- Character – pimp
- Setting – Hell
- Object – baseball card collection
- Situation – amnesia
Sheets of flame enveloped every surface, including the bubbling black tar of the river.
“I don’t remember how I got here,” I said to the tall, goat-headed person beside me.
“That’s normal,” the demon replied. “Which is too bad, because the dimensional transit vortex is really bitchin’.”
“The spinning tunnel of sulfurous lightning? Oh I remember that part,” I said. “I meant in a philosophical sense. As in, what did I do that was so terrible?”
“Ah!” Goat-Head brayed. “Tasty. Existential dread added to the other forms of torment! You’re gonna be a celebrity down here.”
“Maybe I can figure it out,” I said.
“Oh, I hope not.”
“Let’s see. I stole my sister’s baseball card collection…”
“That’s a first. But no, that’s not the reason.”
“I had a stable of skanky hos, sold their asses all up and down the north side. And I was looking to expand my territory, which come to think of it is probably what got me killed.”
“I’ve been a loyal customer for years. That’s not it.”
“Really? I was sure that would be the answer.”
“You were a businessman. The big guy doesn’t hold that against you.”
“Well, then what is it? Why did I get sent to Hell?”
Goat-Face grinned. “You’ll thank me someday for not telling you. Things get a bit monotonous after a century or two, and that question will be all that still interests you.”
I looked at him. His words made a kind of twisted sense, even if his breath was a roadkilled skunk in late July. “Thanks,” I said. “You’re okay in my book.”
“Keep your voice down,” he hissed. “If I get fired from this job, I’ll have to move back in with my mom.”
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