Dead and Back Again: An Inconvenient Journey

Meanwhile, many miles from the mailroom, a frail femme figure sat slouched in apparent paralysis. She slouched in the center of a small circular cell, seemingly asleep. Her cell was unlit; a fact which, when added to its lack of windows and multiplied by the opaqueness of stone walls, produced a total darkness which left any other details unknowable, or at least epistemologically irrelevant.

The prisoner knew these facts empirically—she had once walked the circumference of the room (she must have) and felt every inch of the smooth wall (she was sure she had). The room was 42 paces in circumference and 14 paces in diameter (heel to toe) which gave her 154 square paces in total. The ceiling was just out of reach, but from its echo she knew it to be flat and close. 

She was quite sure the walls were real stone. She had tasted them, and they had that gritty mineral terroir that distinguishes real stone from its copycats and imitators. 

Only one fickle feature dared disturb the otherwise oppressive symmetry of her cell: the door.

The door was so surpassingly subtle as to have escaped her first searches in those years (or centuries) past. The door had no jamb nor nob; no sill nor threshold; no hinge, handle nor head; no mullion, transom nor sweep. Yet it was undeniably there. Its rectangular outline could be traced with a frail fingernail, up, over, and down the other side.

She had been frightened when she first discovered the door. The implications were too enormous. The miniature world of her cell was not comfortable in any physical sense and (though she had nothing to compare it with) still she knew it to be inadequate. Even so, every cell is also a womb, and there had been comfort in knowing the edges of her perfectly cylindrical world.

In the pre-door era of her history, orientation had not been invented: there was only “nearer to wall” or “farther from wall.” Her movements had only magnitude, never direction. Suddenly, 1300 years of geometry came crashing down on her head as she went from pre-Euclidean to Cartesian space in a fraction of a second. The no-longer abstract point between herself and the door could be extended indefinitely outwards into... whatever was on the other side of the door.

She was enlightened with the terrible knowledge of outside-ness and all its consequences. She was as a goldfish in a fishbowl who had just inferred the ocean. She was as a grain of sand who had just deduced the shore. She was as an unborn child who had calculated the world. She was as Eve, eating from the Tree of Knowledge. And like Eve, she became like God.

Excerpt from The Pamphlet of the Dead

Hell is very near to the center of the Earth, in a region known to geologists as the “inner core”. This is common knowledge, and accounts for much of the heat and pressure that the Hell brand is so well known for. Yet this only scratches the surface!

Did you know that Hell gets over 90% of its electricity from geothermal energy? That’s right! If Hell were a country, it would be a world leader in its commitment to clean energy. That’s why we like to call Hell “the Iceland of Hell.” As Council member Sasha Smoldlik likes to say, “people hear ‘Hell’ and they think ‘fire’ ‘brimstone’ ‘red’. But perhaps soon they’ll think ‘resource management’ ‘corporate responsibility’ ‘green’!

Also! In Hell the curvature of the earth is much more noticeable. Our civil engineers and architects build everything to conform to a slightly convex surface, forcing perspective and enhancing our celebrated brutalist architectural style. Walls and buildings may look top-heavy and may seem to “fall away” over the nearby horizon. Don’t be alarmed! Just think of yourself as balanced on top of a very large beach ball. In Hell it doesn’t matter which way you walk: it’s all downhill from here!

Beast’s job was to take unmarked letters from his pushcart and deliver them to the door that was unmarked in the same particular way. Perhaps it was not the most intellectually stimulating work, but it gave him time to craft exciting new insults. And he got to see forgotten parts of hell that he was sure no one else even knew about.

Beast knew no more of the contents of these packages than he knew of their anonymous recipients. He preferred not to know. Nothing good could come from knowing. He was either delivering something unspeakably nasty to someone nice, or else he was delivering something nice to someone unspeakably nasty.

As a teenage beast, he had been curious about it all. The strangeness of this place that was his prison. The whole messy enchilada that began with “Abandon all hope...” and that would end, perhaps, when it all freezes over.

Why was it all so... complex? Why was an entire circle of Hell dedicated to “research and development?” What was motivating any of this? Why does everyone but him seem so self-assured about the importance of their work? Of their role here? What’s their angle? Am I the only one who feels this way? What if we just stopped tormenting people for a while? What would happen? Would society collapse? Why is it my problem if it does? Was I born or made or have I somehow always been here? No one gets me.

These are all the questions that he no longer asked anywhere but in the most secretest corner of his heart. He certainly wasn’t asking them now.

His cart was empty. It was time to return to the mailroom for another load. He reflected for the hundredth time how his job as an un-glorified mailman was not so different from his early days as labyrinth guardian. The hallways here were better lit. He didn’t have to eat anyone. There was a coffee machine. It was good honest work.

The wheels of the cart did not pivot. They grated horribly against the concrete floor as Beast began conducting his pushcart through 4 bars of the 3/4-time u-turn waltz, in adagio.

Out of the corner of his one eye, he thought for a moment he saw something in the cart. He looked down. It was empty. He looked away, and caught another glimpse of an out-of-place something. Not trusting his eyes, he reached a single claw out to make a digital scan of the surface. The claw bumped against something solid. Something so nondescript that his eyes had slid up one side and down the other without noticing the change in elevation.

This last unmarked package didn’t match any of the doors he was already familiar with. It was, in fact, so unremarkable a package that it was hard for him to even hold it fixed in his mind. It was hard for Beast to think about the package in exactly the way it would be hard for you—the reader—to not think about a pink elephant, if I were to tell you to not think about a pink elephant. Concentrating did not help. He had to sort of avoid looking for the package to  even find it again.

He couldn’t remember ever seeing a package so unmemorable—so lacking in essential essence. It was... words failed him. Indescribably nondescript. Unspeakably unremarkable. He was completely and utterly nonplussed.

Far from the glitzy R&D labs and the bustling DMV, in a circle of Hell that was largely administrative, the long, slow swishing of a heavy, reptilian tail washed down a nondescript hallway. Above the swish, from the tail's owner came a low-pitch and mostly-inaudible stream of grumbles and complaints. The effect was oddly soothing and, on those warm days when the A/C was broken (on purpose, usually, as a management tactic), a nearby worker could lean back in his chair as the Beast swished by and almost imagine he was on a beach, ocean waves breaking against the shore, the agonized cries of the Damned serving, for the moment, as the distant call of gulls. Had Beast known his daily griping was such a source of comfort to his hated peers he almost certainly would have broken the spell by grinding his teeth just a little more aggressively or (worse) whistling the choruses of popular songs of which he couldn't entirely remember the melody (which was itself a technique he'd picked up on a package delivery to the R&D department a few weeks back). 

Swish, 

swish, 

swish *th-wack* 

as his hefty tail introduced itself to the broadside of a mailroom trolley. He grunted out an apology over his shoulder, but continued on his way. He knew from rich experience the embarrassment that would be caused by him attempting a u-turn in the unaccommodatingly-narrow hallway. His guilt over precipitating an accidental blizzard of now-unsorted mail was dulled by the constant reminder that the Great Wizard had been completely unsympathetic to Beast's casual suggestion that they might widen the hallways.

"Just where in the hell do you think you are?"

the Wiz had shot back. It was a rhetorical question. Beast knew exactly where in Hell he was and it was the part of hell that did not accommodate creatures like Beast. Still, Beast would always remind himself, his paper pushing position was infinitely more engaging than his previous employment as a Tormenter.

The Tormenters, of course, disagreed. And they did verbally whenever Beast made the mistake of attempting to coax one into intelligent conversation. They epitomized everything Beast hated about this hole. They were nasty, brutish, short, and constantly delivering high fives.

He doubted it had once occurred to any Tormentor—even for a moment—that they were just as condemned as any of the Damned. That they had exactly as much opportunity for advancement here as the creatures they imprisoned. Beast might be condemned alongside them, but at least he had freed his mind. At least he knew he was in Hell (dammit). At least they had stopped inviting him to their parties.

Swish, swish, swish, swish. Beast stooped low to duck under yet another fluorescent lamp. He glared at the pushcart in front of him. It was puny, as though designed for the ergonomic comfort of a particularly husky child. Or perhaps just a particularly average Tormentor.

Beast knew he must look like fairytale ogre navigating the vitamin aisle at a Whole Foods. His only consolation was that he was unlikely to meet anyone with a rich enough inner life to make the comparison. Or one who was even familiar with the concept of organic groceries and their diminutive shopping carts. He composed a retort for the insult he knew that no one around him would ever bother to to make. “Well you look like the janitor at a liquor store for mutilated children.” He continued to refine the retort as he walked, then moved on to counter-retort, and counter-counter retort.

His pushcart was getting lighter. The hallway was lined on both sides with unmarked doors. They were heavy-looking, high-security-type doors. The kind that feature a sliding hatch so that they can receive deliveries without exposing either side to risk of assault, contamination, or fleeting emotional connection. That suited Beast just fine. 

Beast did pride himself on the depth of loneliness he could feel in these moments. He liked to think that his alienation was more existential than mere solipsism. Being the only conscious being in Hell could be a relief. What he felt—what he felt he felt—was the feeling that other beings like him must exist somewhere, and that they were all having a wonderful time without him.

Maxwell's still-outstretched hand was indicating a narrow passage that branched off from the main hallway at an odd angle. Unlike the 70's hotel chic of the main branch, this alcove had a distinctly more hell-y feel to it as it sloped down and away with a slightly evil taper and decreasing radius. The wallpaper here was less beige and more the color of burned sausage.  Set close in the wall were hundreds of narrow, arched windows in the style of a very old, very austere cathedral -- the type with gargoyles to remind you that God loves you and you had better not forget to love him back or else you'll end up in a place like -- well, exactly like this. It was unpleasant.

Maxwell had stopped gesturing and was now standing, apparently allowing TB to take a turn in the lead. That pointy grin of his was more pronounced and TB resumed darting his eyes around the passage in search of something to look at that wasn't covered in spikes, bloodstains, or houndstooth wallpaper. It didn't appear that he'd have any more luck further down the way, but there was nothing for it. He walked on down the hallway.

"This", Maxwell squeaked menacingly while TB descended down the hallway "is where the magic happens." He seemed to be indicating the gothic, traceried windows that fanged the red gums of the corridor. TB, who had pointedly been staring at his shoes, now looked. The first two were simply dark and weren't any worse than what he'd expected to see. The third was mostly opaque but for a flickering orange light, but the fourth...

Meanwhile, across one lake of fire, several bottomless chasms, four dormant volcanoes, fifteen miles of Minotaur's labyrinth, in an entirely different jurisdiction of verdictation, a riveted steel hatched clanged open and a hot shaft of firelight penetrated a darkened room. The flickering light glimmered off the humid stone walls, weeping raindrops of stuffy condensation. In a worn cot in the near corner of the room a small, delicate figure pointedly failed to notice the savage beauty of this baroque tableau. The beast behind this sudden interruption was obscured by the blinding firelight it was silhouetted against. By the sound of its weight against the stone floor it was clearly quite large, and by the odor of its wet, heavy breaths it was clearly quite unhygienic. It hunched there momentarily, exhaling terrible molecules of its terrible diet into the already-oppressive air of the cell.

After a few moments when the reclining figure had still not acknowledge the beast's presence, it started noisily grinding its (evidently many) teeth. The snapping and scraping was extremely annoying, but still no reaction was extracted from the beast. "Ah hem," it rasped as it cleared its throat more determinedly, "ah hem." Nothing. "Hey!" then with a hint of exasperation, "excuse me young lady." With this there was a gentle rustling from the cot. Again, "Pardon the interruption, but you're late for your appointment with the Great Wizzard." This pronouncement was followed with several heartbeats of nothing, in turn followed by a cartoonish, full-body yawn that, in the Beast's considered opinion, took longer than was strictly necessary. A sleepy voice, blurred by the yawn answered back in saccharine innocence, "Am I?"

The beast took a moment to reflect on the injustice of his position: that somehow, simply because he happened to be the point of contact between the Damned and Management, the Damned seemed to blame him personally for their situation as if (a) he wasn't just a messenger and, (b), that it was now his fault that they'd been verdictated into this mess and not (obviously) their own sinful behaviour. He would remind them of this sometimes, sharing bits of wisdom such as "don't shoot the messenger" or, "let she who is without sin cast the first stone," but it never worked. He supposed bitterly that if the damned had ever been receptive to that kind of rational thinking then they never would have ended up being damned in the first place and he wouldn't be here being tormented by them. "And here's me," he would often mutter quietly to himself, "being tormented for eternity by the damned. That's Hell for you." It was a pet irony for him that he eternally picked at. One day, he promised himself, he would write a screenplay (premise: Hell is other people in Hell) and retire from this miserable business once and for all.

Quite a ways down the Hallway to Hell, Maxwell was again obscuring his miniature self behind a miniature cloud of tobacco smoke. "See," he continued a thread that TB had not entirely been paying attention to. "This damnation business is quite a bit more sophisticated than your average fire-and-brimstone preacher gives us credit for. This isn't some two-bit Hieronymous Bosch painting. No." It seemed to TB that the stunted demon had inflated a bit and was now affecting the air of a factory manager showing off a new line of steel drill bits to potential drill bit investors. Maxwell continued importantly, "This is no medieval lake of fire orpit of snakes operation. It's a laboratory. What we do here is a science. Big computers, white lab coats, H.R. complaints -- a veritable enchilada of science -- all working in perfect coordination to..." Maxwell inflated himself further with an anticipatory breath for his big finish, "... to Innovate, Inflict and Iterate Sustainable Suffering Solutions at scale. Now this," squeaked Maxwell impressively, "is the Aisle of Innovative Inflictions ."

"Just out of curiosity," queried TB, "who comes up with all these names?"

The Great Wizzard takes personal interest in the inner workings of our afterlife. I believe he finds the titles and slogans give it a more ah... intimate feel."

TB blinked. "You have a wizard. And you let him come up with the slogans for your institution of torture because the wizard thinks it makes the place more intimate. Is that more or less correct?"

Maxwell turned to face TB head-on with a look that so clearly conveyed warning that TB's ears popped from the sudden drop in air pressure. The lights flickered. For the first time TB noticed that the pitchfork Maxwell carried was actually quite sharp and would be quite uncomfortable if used in any of the thirteen scenarios that were now reeling away quite graphically in the grindhouse of his lower stomach. 

T.B. shifted nervously from one foot to another. "I'm sorry" he muttered, "did you say 'Hallway to Hell'?"

The demon pulled out a pack of cigarettes while the skin below its horns creased upwards in what TB took to be an interrogating way.

"It's just that. It's not particularly." TB paused, awkwardly, in search of a word a bit more educated than "Hell-y." 

"Hell-y?" offered the demon, helpfully, while tamping the pack of cigarettes against his scaly forearm.

"Hell-y." TB agreed weakly, now wondering if this conversation was meant to be a part of his torment. "It's not very hell-y." Maxwell, aloof, fumbled with a cheap disposable lighter, apparently unaware of TB's discomfort with at least four aspects of his current situation. TB found his temperature rising, as often happened when talking to a smoker. He was not a man to whom conversations with strangers came naturally, but conversing with a smoker always put him entirely off his appetite. He always found himself feeling deeply exposed. Those long pauses, which he so dreaded in everyday discourse, the militant smoker would dig in to: obscuring himself behind the secondhand smoke of war before firing deafening bursts of uncomfortable silence at the unprotected TB. He didn't like it very much.

Having never seen a demon before TB could hardly be considered an expert, but he knew immediately that this particular demon was small even by demon standards. "Demonic" was a word that hardly applied. More than anything else it looked like a stunted, fat little child had been stripped naked, painted red, and handed a pitchfork that was several times too big for its stature. It's candy apple complexion and horned skull identified it plainly as a demon. The oversized pitchfork identified that it was the runt of its demon litter. Evidently pitchforks don't come in sizes for husky children.

The demon was staring levelly at TB with the air of a demon that was well adjusted to the probing eyes of newcomers. That is he (for the demon was visibly a he) exuded deep patience and affected tolerance for people like TB who's eyes said plainly that thoughts such as "husky children" were echoing off the ends of their optic nerves.

"Hello," said Maxwell, just as pointedly but far more empathically than the librarianesque from before, "I'm Maxwell. I'll be escorting you to the final destination of your soul." TB just nodded. From any other demon that might have sounded ominous. From this particular demon it was difficult to take seriously. Like a fortune cookie that predicted, "that lump is cancer." But Maxwell, professional enough to understand that he was not being taken seriously, gracefully prodded tb in the direction of comprehension. "Do you have any questions?"

TB had long ago crossed the threshold of the known world and was now simply making note of his surroundings without either accepting or rejecting them. Later on, when he either regained his sanity or had accepted that he never would, it would be useful for purposes of self analysis to fully grasp this world he now found himself in. "Perhaps," said TB in a thoughtful drawl, "you could explain what this place is and what exactly is going on." Maxwell smiled an obsequious, pointy-toothed smile and bowed in a disconcerting way that was almost a curtsy. He purred, "It would be my pleasure." 

An excerpt from the Pamphlet of the Dead:

The Department of Mortal Verdicts employs no security or police force to compel visitors to accept their verdict and vacate the premises. None are needed. The blessed and condemned do, eventually, accept their verdict and move on. In the meantime there is ample seating. Some from sheer curiosity, the rest according to the statistical certainty of the Second Law of Thermodynamics. A body can only bounce around the isolated system of the DMV for so long before they, with mathematical inevitability  pass through the doorway to the Other Side. Once there, of course, they are not allowed back through. A small, dapper demon named Maxwell (you see?) checks your papers and escorts you  to the final destination of your soul. It is a one-way journey.

In retrospect, TB came to realize that it was the tedious moments he spent beached on the dirty linoleum shore that he finally accepted that he was deceased. Not consciously, of course -- better men than him would struggle to lick such a hard, frozen flagpole of a thought for such things are not easily backed out of -- yet in some cloistered studio apartment of his soul, his starving artist of an id had cast a die that would not be uncast. 

It was not, as he would adamantly tell himself, the bizarreness of that waiting room. Having spent a misguided summer in Los Angeles he had encountered far stranger people at his mortal DMV. He was well versed in the art of ignoring these people so as not to validate their apparent decision to dress in costume as substitute for developing any sort of "personality." Even the vikings he had felt entirely prepared to pointedly ignore indefinitely. What did persuade him was the sudden realization that he had in fact been lying stubbornly on the ground with his eyes screwed shut for what could fairly be called an eternity in any sort of DMV and nature had not called. That is, he was no  more or less in need of eating, urinating, or of otherwise relieving his biological self than he had on entering the room hours upon hours earlier. It's one of those things that is difficult to notice -- like hearing that a loud air conditioner has turned off -- but once noticed become deafening. For the first time, TB really could have lay on the floor to eternity. Actual eternity. 

And without all those annoying biological discomforts that came with lying on the ground, so went any sympathy or guilt he might have elucidated in his ambivalent crowd. Where in the mortal world depriving yourself of water, holding your breathe, or lying unmoving on the ground is an effective, if misguided, means of seeking attention, here they barely registered as anti-social. Depriving yourself of water or oxygen meant less than depriving yourself of vegamite. Wasting everyone's time in the Department of Mortal Verdicts is like wasting everyone's time in the Department of Motor Vehicles except that everyone is immortal and there are better golf magazines. 

"If there's a bustle in your hedgerow don't be alarmed now. It's just a Spring clean for the May Queen."

TB was not a brave man and signing his name in practically any context had always made his palms sweat. There was so much potential accountability that went with it. On paper he would sign illegibly with the not-at-all-thought-out idea that he might later dispute restaurant bills, rental agreements, or birthday checks with the claim that he was being impersonated (though why he would ever need to dispute the ten dollars he sent to his nephew was something he had never tried to justify. Online agreements were trickier and he only ever managed to hurdle the licensing terms by having a stiff sip of the scotch he kept by his keyboard for just these occasions. Partially, he told himself, to strengthen his resolve  but, more honestly, he did it because he knew that a contract you sign while drunk is a contract that cannot be enforced. One sip of whiskey alone might not constitute what might legally be called "drunk," but combined with the shortness of breath he got from the anxiety of the situation TB would occasionally pass out entirely. When he eventually came to the agreement was signed and he could rest easy in the knowledge that no jury in America would consider him copos mentis and he was unlikely to be prosecuted for misusing his copy of MS Word.

So it was not surprising that here, in what he had already unsuccessfully decided to decide was an elaborate put-on by a rogue reality TV show operating outside the regulation of the FCC, he was a bit hesitant to sign the piece of paper now being shoved in his general direction (which, somehow, was done without actually acknowledging his existence). Something beyond meek illegibility was called for here. Something akin to outright refusal to cooperate. He might even have to be firm. 

But the Librarianesque Woman, her roving eyes having seen TB staring down the barrel of his own verdictation through the reflection of a sleepy CRT monitor, now swooped in to semi-obscure his view of the printer with her own semi-skeletal frame. Her body language stated clearly that (a) she had moved according to the ethereal vibration of a whim, certainly not to purposely block his view and (b) that he was quite forbidden to read his verdictation (verdictation?) on his own terms. The printer clacked away in ambivalence.

A pair of rude and unflattering phrases horseplayed dangerously around around the placid swimming pool of his good manners. So as not to risk staring at the Librarianesque Woman's chiseled smile for any longer, he reflexively turned his eyes back down to the Pamphlet of the Dead.

#546: Under no circumstances are the dead to attempt to communicate with the living, which is pure superstition anyway and not worth the trouble. Doing so is treated as a Class 1 (unforgivable) Sin and will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the Law. It won't work though, so don't bother.

#300: Making eye contact with your designated tormenter (if applicable) is liable to enrage them into a state of elevated torment and is strongly advised against.

#11: Travel visas for visiting loved ones are available on a limited basis to all souls in the afterlife, saved or otherwise. Visas are extremely limited and are rationed by annual lottery. The DMV strongly recommends applying immediately as waiting lists are several lifetimes long at the time of this publication.

Annoyed with himself for wasting time over such an idiotic publication he instead turned a cautious eye to the vikings who had somehow managed to get their hands on what smelled to TB like fermented goats milk (it was fermented goats milk) and were now drunkenly attempting to pillage a vending machine of its low-sugar, heart-healthy snacks. Just where the fermented goats milk had come from and how the vending machine was still resisting the onslaught of a dozen drunken vikings were questions he had not yet begun to grapple with when his reverie was cracked open by a stage-whisper, faux-throat-clearing ah-hem from ol' Librarianesque. 

"Name please."

"Hello, I'm just a little--" he began apologetically.

"Name please, sir."

"TB," said TB, with what he hoped was pained dignity.

"Date of birth?"

"September 21st, 1978, what--?" helplessness trumping pained dignity.

"Date of death?"

"Now see h--" now swaddled in a loincloth of helplessness.

"Just a moment." chirped the librarianesque woman, pointedly turning on her heel to face an outdated computer monitor.

It is a strange and little known fact that, over a millennia or three, abstracts can occasionally take physical form. Things which normally exist only conceptually may, over a very long time, stir patterns in the aether that manifest themselves in human form. Documented examples have included concepts such as "lustful," "jejune," and "schadenfreude" which have resulted in many great works of pornography,  alternative rock, and reality television, respectively. "Bureaucracy" has not been manifested in a documented case, but the Librarianesque Woman was pretty close to what you would get.

The Librarianesque Woman had finished at the computer, but was still facing away for no good reason but twice-distilled unhelpfulness. An old beige printer clacked away in front of her. It was low on magenta. It occurred briefly to TB that this printer was too slow and too obvious a bottleneck in the system for it to be mere coincidence that no one had corrected it. Through his bewilderment, paranoid delusions swirled and took nebulous phosphene shapes that for a moment formed a blue and red-inked Paranoid Thought:

Evidence of Conspiracy #1: modern printers are too slow and too unreliable for this to be anything short of conspiracy. To subvert the Law of Progress for this long is a dead giveaway of a far-reaching Computer Printer Cartel just behind the veil, setting strict edicts for unreliability (median nine prints to the paperjam; median 100 prints to the cartridge refill; median three cartridges to the ink spill; et cetera, et cetera) and a network of Enforcers to rub out any printer (or enterprising fixit) that makes a fatal break out beyond one standard deviation from the mean. This printer, like all printers, fell under Their corporate jurisdiction. The paper would print no faster without orders from much higher up the Cabal and those orders will not come today, nor to any DMV. Not today. Not ever.

  From a distance, TB could begin to make out words printed millimeter-by-millimeter.

DEPARTMENT OF MORTAL VERDICTS ...

OFFICIAL VERDICT FOR TB (DOD 2013-03-10)

OFFICIALLY VERDICTATED 2013-03-10

OFFICIAL VERDICT: LEVEL 6 HELL

TB looked up away from the pamphlet, his eyes straining to see any distance after struggling to read the close-up minuscule type. This "friendly list of rules and regulations" that Dr. Sharon was suggesting was Dostoyevskian in length, and all printed on a single page. TB prepared his eyeballs and sampled a few at random.

1. Please do not remove the complimentary pamphlets from the DMV.

7. Verdict appeals must be made in-person and at a designated DMV Appeals Desk.

19. The acceptable treatment of the Damned is regulated under the Designated Illegal Spiritual Punishments and Approved Impalement Regulations act. Please request a copy from your tormentor, if applicable.

The list ended at #666, which struck TB as unnecessarily gimmicky for a pseudo-government office. It seemed to him that the department had enthusiastically decided in advance that it would be a nice touch to have exactly 666 rules and regulations without any thought about whether they even had 666 things worth regulating.

This is, of course, exactly what had happened.

As a result, the tone of the pamphlet varies wildly from strictly practical (97. Cutting in the line to the appeals desk is prohibited and will register as a Class I Sin during your resentencing.), the genuinely useful (503. The password for the administrative wifi is "3tern1ty"), and a few that aren't really a rule or a recommendation at all (643. The food is actually not too bad, especially on Sundays; 647. Some of the Damned are actually pretty decent, and I honestly can't stand half the Saved).

A personal greeting from Dr. Sharon, Chief Psychopomp of the DMV

Dear the deceased,

Our deepest condolences and most warm-hearted welcome to you. We hope you may find comfort in our complimentary services as you make this transition to the afterlife.

We realize that this is a difficult time in what otherwise might be called 'your life' and we remind you that, though dead, you are perfectly safe in our more than capable hands. We have compiled this humble guide to help the process go as smoothly as possible. Please take a few moments to familiarize yourself with our rules and recommendations so as to get the most out of your eternal time here. Remember, our cheerful staff are always available to answer your every question

Regardless of the verdict you receive, we hope you will think back to your brief time here with fondness. We wish you luck in the final destination of your soul, wherever that might be.

Kindest regards, Dr. Sharon, DMV Chief Psychopomp

Then, in oblique Lucida Handwriting below the title there was this subtitle, "Or; On Being Deceased, And How to Get Along With All That Now That You Pretty Much Have To."

TB blinked, uncomprehending, and read the title again. The font arced across the top third of the pamphlet in a lazy rainbow. Cartoon cherubs meant for Valentines Day cards orbited the text. A grassy hill balanced out the lower half of the paper as it rolled blandly off towards its cheaply-metaphorical horizons. At the bottom of the page was the initialism, "Courtesy of the DMV."

He was, at least, now fully distracted from the Viking Menace to his right. He braced himself and opened the pamphlet to its full width.

He was supremely underwhelmed.

There, in barely-legible, single-spaced, justified, 6-pt, Times New Roman was an ordered list casting a uniform grey shadow over the outstretched pamphlet. He turned it over and, indeed, all three panes on the reverse side had been invaded by the same miniature army of characters. The effect of the technicolor (except for magenta) clip art title page against the uniform text was discomforting to look at. So much so that he was only able to struggle through the first several items on the list before being rendered unable to focus on the text entirely.