Tasmania, and the relative merits of two Bylorussian soccer teams.
We then constructed large scale computer models of afterlife areas, afterlife population density, staffing and resource needs for the next two centuries based on past admission data, past, current, and extrapolated human populations and (dubious) assumptions about future birthrates, death rates, and partitioning of the deceased among the various afterlives. We were greatly hampered in this effort by erratic, incomplete, nonexistent, and in some cases, outright dishonest record keeping both on Earth and in many of the afterlives. We nevertheless think our computed results are as good as is inhumanly possible. Anyone who thinks they can do better is welcome to try. Our data, methods, computer code, and detailed results -- all 13,692 pages of them -- are attached as Appendices A-K.
We unanimously strongly feel that any due diligence requirments for his undertaking have been satisfied. (No More Research. Please, No More!!!)
SUMMARY OF RESULTS
METHODOLOGY
A group of 53 fifty individuals known for their intelligence, clear thinking, and openess to new ideas was selected from the population of the afterlives. With a few exceptions (e.g. Roman emperor Marcus Aureleus -- a well regarded stoic philosopher), politicians, religous figures, and high officials in the management of afterlife domains were excluded from our selection. A few of the individuals selected declined the invitation. Karl Marx for example, thanked us but said that, while he stood by his convictions, he had no desire to again watch the implementation of something that he believed in being mangled beyond recognition. We feel that the 46 individuals we assembled represent a fair cross section of human experience and thought. We do note that women and South Asian thinkers seem to be under-represented. The former because many cultures regard any sign of female intelligence as a threat. The latter because the individuals we most wanted to invite could not be found even after diligent afterlife searches. Their souls presumably have reincarnated or have achieved Nirvana. Or perhaps they are in hiding and are exceptionally good at hiding. They seem not to be present in our afterlife complex. We proceeded without them.
The "Committee of 46" as they styled themselves, quickly and suprisingly amicably broke up into subgroups based on their abilities, interests, and experience. They appointed Benjamin Franklin as Coordinator because the felt that his experience as a newspaper publisher indicated considerable ability to keep efforts on track on keep the subgroups working toward a common goal. Franklin selected an obscure 18th century Japanese merchant and philosopher named Ishida Baigan as his assistant. Five subgroups of 5-12 members evolved. Their areas of interest were.
- Independent Review of the research
- Document Production
- Theoretical Concerns
- Long Term Consequence Analysis
- Marketing Analysis
RECOMMENDATIONS
FINAL RECOMMENDATION
NOW WE HAVE ONLY TO GET SATAN, MORONI, LIZ, REX, AND MELINDA TO THE BOWLING ALLEY IN ELYSIUM ON A TUESDAY NIGHT AND WE CAN WRAP THIS THING UP.
The finale wherein: .Satan realizes that, given any luck, hell is a state of mind, not a place. He can, if he wants, run Hell (or anything else) from anywhere he chooses. .Rex decides to return to his pack and see if he can persuade them to undertake a modest literacy program, work out some sort of truce with cats and squirrels and otherwise set them on the path to a better and brighter future. .Liz is revealed as yet another manifestation of the UFF -- one who has already fulfilled her mission by sidetracking the Red Queen from a course of action that would have had serious consequences in heaven, hell and earth. .Moroni decides that the Latter Day Saints can do just fine without his questionable assistance.
Liz, Satan and Moroni stop by the bowling alley in Elysium, drink a number of beers with Karl and the real Alan Quartermain and end up singing maudlin celtic songs until the wee hours of the morning. Marks and Quartermain are invited to join Liz, Satan and Moroni on their road trip, but both graciously decline. The evening ends when a mysterious masked stranger with a flowing beard dressed in white robes interrupts a rousing rendition of "I'll Take You Home Again Kathleen" to suggest that Satan really ought to destroy the Ring of Power that Liz is carrying on a chain around her neck. After some discussion of ways and means, Satan allows himself to be hypnotized. The next morning, acting on post-hypnotic suggestion, Satan uses the ring to cure the party's hangovers, disable all the other rings of power, and casts the ring into a fiery pit.
Final clean up:
| Chapter1-Liz | Chapter11-... And Back | Endnotes |
NOTE: This chapter is a work in progress. There are probably even more spelling, grammar, and formatting errors than in the other chapters.
Copyright 2025 Donald Kenney (Donald.Kenney@GMail.com). Unless otherwise stated, permission is hereby granted to use any materials on these pages under the Creative Commons License V2.5.