Mission Impossible XII: From Hell to Eternity

Ernie had just returned from a well deserved vacation, exercising his twice annual visiting privileges to the over world.  Key West, of course, with a small ship.  His wizened face was burnished from the kiss of the tropic sun; the thin white lines of his aviator’s frames left marks upon his temples that resembled a string about his head. Like the  elastic band of cheap plastic Halloween masks.

He had found himself in the classical predicament with vacation days: use them or lose them. With the looming Bank Holidays in the UK, followed on by several hundreds of thousands of young people entering or returning to college campus, Hell Inc. was headed for one of it’s busier seasons. With the recent addition of Sam Kinison as HR Director the efficiency of the entire operation had been markedly improved. There had been no better opportunity to get away, especially considering that this year their miseries were compounded by the addition of US midterm elections.

Rather than taking the express elevator down to central administration he decided to breeze by the cavernous intake center as an opportunity to make a casual inspection of the new and improved operation. Keeping to the dark shadows on the periphery Ernie was able to navigate to the vacuum tube that had been installed directly to an auxiliary exhaust shaft. This had been Kinison’s solution to weeding out the undesirables and though he had harbored some reservations as to how efficacious this might ultimately prove, his observations thus far seemed to affirm that indeed it was an improvement.

The screeching harangue that was employed as part of that process echoed down to where he was standing, beneath the tube about halfway between the entrance to intake and it’s terminus into the base of the onyx monolith standing watch over the chamber. Though unable to view inside of the tube it was apparent that it was operating at full capacity. There was a steady succession of tumbling, like tennis shoes in a dryer, accompanied by the whooshing vacuum. He was in no rush to return to the office and decided to wander up to the velvet rope to see who had the duty for the day.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, maggot! Next to you worm shit looks like risotto! I bet your mama was a spooge rag…..” Ernie witnessed this assault from below, only hearing and not viewing the action, though as it went on it was easy enough to piece together. “…….Ahhh, Judas Priest! Another one on a full stomach? Alright, you’re okay. Now take your shit soaked panties and get back in line. Alright, who’s next?”  The voice seemed familiar, or was it the manner of speech? There was that curt cadence and barking delivery common to USMC drill instructors. He decided to call up to him.

“Sounds like you’re doing a fine job up there, Gunny!”

“What the…..who said that?”

“I’m sorry. Down here! Ernest Hemingway, Chief of Staff.”

“Why thank you, sir! Gunnery Sergeant R. Lee Ermey, USMC retired, at your service.”

Ah, yes!  Kinison had mentioned he planned to add this man to his team. ” At ease Gunny. Carry on!”, and at this Ernie walked on beneath the tube to the back halls leading down, down to the nerve center below. While he tread that darkened path he observed that it did seem notably warmer since Kinison’s tube had been installed. It made him feel much more at ease returning from vacation to see that matters had been well in hand. Hell, Inc. was trending towards a banner year.

Upon rounding the final corner before his office suite he was expecting to find the surly countenance of his secretary, Amy, to greet him. He was instead momentarily startled to find a rather slender and extraordinarily pale man seated in a chair next to his secretary’s desk. The man said not a word, just nodded once rather casually to acknowledge his presence. Ernie stopped in his tracks. He made no response towards the man yet could not remove his eyes from him. The irregularity of it, especially on the first day back from vacation, left him stunned until he decided to check in directly with the boss. He offered a silent and curt nod to this stranger and proceeded on to the Devil’s own office down the hall.

The boss wasn’t normally in this early, but Ernie was certain that he would be today. There would be the debriefing on any developments in his absence. Indeed he did find the Devil reclined at his desk with the morning’s Washington Post clutched before him. With his ever present Cuban wedged into the corner of his mouth he gruffly uttered the question through gritted teeth.

” Boss! What’s with the Albino?”

The Devil looked up casually from his copy of the Post. “Oh him? Don’t worry about it Ernie. I’ve got this one. We’re just keeping him on ice, as it were.” He twisted his face into the most mischievous snarl to accompany his play of irony. He then went on, ” I’ll be taking Mr. Assange back to London Town on the morrow, my good man.”
The Devil had slipped into his best clipped Westminster for the last utterance. This was not a good sign.

Ernie digested this information, made a mental note to look up whatever he could find on this Assange character and then? Stay completely out of whatever was going on. In the English speaking world there are fairly common renderings of the Devil’s image, most of them not too far removed from the truth. Regardless the local dialect there is  one aspect of these devilish depictions which seems universal throughout the Anglosphere: the Devil is no more sinister than when he slips into that rather proper Kensington Cluck.


The following morning the Devil, accompanied by a sleepy Mr. Assange, stalked the utter bowels of hell while on their way to an impressive subterranean aerodrome. Assange had managed to maintain a stolid deadpan throughout his stay, but with sight of this even his opaque veneer cracked to reveal a sense of surprise. The Devil adroitly picked up on this subtlety and beaming with pride he effused:

” Huh? Yeah! Pretty fuckin’ impressive airport, right? You weren’t expectin’ that, were ya?”

Assange shifted his eyebrows slightly and offered half a nod to silently concede this point. He betrayed nothing more, but he was eager to leave. The Devil, without further remark, led Assange forward into the complex which was surprisingly active for the hour. In relative terms this facility was quite new to Hell; the creation of Howard Hughes, TransHell Airlines (THA for short). The color scheme for it’s predecessor, TWA, was perfectly suited to the new company. This of course had been a concession made to Hughes’ gigantic ego as all craft, once entering the overworld, were entirely invisible to human eyes. Unfortunately this extended to air traffic control technologies as well. On most days flights proceeded from Hell without incident, though for the occasional mid-air collision the cover stories of The Bermuda Triangle and Don Lemmon’s famous black hole theory were sufficient to quiet an incurious populace.

After a stroll about the edges of the space they wandered deeper into the operation until arriving at a hanger where a smaller Learjet was fueled and waiting. The Devil proclaimed that the craft would be their ride for the day and their pilot would be arriving momentarily. It had been no more than five minutes and as promised a corpulent man donned in WWI fighter ace regalia arrived, halted at attention before the Devil and saluted him.

“Guten Morgen, mein Fuhrer! Ve are ready for flug, ja?”

“Yes, good morning Hermann. You have our flight plan?”

“Ja-wohl, mein Fuhrer! It vill be so much fun flying over London again!”

“Hermann? Tell me you’re not carrying any explosives on board!”

“Himmel! Niemals wurde ich….”

“Hermann! Bitte, auf Englisch!”

“No, mein Fuhrer. No explosives on board. I svear on mein nutsack!”

“Good, good. Shall we be off then?”


Assange had stood impassively to one side of this exchange and then as their pilot preceded them up the steps the Devil entreated him to go first.

“Please, go ahead Julian. I may call you Julian?”

“Erm… yes, of course. Er, is that….?”

“Mm-mm? Oh, the pilot? Yes, that’s Hermann Goring. Bit of a putz, really, but he’s a damned good pilot!”

A short time later they had boarded the craft, were situated into their seats and Goring began to taxi from the hangar. Assange was seated just behind the starboard wing, affording him a fair view through the small, oval window out onto the tarmac. Other craft and maintenance vehicles seemed to part way like the smooth ripple of the water’s surface before a ship’s bow. He felt the jet gradually accelerate, gathering momentum steadily when Goring’s voice came across the cabin.

“Mein Fuhrer, ve are departing beim bay 45 today. Our esss-timated time of arrival vill be 12:45, Greenvich Mean Time. Actual flugzeit ist, errr, chust under 2 hours, mein Fuhrer.”

“That’s fine Hermann, just get us there!” The devil offered a wink to Assange, then added “I warned you he was a bit of a putz”.

Assange grinned and again turned his eyes out the window. From as much as he could see forward he could tell that there was a massive movement of some set of doors opening wider and wider. This was spilling an expanding crevice of light, real sunlight, into the subterranean gloom. The wheels were turning faster, faster, the turbine whining to a pitch to make one’s ears ache. The intensity of the sunlight grew, much as one would experience emerging from a long mountain tunnel into a rising sun. The plane bucked at full thrust as they cleared that solid black line where the walls ended, now out and open to the light. Still the tires had not lifted off of the ground. For at least another 700 meters they bumped and rumbled until finally they left the surface. Goring pulled all the way back into an aggressive rate of climb, the g’s pressing ominously. For an instant Assange was certain he felt a hiccup in the thrust; that they were certain for a stall. He mustered a nervous grin and for the first time initiated an exchange with his host.

“Ha ha…yes, I see what you mean about him. He, er….he’s a bit reckless, isn’t he?”

“What? Hermann? Bah, nothing to fear. Look, under the circumstances Julian, I completely understand why you’re nervous about flying and that’s why we’ve made all of these arrangements. I must apologize, I’ve been a bit of an ungracious host. You see at home I’m accustomed to only dealing with the dead. The courtesies of the living are of no consequence here, you understand. You, of course, are one of a very rare set of exceptions and, well, to be completely honest you’ve been so damned quiet I’ve had to wonder a couple of times if you hadn’t died! Quite ironic for a man who’s got himself into his milieu for saying too much, eh? Ha ha! I love irony.”

This was the closest thing to a reassurance Assange had heard from anyone since leaving the Ecuadoran Embassy in London. He wasn’t even certain how long that had been, simply having gone from one confinement to another. It did clear up something for him. Who ever the parties were arranging this travel were not to do him harm: they meant him to arrive safely. This eliminated the Russians from the list and probably the Americans too. Yet they were going to London, where his body double had remained. It also revealed to him that if this did end badly he’d already had a taste of where he was headed. He was pretty sure the Devil might offer him a job.

The flight leveled off as they assumed a cruising altitude and Assange resumed his blase expression, contemplating where this journey might end. If the Devil had any inkling of the arrangements beyond his delivery to London he wasn’t sharing. In his worst imagining he conjured images of his apprehension by a cadre of FBI agents, in cuffs and paraded before all of the cameras before being stuffed into the back of a black SUV and whisked away to a plane that was almost certain to go missing, somewhere over the vast Atlantic Ocean.

Unbeknownst to him, within minutes of that very train of thought, those very events unfolded with his body double in his place. The arrest scene outside of the embassy, cameras from every network across the globe, it was an instant spectacle worldwide. Before this circus his doppelganger was indeed escorted to a large, black government vehicle, driven away in haste to a waiting aircraft which proceeded to explode into billions of pieces somewhere over the Irish Sea approximately 22 minutes after take off. As far as the rest of the world knew the saga of Julian Assange was over. The details could all be sorted later and some suitable narrative would be presented for public consumption. By the time 2020 rolled around people would only say “Julian who?”

At about one hour into their flight the Devil’s Samsung phone chirped a text message. He rolled his eyes in annoyance at first, only taking a cursory glance at the screen to see who it was from. He let the phone settle again into his lap briefly when a troubled expression creased his brow. He took up the phone again to examine it more carefully.

“Damn it! Forgot my reading glasses! Julian, can you read this screen for me?”

Mildly startled Assange sat up and took the phone. On the screen it read (and he read aloud): change of plans. please call ASAP. Donald.

“Fuck! Nothing is ever simple with this prick! Excuse me a moment, would you? I need to make this call.”  The Devil thus excused himself and stepped forward in the cabin, out of earshot.

“Donald! Got your message. What’s wrong?”

“Yeah, hey Satan! Nothing wrong, everything is….oh, hey, did I tell ya we were in England? But everything is okay, really, really okay, you know? I mean did ya see those stock market numbers?”

“Donald! Hold on, hold on. What do you mean were in England? We’re over half way to London!”

“Yeah, yeah…sorry about that. Yeah, it’s just my people here are telling me that the other plane blew up too early, so we’re airborne now.  We’ll meet you at the field behind Mount Trumpmore, okay? ”


“Er, uh…you know. Used to be Mount Rushmore? Your field has a gate there, right?”

“Uhh…sure. We took off from there this morning….”

“Okay, great! Great… we’ll meet you there. I gotta go Satan, I got Kim on the other line.” And with this the line went dead.

The Devil sighed silently to himself, turned slightly to check on Assange and then went forward to the flight deck. “Hermann? We gotta turn around.”

At first Goring did not hear him for the earbuds he was wearing. He was rocking out on Thomas Dolby’s One of our submarines. Even a Luftwaffe man can pine for the glory days of their Atlantic Wolf Packs. The Devil realizing this gave him a gentle nudge between the shoulder blades.


“Ach! Mein Fuhrer!”

“Hermann, we need to abort. Turn us around, we’re returning to base.”

“Wieso? Was gibts?”

“I’ll explain later, just get us home.”

“Jawohl, mein Fuhrer!”

Before the Devil had finished returning to Assange’s place in the cabin Goring had already begun to execute his turn. An experienced flyer, Assange had already taken note of the change of course and concern grew upon his face as the Devil approached. The Devil, naturally, anticipated questions and held a silencing hand up before him as he took a seat immediately across.

“No cause for alarm, Julian. There has been a sight change of plans. We are returning to base.”

This did little to quiet his anxieties. Assange swallowed hard then dared to ask ” And what then?”

There was no further point in attempting to maintain secrecy. “Julian I know you saw the text so you’ve probably figured most of this out already, but here it is. The President will be meeting us at the aerodrome instead of London as originally planned. There were…well, never mind, that part isn’t important.”

“The President himself?” In his own mind Assange had already begun to turn over whether this could bode good or ill. “…but, why?”

“Oh I shouldn’t worry, Julian! You are to be his guest. In the White House. Apparently you are in possession of some critical information. You don’t really expect he’d send the FBI, do you!? Haven’t you heard…..oh! Yes, I suppose you haven’t, have you? I’d forgotten. In any event you’ve nothing to fear. I love it when the bad actors land on their feet!”

“I’m no bad actor! I’m only interested in revealing the….”

“Yeah, yeah….the truth. I know, I’ve heard your line. Sorry old man, that’s just not a commodity I trade in. I am the Devil, after all!”

The two shared a brief chuckle at this and settled in to relax for the balance of their flight.



As their jet neared their return destination the Devil asked Goring to make a fly by first so they might have a look over the approach. With the President either present or en route there would be a number of aircraft securing the aerial perimeter. As Goring executed the slow bank to the right the Devil had a look outside one of the port side windows. At first he thought he was only projecting the image, but after blinking and refocusing his eyes he saw clearly for the first time what the President had been referring to.

“Sonofabitch! He really did it!”

From the other side of the plane Assange’s interest was piqued. He rose to peer out from the window next to the one the Devil was viewing and was astounded by what he saw. There in the rugged hills some thousands of feet below them stood the familiar profile of rock known as the iconic Mt. Rushmore, but the expected presidential sculptures were gone, obliterated. In their place there now resided three new giant faces peering down from the stone. Actually it was only one face, three times: each an image of President Donald J. Trump in the motif of see no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil.

The Devil turned to Assange. “Can you believe this guy?”

Incredulous Assange could only stare blankly out the window. “No. No, I can’t.”

“Bah! Pish!You’ve nothing to worry about, Julian. Donald plays a very good host.” The Devil chuckled under his breath. Talk about chutzpah!

Goring finished his long, banking turn and aligned for approach to bay 45. The hands covering the speak no evil face of Trump swung away from the face of the mountain to reveal the gaping maw opened to the field inside. An additional runway extended out from the chasm for the landing, appearing upon the giant face as a tongue being stuck out in a mocking gesture. In fifteen minutes their wheels barked as they made contact with the tongue and reverse thrusters roared to life as they rolled into the mouth, the tongue retracting and hands closing behind them. After another ten or fifteen minutes of taxiing through the complex the plane came to a rest.

Within moments of stopping Goring came trundling back from the flight deck, removing his goggles and unsnapping the chin strap of his leather flight cap. “Ach! Mein Fuhrer, dat vas a lot of fuel for nichts, but your fella ist here.”

“Oh not to worry, Hermann. The US Government will be picking up the tab for this one. Donald is already here? Really?”

“Ja, mein Fuhrer!”

“Alright Hermann. Thank you. You may go on then. Be sure to check in with Ernie for tomorrow’s duty roster.”

Goring clicked his heels and saluted in Nazi fashion then excused himself. The Devil then turned to Assange and gestured towards the exit. “Shall we?”

Assange suffered just a moment of trepidation, just an eyeblink of paralysis, before he mustered a wan smile and arose from his seat. ” Yes. Let’s.”

Once down the steps and onto the floor it was plainly evident that the President was there waiting. Not just because Air Force One sat prominently in the very center of the field, but because the President himself was out on the tarmac, pacing and gesturing furiously to a conversation he was holding on a cell phone.

Kim. Kim. Kim! Will ya listen to me for just a – can I talk now? I think it was my turn to talk now, okay? You’re getting all worked up over nothing, really, really nothing. Oh! Come on now! You believe that? From the failing New York Times….Yeah, yeah, just a moment Kim, okay? Just hang on….

The President paused the conversation for just a moment to acknowledge their presence and held up a finger to signify “just a minute longer” before resuming the phone call.

Kim look, its like I told ya in Singapore, remember? You’re a young man, Kim. You could be ass deep in pussy the rest of your life, right? I mean, come on, look at me, right? All ya gotta do is take care of this Trudeau character for us. Come on! How hard could it be? He’s a Canadian for fucks sake! No. No Kim. The British have got fuck all to do with it. I promise – would I lie to you, Kim?- I promise we’ll leave the Brits completely out of this one,that much I can tell you, okay?

The discussion, in fact, carried on for more than just a few more minutes. From where they stood it was only possible to hear the President’s end of the conversation so it proceeded as a steady stream of unfocused gibberish, seasoned by an occasional utterance which would defy belief. Was he actually plotting with another foreign leader to take out the Canadian Prime Minister?

The silence between them grew awkward after a few minutes, and the Devil really did have other matters to see to. He decided to chart his exit here.

“Well Julian, you’ve made a fine guest, I must say. I’m afraid our part in this is done. I really do wish you the very best and I’m certain you’ll be quite safe at the White House. Of course, in the event that things should not work out for you, well…. I’m sure we can find something for you here. A man of your talents should not be wasted!”

Assange turned his gaze towards the President and wondered just what was in store. Almost absently he replied, “Thanks. I may be back sooner than you think.”



Sam Kinison: HR Director

After observing a year of the Trump administration Ernie concluded that it was time to stick a little bug into the boss’ ear. While the chattering class of the overworld daily proclaimed the death knell with each successive blunder (no matter how trivial or consequential), Ernie noted with some smug satisfaction that the horse’s ass was actually getting some things done in spite of himself. The man was no mental giant, but he possessed a set of solid brass balls, a quality long absent from the office. A quality that Ernie admired, indeed expected from anyone who called himself a man.

Despite the theater of it all the revolving door of White House and executive office staff had done nothing to slow the implementation of their broader agenda. For good or ill, he certainly did not have a dog in this hunt, but things are what they are. As a man who also measured results, and not just idle chatter, Ernie was left to consider that some shake up in some of the executive level staff of Hell, Inc. was perhaps long overdue.

For a man whose mind had been formed in the twentieth century he found that the new age platitudes of modern HR philosophies rang hollow. Culture change. What bull shit! Like the rest of the world they had been trapped in this pathetic group think for too long. They needed a new man to head up HR to begin with, someone to come in and turn all the thinking on it’s ear. What he needed was someone like Trump. He was pretty certain he had a solid candidate in mind. He reached for the intercom switch on his desk to summon his new secretary.


“Yeah? Wotcher want, guv?”

Amy Winehouse. Not the sort of girl you took home to meet your ma, but she was proving to make one hell of a secretary. More ink than a sailor and she drank like a fish. It was a good fit.

“Amy! Get me Sam Kinison up here.”

“Get right on it, guv!” Amy was always eager to get a microphone back in her hands, though she’d lost that artfulness in the afterlife. Her voice crackled to life over the public address system. “ Oi! Sam Kinison! Bring yer arse to central admin! Boss wants t’ see yer. Right? Sam Kinison to central admin.”

Ernie could just as easily have done this himself, but he liked to hear her voice on the speakers. He’d been told by some that she’d been a singer in the overworld, though he still couldn’t quite imagine it. Funny. There was that Lennon fella over there in the Hare Krishna section, who apparently was one of the most famous singers of all time, yet he was unable to make that out either. Old Blue Eyes had come to join their party a few years back and he still sounded great, better than ever in fact. If he happened to remember the next time he saw the boss he would ask about this. Maybe there was some kind of rule. Hell is a place with all sorts of arcane rules (only the Devil himself knows them all), few of which apply universally. He had been a resident for nearly a quarter century before he learned that in some sections of Hell shit actually rolls uphill.

While to the casual observer these irregularities in physics might appear to be random anomalies, they were in fact due to a complex set of situational algorithms. In areas with large concentrations of people who spent their mortal lives trying to deny reality and reshape it into their own version (bankers, lawyers, politicians), shit will roll uphill. There is nothing they can do to change this: they either accept the reality and act accordingly or they spend their eternity shoveling shit. Consequently there are legions of shit shovelers in Hell.

Ernie refilled a tumbler on his desk with some fresh rum and contemplated his second cigar of the morning. There were a few files to review (Tuesdays were typically slow) and he spent a few disinterested minutes mechanically turning the pages, not really absorbing the material. No, this day Ernie’s mind was on the big picture, a broader vision. He had just lit that cigar when Amy’s voice returned on the intercom.

“Oi Guv! Yer man Kinison’s ‘ere!”

“Excellent! Send him in!”

Ernie rose from his seat in preparation, switching the freshly lit Cuban to his left hand. He had never encountered Kinison in person, though his reputation preceded him. He and that bug-eyed pal of his, Dangerfield, had formed Hell’s first and only comedy club. No Respect: the place where comics come to die. Of course Hell is not concerned with the amusement of the residents, the club was for staff only, yet on many nights it was SRO. He’d heard that Sam was also fond of cigars, booze and pussy. Ernie was genuinely looking forward to getting acquainted.

Kinison entered his office, nearly filling the door frame with his girth. He was wearing his trademark coat, rakishly perched beret and his ever-present sneer. With a mirthful twinkle in his eye he let escape that high-pitched, snarky chuckle. “Heh-heh-heh! I knew it was only a matter of time before you’d be calling me. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hemingway. Truly an honor.”

“Please, call me Ernie. May I call you Sam? Care for some rum?”

“Rum?! Heh-heh-heh, Ernie if you’re serving rum you can call me any fucking thing you like! So uh…waits the, uh, tail situation like around here, huh?”


Si, jefe!

“Ha-ha! All in good time Sam!” Ernie really didn’t need to carry this interview any further. He knew they had found their man. Instead, after imbibing several rounds of the latest shipment of Caney (direct from Santiago, no less), he launched into forming a vision for the new HR department under Sam’s guidance.

“So you see Sam I just can’t get past that suspicion about the HR department. The same team for so many years, any new blood arriving coming out of the same poisoned pool as those namby-pamby dip shits up there! It just can’t be good. They must be infected with that same emasculated whimper. You understand me, don’t you Sam?”

“Sure, sure. Yeah, I know the type you’re talking about Ernie. They’re all part of the pussyfication of America. Yep. Know exactly. I, uh, may have a few suggestions, if you’d be interested in hearing them.”

“Splendid! Yes, by all means Sam! Please share.”

Sam’s face broke into a crazed, beaming grin. “Really?! Heh-heh-heh….oh, that’s great. Okay, listen. Let’s drink up here and take a walk up to the front gates. I wanna show ya something! Heh-heh-heh…this is gonna be good.”

Ernie’s heart swelled with pride. Already the man was taking full ownership of the enterprise, a captain and his ship, bold and confident. It occurred to him that this could be recorded as a landmark date in Hell history. As they strode through the shadowed and labyrinthine paths upwards to the main gate Kinison began to expound upon some of his thoughts.

“You see Ernie, the real problem that we have around this place is that there are a lot of these people who don’t even belong here…”

“Now wait just a minute, Sam! You’re treading very close to heresy there! We’re not the court, we’re just the prison.”

“You calling me a heretic? Really? Heh-heh-heh! You can turn down the charm offensive now, I’ll take the job. All I’m saying is it’s the 800 pound deity sitting in the room. There is no denying it: half of these people haven’t earned eternal damnation. A lot of them are just milling around here because no one else would take them!”

It was true, there was no denying it. Hell had, sadly, become the County Hospital of the afterlife. There were some basic criteria that needed to be met, but essentially there were few instances where they truly had the luxury of turning anyone away. In the past year there had been something of an order of 125,000 admitted through the gates who had previously earned their ticket to Heaven, but had bailed due to their strict no smoking policy.

“True enough Sam. I take your meaning now. So what do you propose we should do with this surplus?”

“Fuck ‘em! They’re here because no one else would have them! Who the fuck’s gonna miss ‘em? Huh? Heh-heh-heh! Just fuel for the furnace, my friend. Fuel for the furnace.”

“Interesting. You know my predecessor had some similar theories.”

“Oh, Adolf? Yeah, he was a regular down at the club there for a while, right after you guys canned him.

“Was he?”

“Why not? A few million more jew jokes, it never goes out of style. They’re kinda like the comic book heroes of the joke world, you know? It’s a franchise with real staying power.”

“I suppose you’re right, Sam. Can’t think of a single time or place I’ve been where they haven’t been comic fodder. Of course I’ve never been a humorist. That’s more your department.”

“I suppose it is, Ernie. Heh-heh-heh!”

“Well, we have considerably greater furnace capacity, that’s true, but we’re going to encounter many of the same problems he did. We’re talking about one huge crush of humanity, Sam. Millions every year and that doesn’t even begin to touch all of the existing dead weight.”

“Ernie, heh-heh-heh! Relax! We’ll pare ‘em down over time. We’re not going anywhere anytime soon, are we? And the newbies? They’ll be easy to weed out as they’re coming in. We’re almost to the line up lane. I’ll show what I’m talking about when we get there.”

They were indeed nearing a hall carved out of the black stone which ran beside the section of the front gate marked with the infamous Velvet Rope from Hell: the queue to get admitted to intake. These were not happy souls. For many of them simply standing there in that line for eternity would be their damnation. Like spending eternity at the BMV. Oh it had been proposed many times; always discounted due to the space required. The path they were on had been on a slight rise for some time and as they entered a long curve to the left the grade increased. Hovering in the shadowed semi-void, somewhere beyond and above them, there rose the low murmur of many voices as if gathered in a school auditorium.

After rounding the rising curve into the hall they found themselves upon a level plane, just beyond the reach of those inside of the velvet rope maze. For just a moment the two of them paused in awe of the spectacle. The line wove about more times than a man might count with the naked eye. Endless shuffling of dull and wretched misery as far as the eye can see.

“Look at ‘em all, huh Ernie? Heh-heh-heh! Bunch of fucking losers! Here! Watch this!” Sam turned toward the stone wall behind them where in the shadows there lurked a hatch of some sort. Watching Ernie to assure he had his attention Sam roughly brushed off the cover of the hatch door with the sleeve of his coat. With soot, age and grime cleared from its surface the caution labels were momentarily restored to a legible state, to read:


Central Furnace Auxiliary Exhaust Shaft

Authorized Personnel Only

Teamsters Local 666

Sam read the sign and sneered. “Teamsters!? Ahh, fuck ‘em! Heh-heh-heh! Just gotta turn this crank…”

“What are you doing?”

Sam gave a final tug at the handle and the hatch swung open heavily to clang against the solid mountain behind. It echoed like a giant gong over the entire cavern, reverberating back and again, again until masses in unison clutched their ears tightly with both hands, cringing against the heavy vibration. Even Ernie was momentarily fazed by it.

“Okay Ernie, just watch this.” Sam walked away toward the velvet rope, leaving the hatch gaping open to release shimmering waves of heat exhaust and the pungent perfume of sulfur. As the crowds slowly recovered from the assault upon their eardrums those nearest the hatch now found their attentions diverted to the intense heat and stench belching from the open exhaust. Sam wandered through the wisps of smoke to the nearest post where the segments of rope were anchored with their brass clips. Standing right there was a slight man of some advanced years, very dark-skinned. Perhaps Indian. Statistically likely given that more brown men die in India every day than on any other place on the planet. The man looked frightened.

“Hi! How are you doing today? Are you liking Hell so far?” Sam turned back toward Ernie for just an instant to reveal a farcically obsequious grin as he reached to unclip the rope. He then returned his attentions to the dark, frightened man. “ You wanna step on out here? Right through here, that’s it..”, the man teetered forward warily at Sam’s coaxing. He had just set foot outside the rope when Sam launched into his trademark manic howl just inches from the mans face.


The little man recoiled in terror, his eyes bursting wide open and then Sam instantly stopped.

“Okay, you were scared. You can get back in line. It’s okay, back inside the rope now….there you go. Okay, who do we have next?”

The next person in line was a round, squat little woman who appeared she might be Vietnamese. They went through the similar dance of coaxing forward, the same hesitance of step was present, though the fear did not register so plainly upon her flat and implacable face. Again, once outside of the rope Sam launched into the full onslaught, eliciting the very same response as the man before. Once the reaction was achieved he halted the assault and escorted the woman back into line. Ernie continued to observe from a distance, puzzling over the method and purpose of this exercise.

Next in the parade was a large black woman. In life she had been known as LaKwonda Jones of East 151st Street in Cleveland, Ohio. LaKwonda bore all of the affectations associated with the urban American phenomenon known as a “hood rat”. She had never been a very pleasant person, though she was possessed of one redeeming trait, best expressed in her own words: “Don’t take no shit offa no motherfuckah!” As Sam approached her there was no fear in her eyes. In fact she was already winding up the bob-and-weave feature in her neck and her scold finger adorned with the multi-colored fake nail.

“Oh hell no, ya’ll ain’t finna get up in my grill wit dat shit, fat cracker!”

Like the Grinch calmly reassuring Cindy Lou Who when caught absconding with the family Christmas tree, Kinison lit up his most charming smile and reverted to his former ministerial persona. He raised his hands before him, palms out, in a posture suggesting truce and began. “Hey, hey, it ain’t about nothin’, sister. No no no! None of that for you. You’re one of the oppressed people!”

LaKwonda had pulled in her nails and crossed her arms just beneath her ample bosom. She was listening, but with a thinly disguised sneer of doubt. “Say what now?”

“Come on now! You know what we’re talking about. You been held down by the white man all your life and you still get sent to Hell? And then you still have to wait in line? What kinda shit is that, right?”

She was still looking incredulous, but he had her. She wanted to hear more. “Yeah? What yo white ass gonna do ‘bout it?”

Now it was time to reel her in, making it a more personal conversation. “Hey! Come on! You’re in Hell now. It’s not about black/white any more. We’re all in the shitter, sis! What’s your name, sweetheart? Where ya from?”

Her expression remained guarded, but her arms unfolded at least to bring her hands to rest upon the ample shelf of her hips. “ LaKwonda Jones. I’m from Cleveland.”

Sam winced and drew in a sharp breath. “ Ooo! Cleveland! Then you get sent here? That hurts! Oh, LaKwonda! Now see here, in Hell, we like to recognize the plight of oppressed peoples. We know you’ve been getting the shitty end of the stick all your life and even though this is Hell…, well, we like to try to find at least some small ways we can even the score. If you know what I mean.”

He still had not completely gained her trust, but he had her on the line now. “Yeah, you talkin’ shit! What you gonna do?”

“Okay, so here’s the thing, right? You’re down here, standing in line and you’re waiting for what? Eternal damnation, right? Well, why take an eternity? How bad have you really been, you know? What if you could just get all your damnation out of the way in, say, like twenty years? “

“You a crazy motherfuckin’ cracker!”

“Now LaKwonda! I’m trying to play ya straight here, come on! Why ya gotta bust my balls like that, huh? You see this nice fella right over there?” He motioned over to Ernie, who had remained standing about 50 feet away. He followed LaKwonda’s eyes to see that she had spotted him. He then waved and upon Ernie’s return wave he invited her to accompany him outside the rope. “If you’ll follow me over here you won’t have to wait in line any more, okay? My friend Ernie there can hook you up with an ExpressPass. You might not even have to do twenty, you know? I’ve seen some in as little as seven years.”

“For real?”

“LaKwonda! Whaddya got to lose, honey? At least talk to the man. Or you can always just get back in line.” That finally did it. The second her feet crossed that rope barrier the deed was done. “Atta girl, LaKwonda! You won’t regret this, I promise. Come on over here and meet my friend, Ernest Hemingway. He’s a big cheese down here, you know. Chief of Staff!”

As they approached Ernie was still wondering exactly what mischief his new-found friend had afoot. As the pair came within reach Sam offered a wink to him, signaling for him to play along with his lead.

Sam arranged himself to Ernie’s right with LaKwonda between them, the gaping hatch just feet away.

“Ernie, this is LaKwonda Jones from Cleveland, Ohio. Can you set her up with one our Affirmative Action ExpressPasses?”

Ernie winced and drew in a sharp breath. “Ooo! Cleveland! Then they send you here? That hurts!”

In the time it took for Ernie to say this Sam had built a running start behind Lakwonda and lowered his shoulder into her back like Lawrence Taylor, bowling her over into the waiting maw of the exhaust hatch. As her wails echoed up from the shaft he called after her. “Don’t worry! It’s only a shower! Heh-heh-heh!” Then he promptly slammed the hatch cover shut behind her, creating another sonic boom to render the chamber motionless, frantically cupping their eardrums as they cowered to the floor.

“Judas Priest, man! You want to explain to me what that was all about? Is this a plan or just some random exercise?”

“Heh-heh-heh! That was a demonstration of the plan, or part of it anyway. That’s our initial screening. We get ‘em like that at the entrance. You see those first two? They were scared shitless. Well, the second one anyway, you know? The fat Madame Butterfly? The first guy starved to death, he only had a wet fart. So I figure it like this. You got people standing in line, waiting to get checked in to Hell. They’re nervous anyway, right?”

“Alright. Go on.”

“Okay, so some big guy comes up and starts screaming in their face. I’m kinda scary looking, but not ram’s horns, demon kinda shit. Not the worst thing you’re gonna see down here, right? So why the extreme reaction? It’s because they have a guilty conscience. Those people belong here. But LaKwonda? She wasn’t scared, no. See, the LaKwondas? Maybe they belong here, but they’re troublemakers. We don’t need ‘em.”

A glint of understanding twinkled in Ernie’s eyes and he slowly nodded. “Yes, I see the truth of it.”

“Yeah, I figure we set up our screen at the entrance, put in a vacuum tube direct to the hatch in the wall here and we’re golden. We can cut this space by half, easy. Maybe more.”

“Beautiful, Sam. Just beautiful. I knew I was going to like you.”

“Hey, one more thing. You got that Captain Kirk intercom thing on ya?”

Ernie fumbled absently about his pockets until he retrieved a small radio type device. “Uh, yes…here it is!”

“May I?”


Sam took the unit, took a moment to puzzle it’s keys and buttons and then his voice boomed over the public address system. “Okay, starting right now there’s going to be some changes around here. Niggers and Kikes, Dagos and Dykes to the front of the line. If you match that description move it up. We need to start speeding things up around this place!”

He nonchalantly handed the unit back. “So! What do you say?”

“I say, Mr. Kinison, I leave this in your very capable hands. I have rum to drink.”