Don T’s Inferno (continued)
Circles 2 & 3
“You kidding?” I ask Virgil. “Lust, a sin?” I laugh. “Ridiculous.”
Then I see this big guy. Giant. Wears a crown. And a long line of the damned. Walk up, one at a time. (Very orderly. Gotta hand it to these Hell guys. Run a tight ship.)
“Minos,” Virgil says. “King Minos.”
I smile with recognition. “The golden touch king,” I say, pointing my pointer finger. (Secret to public speaking: Talk with your hands. And my hands, my lengthy hands. Well, fingers really. Long fingers. Great grabbing fingers. Strong hands, not rough. No callouses on these hands. But strong. Business or pleasure, I grab with gusto and don’t let go. Not till I want to. Like they say: My hands, my choice. Heard it many times. Catchy saying. Very catchy.)
“Different king,” Virgil whispers in my ear. “That’s Midas. This is Minos.”
“Sure, I know that. Just testing you.”
“Minos picks,” Virgil tells me, “which circle of Hell you go.”
I nod. (Big responsibility, making decisions. Know what they say: Crowns are heavy.)
The wind blows, and I get a boner. (And naturally, when I get a boner, I want to use it.) Wind picks up more, and my boner actually gets bigger. (Usually terrific, a terrific-sized schlong. Immense. Think wives marry me for money? Nope. My schlong. Plus wit and charm. Whole package. That’s me.)
Virgil touches my arm. I brush him off. “Wind of desire,” he explains.
The wind gets windier. My dick’s never been harder. (Usually almost this hard. But not quite.)
There’s thunder. Lightning. Hard to see for most guys. Still, when I get a boner, my eyes — they get boners too. (Eye boners.) I can see for miles. And I see Cleopatra. Shit, I think it’s her. (And when I think something, that’s it. No questions asked. End of story.) She comes closer. Not so pretty, kind of mannish. And married her brother. (Creepy. Like me marrying . . . Wouldn’t happen. I’d resist. Incest, bad for the blood lines. And society.)
The wind whips. Boy, does it whip. Whips my boner.
Tornados pop up all around. Big tornados. Sucking up people. And all of them, sobbing. Pathetic sobbing. Not manly. Sobbing. I look away. Disgusting. Sobbing. Tornado whips by. So close I can touch it. The tornado moves away, and my boner goes too.
My mind wanders. (A lot on my mind — a million details running through my head. Plus the plots of TV shows. Sooo many shows.) Exhausted after my long boner, I fall asleep.
I wake up. What new Hell am I in? Literally. The rain and hail, it’s filthy. And the woe. Pathetic, real downer. Nobody, and I mean nobody, has an umbrella. Clueless. No people to pack for them — obviously. And the ground stinks. Incredible stink. Real nose turd.
I hear barks. Lots of barks. Sounds like a pack. Incredible amount of barking. Then I see. Not a pack. Not a pack but a freak. Dog with three heads. Three. Not one, not two. No, three entire heads. And those eyes. (News flash: No eyedrops in Hell. Lots of redeye.) Dog’s not chained up. No, free to roam. Gets ahold of one guy, tears him apart. Literally.
Got to hand it to the dog. Born with a birth defect like that. Surprised he wasn’t drowned. (Bet his mother had sex with her brother. That’s wrong, you know. Very, very wrong. Nobody, and I mean nobody, should have sex with their immediate family. As tempting as it might be. Use some self-control for God’s sake. Can I say God here? Testing, testing. God, God, God. Yup, it’s fine.)
So this dog, born with such disadvantages. Runt of the litter, maybe. Did he whine and cry and whimper? Oh, poor me. Got three heads! Hell, no! He pulls himself up by his boot straps. (Dogs wear boots. Little ones wear booties. I’ve seen it.) He’s worked hard, and now he lives the American dream. Yes, he is. In charge of a whole circle of Hell. Got there with hard work. Hard work and dedication. And I’m sure he wakes up every morning (whatever head is sleeping) and takes pride in his work. Sure, he’s in a shitty, rainy circle — Oh!
Oh, boy, I’m a little embarrassed. Looks like he’s a bitch. Bitch named Succubus. (So wrong, succubussing. Take advantage of some poor guy in his sleep. Jeez, what’s this world coming to — man can’t sleep in his bed without some she-devil climbing on top and taking a wiener ride. Wrong, just wrong.) Women, they ought to take a lesson from their friend Succubus there. If an ugly bitch like her can succeed . . .
So it goes to show. Glass ceiling — a myth. Anything those godless feminists won’t say to get their way? What next? That every sperm isn’t sacred? That they make less than men? That their dry cleaning is more expensive? Oh, boohoohoo. Cry babies. That it’s harder to dance backwards and in high heels? Sorry, but who’s leading? And who’s following? Follower or leader, who’s got the harder job? I should know. Leader all my life. An inspiration. Inspiration to millions, no, billions! No, let’s go with TRILLIONS.
What? Oh. Of course, I’m counting how many times I’ve inspired people and not the people themselves. Press got it wrong. I was misquoted. Know what they say: Can’t trust the press.
And people who don’t say I inspire them? Sour grapes. Sour grapes, or else are inspired by me. Just don’t realize it yet. But one day they’ll wake up and say: That man — terrifically inspirational; don’t know why it took so long to realize. The ultimate American patriot, like Mel Gibson in that movie. Yes, they’ll realize. Some people, not as sharp, a little behind the curve, take the short bus. But I’m very patient. Patience of the job, the expression goes. Yes, mark my words. One day, they’ll realize the great things I’ve done, terrifically great things, and they’ll admit they misjudged. That I’m a visionary, should be on Rushmore Mountain. Plenty of room. Remind me to write an edict.
We meet a new guy, werewolf named Plutus. “Right this way, gentleman,” he says.
“Yeah, let’s get out of this hellhole,” I say.