Don T’s Inferno
CIRCLE 4
“Yo, Satan,” I hear Plutus yell on the phone over the screams of tortured souls. I check for a signal — no phone service, but password-protected wifi.
“Get the password,” I tell Virgil, tugging on the sleeve of his dress.
“Excuse me,” I hear him say, waving to get our host’s attention, but Plutus ignores him and chatters on in some language I don’t understand. (So rude. When you’re with Americans — especially Americans important as Virgil and me — you pay attention to us! And also speak the language of America, which is American! And not talking any of that fancy British with lift for elevator and fanny for pussy. And spunk. Don’t get me started with spunk!)
Virgil explains this circle’s deal. On one hand, you’ve got the greedy, you know, like Scrooge McScrooge before meeting the spirits. And then the spendthrifts. Pathetic bunch of losers. (If they had followed my example, they wouldn’t be in this mess. Me, I live a balanced life, full of both greed and spendthriftery. See? Balanced.)
“Anyone I know here?” I ask, because, boy, I’ve known some real assholes in my time!
“Probably,” Virgil says, “but caked in muck they all look alike and have no memories, so won’t remember you.”
Infuriating. Won’t remember me? Aren’t they being punished enough?
Virgil wants to soul-watch, but — bunch of damned losers shoving rocks up a hill? Snoozer. I suggest we bet — who gets to the top first? (Betting’s fun; turns the boring — filthy guys in Hell rolling rocks uphill — into interesting! Like my casinos. Bringing joy into so many lives. Own some super casinos — and run them right. Well, my name’s on the casinos — but I’m busy. Leave the actual running to other people. If I’d run them, they’d be even more successful. But you know what they say: Hindsight is even money.)
But that stubborn bastard Virgil refuses to bet. “Just you wait,” he tells me.
I’m steamed, really steamed. The impudence. But while I count to ten (some people, they count to three, maybe five, but me, I count all the way to ten) to get calm enough to yell, it happens! One after one, every guy slips, and none make it to the top. Boulders crash down the hill, missing some, crushing others. (Hysterical! Literally can’t stop laughing. Better than Three Stooges!)
Then it hits me — stuff’s better than MMA! I’ll get exclusive rights. And no payroll! They’re in Hell so have to work for free! (Forget Running of the Bulls! That happens maybe — what? — two, three times a year. This will be bigger!) And suddenly, the rock-rolling’s not boring after all!
They drag the flattened ones back down, ignoring the screams of agony. (High ratings, here we come! And with that kind of exposure — who knows? — maybe the next big fitness craze.) The flatties recover by the time they get to the bottom, and back up they go. And no telling who’s crushed next! (Boy, these Hell folks sure know their stuff!)
“This place’d be a real goldmine,” I tell Virgil. “Where’s Plutus?”
“No amount of gold can save these sinners,” Virgil replies.
“Who gives a shit about sinners?” I say and explain the idea. “Wanna make your fortune?” I ask.
“Fortune,” starts Virgil all poetic like. “Fortune who holds all worldly riches in her claws . . .” And he goes on like that for fifteen, maybe even twenty, seconds.
But then I stop him. “Virgil,” I say, “you want an expert on Fortune — hey, you’re looking at him! I had a TV series. It was huge.”
So I tell Virgil my life story. The ups, downs. A rollercoaster ride. (’Course, Virgil doesn’t know rollercoasters, so change it to “chariot race over many hills.”)
No sign of Plutus, but we’ll check again on the way back!
Want to get going, but another freakin’ river blocks our way. I mean, how much water does this place need?
CIRCLE 5
Some things you can’t escape, even in Hell. And one is a guy with his hand out. As Virgil pays for the ferry (I never carry cash), see a city on the other side. “That Circle 5?” I ask.
Virgil shakes his head, points to the thick, murky water (such murkiness) under us. “No, this is, for the wrathful and sullen.”
Spot something in the nasty water with my eagle eyes. Or someone. Actually, something that used to be someone I know. Real douche, but can’t recall his name.
The guy looks up but doesn’t recognize me. Disturbing stuff. I make the boat stop. Spend a good five, ten minutes explaining who I am. Least I can do.
He nods. “Ooooooh, right. You messed up our country even more than me. Which Hell you at? Goin’ deeper than me, I see. Thin-skinned, small-handed fuck.”
(Don’t like insults. Never insulted anybody in my life. What dumb schmuck insults a man of my integrity, grace, and goodheartedness? I’ve had people locked up and tortured for less!)
“Well, I’m not dead — so I leave afterward!” I tell him with a smile.
Look on his face — priceless. Watching him wave his fist in slow motion through sewage, and then the others tearing that rude bastard apart limb by limb and eating him, his screams of agony are — I admit — icing on the cake.
When there’s nothing left to see, we head to the other shore by a gigantic fortress with high walls. Hell does things right. I’m impressed.
