Veteran’s Preference

From the files of ancient lore…

He hadn’t believed he was dead until he opened his eyes and found himself at the pearly gates. Looking up to a high desk with a ST. PETER nameplate, the white-haired bearded man sitting above him was examining a file and shaking his head,

‘Your name’s not on our list.’

Before he could answer, the white marble he stood on opened. He went down, down, down and found himself painfully landing on the granite floor next to a padded chair. To his side was a giant picture window overlooking a red world with yellow flames and screams of torment. To the front was a desk with giant placards declaring WELCOME TO HELL! IT’S NOT JUST OTHER PEOPLE and NO WHINING.

Presiding was a seated horned red humanoid wearing a white nametag reading,

Hello! My name is SATAN!

He painfully rose from the floor and moved to the chair,

‘I didn’t tell you to sit down! That chair’s for company! Stand.’

Pointing to a sign on the wall reading IF YOU CAN READ THIS, YOU ARE DEAD, the horned one sang a familiar tune,

‘You’re not only merely dead, you’re really, most sincerely dead…We like to have a laugh here now and then, no, that’s not quite true…I like to have a laugh, not you…’

He held up a similar file to the man upstairs,

‘You know what you are, where you are and why you are here…’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes…Satan…’

‘Yes, Satan!’

‘And you’re here for eternity and a day. One of my imps will put you to work…one moment…your file says you were once in the Army…’

‘Yes, Satan!’

‘Well then, you have a choice where you’re going to spend eternity. You can spend it either in the military hell or the civilian hell. I’ll give you a few seconds to decide; until my imp comes for you, but you can’t change your mind. That’s why women call this place HELL! Ho-ho-ho!’, laughed Satan Claus.

‘What’s the difference, Satan?’

‘In the civilian hell you’ll be carrying metal buckets of hot pitch over the flames to the storage silos. In the military hell you’re chained to poles and covered with the hot pitch. Which one is it? You’ve five seconds to decide for eternity, four…three…two…one…’

A smiling goat horned imp looking as if he had Down Syndrome wearing a Satan’s Little Helper badge waited at the door.

‘Hiya, Mr. S!’

The Prince of Darkness sang as he pointed at the imp who turned into a shrieking human torch,

‘Familiarity breeds combustionnnnn…’, he stopped singing, ‘Now, I’ll have to take you there myself…which hell do you want?’

‘The civilian hell, Satan.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes, Satan!’

They walked outside to the land of red skies with flaming clouds. The buildings resembled the Greco-Roman facades of the Hidden City of Petra.

They paused at one,

‘Enter! Follow the burning brick road…’, he sang, ‘to the civilian hell…enjoy yourself…as you were, I’ll enjoy myself…’

* * *

There he was, walking through the hot coals and flames in his bare feet carrying a hot metal bucket of pitch, being flogged by devilettes if he was too slow. His Imp Patrol were all male; his companions told him females had a similar hell, but they had mirrors.

One day he noticed a large wall. He whispered to one of his fellow Damned if You Do, Damned if You Don’t,

‘What’s behind that wall?’

‘That’s the military hell. They’re chained to poles and covered with hot pitch!’

He knew he’d be punished severely, but he thought that if he had a quick look over the wall, he’d have the pleasure of knowing there were things worse than what was happening to him.

Once sure he was out of sight, he crawled behind the red-hot rocks and climbed to look over the wall.

There was a field of grass without any flames or severe heat. The inhabitants were sleeping, smoking cigarettes or reading comic books.

‘What the hell is this place?’

‘It’s the military hell.’

‘They told us you were chained to poles and covered with hot pitch!’

‘It’s the military hell. They ran out of chains, the heat’s not working, no one can find the poles and the hot pitch is still on order…’

FIN

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