Ben Vining
One day, we (Rob, Matt, Chip, and Ben) were just sitting around on our bums listening to
Sir Mix-a-lot and contemplating the afterlife. Then, out of the blue, a duck-billed
platypus entered the room. Since we had recently purchased a Duck-billed Platypus
George Forman Grill, Matt suggested we cook the little critter. Rob, mistaking
Chip for the “little critter”, threw Chip into the grill. Ben, in a fit of panic,
lunged after Chip, thus sealing his fate. Matt, realizing that Ben still had a
CD in his pocket that he had borrowed from Matt, hurled himself after the now
flaming Ben. Rob, wanting to smack our trio of morons for being so stupid as to
unwittingly damn themselves to the crispy, steamy self-contoured automatic
cooking device in which their bodies now resided, knowingly stepped in after
them, and that is how we came to be… in hell.
Contrary to popular belief, hell is not as cool as Bill and Ted described it to be.
Of course, we don’t know that yet. You see, Hell is warm, but a cozy
warm, not so humid, just cozy, like Jamaica. In fact, our first
thought was “Wow! We’ve died and gone to Jamaica.” So we walked
toward this big arch thing. We laid our eyes upon a sign that
dangled from the keystone of the arch. It read: “Blah, Blah,
Blah… Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here… Something,
Something, Something.” Being byproducts of the Beavercreek school
system, we’d learned that reading is often pointless. So we
walked on through. Ben asked “Hey, where’s the cream filling?”
Then as if from nowhere, Dante Aligheri walked toward us, and spoke. “There is no cream
filling my pupils, for this is Hell. I shall guide you on your
journey through the wasteland. Follow close behind, or be lost
forever.” Realizing a forever in Hell would not be cool, we did
as we were bid.
Before us stretched an unending line of the dead, leading towards a small raft on an
expansive river. Thinking they had discovered a new amusement ride,
crowds at a time scrambled to be the first on the raft. A broad,
white haired man, dressed in a cruise captain’s uniform herded the
fools onto his vessel, and then ferried them across the river.
When we attempted to board his craft we were at first denied.
Dante beckoned to the seaman, “Stubbing, you will provide passage
across the river for these four, it has already been decided.”
Stubbing followed Dante’s orders, much to our stupefaction.
Upon reaching the far side, our quest continued. We slowly approached an old bald man.
Sinners stood before him, compelled to confess their sins. For each level of sin,
the ancient one would crack one of his knuckles. The significance
of this action was lost on us. When we finally stood before this
judge of the damned, our guide spoke. “Milslane,” bellowed Dante,
“the powers that be have declared that these four must be allowed
to pass through each of the many circles. You are commanded not
to interfere in their progress.” As before, Dante’s word was
final, and we resumed our march through Hell.
We walked for sometime without much change in scenery. Impatient, we questioned what was
to happen next. “We must proceed on foot for the length of your stay.
Approximately five miles from here we will behold the first circles
of Hell.” As soon as we heard we would have to walk another five
miles, all four of us passed out.
We awoke to the sweet smell of food. Then we noticed the screaming. Suddenly Dante began
to lecture us: “About time you lard arses awoke. What a bunch of
sissies. I had to carry all four of you. Welcome to the second
circle of the fourth level of Hell. This where the damned are
punished for not knowing what type of fork to use for the main course.”
Pondering possible punishments awaiting the poor piteous persons proven
to have used their salad forks incorrectly, we groggily stumbled over
to the infinitely long dinner table. What we beheld was horrifying.
Each of those unfortunate enough to be seated at the table had forks
nailing their hands in place. Before them lay foods of such wonder
as to amaze the finest chefs in all the world. The harder they
struggled to get the food, the more the forks dug into their hands.
Needless to say, this horrifying sight made us all faint.
When our consciousness returned to us this time, it was to the sound of Dante’s voice.
“Jimminy jillickers you all are heavy. I should be allowed out
of here for this. No thanks to you, we are now at level six,
circle six, sub circle six, specializing in individuals who forced
students to wear useless identification badges. To my left,
we have a fresh arrival.” We flinched at the idea of beholding
anymore of Hell’s handiwork. None-the-less, we all stood
and turned to look in the direction indicated by our fearless
leader. There stood a man, quaking with fear. Above him
swarmed a flock of identification badges, each with his name
and picture imprinted on the front. Floating in as if held
by invisible hands was a stapler. As though signaled by the
appearance of the stapler, the ID badges began to swoop down
at the man. One by one, the stapler fastened the badges
mid-swoop to the man’s flesh, slowly coating the entirety
of his body. Blood slowly pooled beneath him. When the
swarm of badges was no more, the man’s screams finally reached
the point at which his suffering was so clearly conveyed that
the four of us fainted.
Once again Dante was there when we recovered. “OK, there is no possible way this one could
cause you to faint. Welcome to level seven. Since Hell
is all about being annoying, this is actually a level for
lesser offenses. In this particular circle, those who chose
to disregard the ‘Don’t Walk On the Grass’ signs are punished.”
We stood, and took in our surroundings. A vast field of
people, all flat on their backs and packed so tightly that
the ground beneath was not visible, stretched out before us.
Grasses of varying types used an unseen form of locomotion to
move across the bodies. The grass tickled the sinners toes,
and caused many a nose to itch. As a direct result of being
unable to close their mouths, each of those in the field had
their gaping maw filled with dirt from the passing grass.
Just to annoy Dante, the four of us all purposefully
hyperventilated and passed out.
When sleepy time had ended, we woke up to Dante, hopping around and jumping and
screaming “Gosh darn it! I can not work under these conditions!
Forget you guys”, he said quite indignantly, “I’m going home.”
Once he had finished speaking, Dante vanished in a cloud of
smoke, making a “fwoop” sound.
Looking around, we beheld a plethora of directional signs, pointing toward the various
levels of hell. As it turns out, we were not but twenty
feet from the staring point of our journey. You see, unlike Jamaica, hell is a
large circle, with level nine located directly to the right of level one.
We picked a sign, and approached the ninth level of hell, known to mortals as “Shaft”.
Here were punished those who saw fit to make bad video projects.
Ooooh, scary. Anyway, we walked into this damned domain which
housed a giant Regal Cinema, playing nothing but Barbara
Streisand movies. Within the fetid walls of this theater
of hell, the sinners were chained to their seats, their
eyes taped open, and were forced to watch Barbara
Streisand for the rest of eternity. For some reason,
Chip mentioned “I like Barbara Streisand.”
Immediately after saying this, he burst into flames.
We stomped on Chip, to both extinguish the pyre,
and because he had claimed to like Barbara Streisand,
until he was no longer flaming. This took quite some
time. “Hey,” we said, “this is kinda fun: We could
do this for the rest of eternity!” We begged Chip
to repeat the phrase. Chip questioned “What? I
like Barbara Streisand?” Again he combusted.
Again we joyously stomped.
Unfortunately, our stomping party ended abruptly, for Satan appeared. It was Barbara
Streisand. She yelled at us “Stop making fun of me, you guys!
Besides, there is no having fun in Hell. Get the hell out
of Hell. Uh... yeah.” Then a large cadre of Oompa-Loompas
appeared, and threw us back to the mortal realm...
... “hmmm, ack, snort,” we said as we awoke from our trippy slumber. Realizing the whole
thing was a dream... we fainted.
Matt Gray
Chip Gotwald
Rob Dutcher
per. 1