There is a Special Place in Hell Reserved for Smokers
An ex-Christian’s reflections on eternal damnation
There is a special place in Hell reserved for smokers.
It’s a particular corner of Hades that Satan took great personal pride in crafting. A door-less, window-less shithole of a bunker: the kind of place that would be easy to hotbox; that is, if smoking were allowed in Hell. Which, of course, it isn’t.
Because Hell is Hell, don’t forget. Hell is more than the absence of pleasure. Hell is an active torture chamber that stretches for all eternity, AKA the length of time that is finally long enough to scare human beings into doing what they are told is good for them and avoiding what is terrible for them.
And Hell, make no mistake, is very, very terrible for you. A truly compelling reason to follow the rules.
I remember a Sunday-School teacher once telling me and the other small children gathered around her knees that Hell was “everyone’s worst fears, happening all the time, for the rest of eternity.”
All of us were holding our breath and thinking about the things we were most afraid of. We were riveted and terrified, and this teacher-lady was thoroughly enjoying our rapt attention.
“Elizabeth, what are you most afraid of?” She asked in a (now) very ironic, sing-songy voice.
“Spankings.” Elizabeth’s brown eyes had grown quite large.
“Well,” the teacher-lady said with measured sincerity, “I most definitely do not want you to go to Hell, Elizabeth-Dear.”
It has never been clear how people arrived at the Smoker’s Section of Hell, nor how Satan can always sniff out a proper smoker. The smoker simply closes his eyes and dies, and then in the next moment, finds himself desperately clawing at the walls of a room with zero ventilation.
It is said that if you have a sick sense of humor, it can be pretty entertaining watching millions of desperate souls spend eternity turning their pockets inside out in search of one last fragment of tobacco. Or weed. Because smoking is smoking, and sin is sin.
Satan, that rascal, takes particular pleasure in torturing his “guests” in this corner of Hell, pretending to bow and graciously offer the most perfectly rolled premium cigarette, only to have it disappear in a poof as soon as they bring it to their lips.
“SUCKERS!” Satan gleefully screams as he, too, disappears in a cloud of smoke. A cloud that smells suspiciously like tobacco (but not enough to bring any amount of pleasure to the dumb-founded soul who still has one hand raised to his mouth).
If you find yourself in Hell, there’s a reason. You are a sinner, and you deserve the flames of eternal damnation.
But let’s be clear: Everyone is a sinner and deserves the eternal suffering in the lake of fire. If you made it to Hell (you lucky devil), you are a sinner who failed to crack the code of salvation by speaking a very particular set of words, most likely in the English language (Because are we sure God speaks Swahili? Are you willing to take that chance?).
You may have even spoken those magical words in exact accordance with how THE WORD OF GOD dictates those words be said. Still, you failed to authentically MEAN those words with your whole heart, and therefore, you are a sinner who made the one mistake you really shouldn’t make in this lifetime.
And so here you are, sweating in a dank bunker and craving cigarettes with other pitiful sinners for longer than your puny human mind can possibly comprehend. C’est La Vie.
Such is life, and such is the end of life. And such is the eternity after the end of life.
I sometimes wonder if Elizabeth is still on the path of the righteous. Or if she has become a sinner, like me.
If you are reading this, Elizabeth-Dear, I want you to know that I, too, shared your deep fear of spankings and being rejected by the people I needed love from the most. All I wanted to do that day was to hug you, to hold you. To comfort and be comforted. And to make that wicked teacher-lady disappear in a cloud of smoke.
If you and I meet again someday, the hug is still available. Even in the Smoker’s Section of You-Know-Where.
Zach Kleyn is a former nursery school teacher, playground designer, counselor, and professional artist. His artwork has appeared in several literary journals, including LIT, VLAK, and SPECS.
Zach often writes and makes artwork about growing up in a fundamentalist Christian home, considers himself a part-time smoker, and is undoubtedly hell-bound.
