Ice Water, Balloon Animals & Diarrhea(J.A. Lutz) Ice Water, Balloon Animals & Diarrhea


Spoiler alert,… Hell is hot. I know this because I work in one of Hell's many cubicle farms. When I get a rare break and chat with some of the other white collar demons around the water cooler -- which is full of scalding hot sand --we often laugh at one of the many 90 foot tall thermostats, that ALWAYS read: 9,999.99°F. We joke with the newbies sometimes, and tell them to turn the temperature down. Some get the joke right away, but most don't get it for the first millennia or two, mostly because denial is the only remaining hopeful function for the damned.

My cubicle is small. Forget the mortal earthly way of measuring space for a minute and consider this; When was the last time you tried tying your shoe? Okay, now when was the last time you tried tying your shoe while INSIDE the shoe box? Yeah, it's like that, only trust me, it feels even smaller. When I stand on the tips of my hoofs and look over my cubicle walls, all I can see in every direction is more cubicles.

My cubicle is decorated with pictures of some cow of a woman cuddling with her six cats. I didn't decorate my cubicle, nor am I allowed to. There is a smell of burned popcorn and male cat "spray", that is a constant assault on my nose. It is the kind of smell that sets up shop in the back of your throat. Little trinkets clutter my cubicle. You know the ones; little Treasure Troll doll pencil toppers, a ball full of some kind of unimportant powder that reads: Monday Stress Relief, Cup Cake of the Month calendar, a poster of a frog choking a crane while it's being eaten that reads: "Never Give Up", a mouse pad with a picture of a circle telling a square to "Think outside of the box". Yeah, THOSE annoying kinds of cubicle decorations, the ones every fat Linda, in every office anywhere, has in her "home away from home".

This is my eternity, but not in it's entirety. I think I should tell you how I got here first. Yeah, that'll waste some time between calls… Waste time, heh, what's the point of passing time when time never ends? But I digress.


I grew up in a very abusive, hostile, poor, and oppressive religious household. I can't say I had it worse than anyone, but suffering is a relative term I guess. I never did well in school. I got kicked out of school a lot, and detention was my homeroom class. I was perpetually grounded at home. I was forced to go to church, by two parents whom constantly seemed to be everything the Bible spoke AGAINST. I was the kid that got kicked out of Sunday school for asking questions like; "If Adam and Eve were the only people God made, and they had two sons --Cain and Abel-- and Cain killed Abel, where did Cain's wife come from?"
Or a classic, "If God flooded the earth to get rid of the wickedness in the world, and chose Noah to survive with his family, first of all, does that mean Noah and his family were without sin? And second, Doesn't that make us the offspring of Noah and Emzara, and not Adam and Eve?"
And of course the pièce de résistance, "Wasn't Lot a horrible father for volunteering his daughters to be raped by ALL the townsmen, as opposed to giving his Angel house guests over to the very same people they were there to DESTROY? Because I'm pretty sure two Angeles capable of destroying entire cities, and capable of turning people into pillars of salt, could hold their own much better than, oh let's say, Lot's two virgin daughters up against a crowd of sexual deviants and rapists. Lot sounds like a dick!"
Yep! That'll get you thrown right out of just about any youth group at just about any church.

So at the ripe age of only fourteen, I was the kid most parents warn their kids to steer clear of.
I got in fights, I smoked, I drank, and I did drugs. I learned at an early age that when things got tough at school, ditch class. When things got tough at church, ditch church. When things got tough at home, run away. Seemed to work for my parents, seemed to work for my older siblings, why wouldn't it work for me? I'd catch beatings from my father frequently, and on a few occasions, I even got tag-teamed by both parents. So I ran away quite often. I'd come home when I needed to. When I would come home the carpet in my room would be missing, or my bedroom door would be missing, or all of my clothes and bedroom furniture would be gone. "It's tough love!", was always the response I would get.

So,… I killed my parents. I'd tell you the details, but I'm bound by an Eternal Gag Order. You see, Pride isn't permitted in Hell. I know what you're thinking, but seriously, Pride is STRICTLY forbidden. Murder seemed a fitting reaction at the time, but passion is an evil that rarely affords foresight.
How did I die? Suicide by COP. But oddly enough, that's not why I'm in Hell.
I'm in Hell because of a deal I made with The Devil. Sounds cliche, I know, but when no one else listens to the cries for help from a desperate teenage kid, it seemed the only option. This is how I first met Attorney Avraham Menashe Meshulam, LL.B.

I always loved spring time in the desert southwest. The cool mornings and the warm (but not too hot), evenings. Spring always put a wild hair in my ass to cause mischief. I'm not the type to look for trouble, rather I'm the type that loves adventure and a little chaos. I was officially a run away again. Free from the troubles and restraints of home and school. A little cash in my pocket -- not that I needed cash, I had a way with people, meaning I was a witty smooth talker. A head full of pot, and a belly full of booze, I wandered the streets of my neighborhood. I'd pop in and out of friends houses, always trying to rattle as much fun out of them as possible. When I would bore of them, I had an uncanny way of sniffing out a party. And party is exactly what I did.

The night turned to barely a.m. fast, and I felt like walking, and maybe stopping home for a quick snack. Stumbling down the side of the road, it wasn't long before I was lit up by the local P.D. Now, when you've been in as much trouble as I was accustomed to, getting stopped by the police is not a big deal. This time would prove to be very different.

I arrived at Central Juvenile Detention Center, for what was probably the fifth time that year. Same song and dance. Charges, Booking, and an unsympathetic "Sleep it off kid. The judge will see you at your arraignment, at 10:00 a.m.". So I slept. When my cell opened, I knew it hadn't been time for court yet. I rubbed my head, and tried smacking my self sober a few times. This wasn't my detention officer. This man was in a suit. A damn nice suit.

"Hello Dustin. My name is Avraham Meshulam, your attorney."

"……uhhhhh, I hate to break wind to you like this man, but I don't have an attorney. Wrong cell." And I laid back down groaning for sleep I was desperately in need of. A detention cell is not designed to be conducive to nursing a hang over.

A gentle tap, tap, tap on my forehead. I coolly crack open my eyelids.

"Yer still here? Well in that case I'll have the Tuna tar-tar with yam fries and a gin & tonic. Oh, and after you leave, please flip the "Do Not Disturb" sign on my door. Thanks."

No smile. This guy doesn't get the hint.

"Listen Dustin, I'm here at Judge Asner's request ..."

"Wait, what time is it?" I asked confused.

Looking at his platinum diamond encrusted wrist watch, "It's twenty past nine. As I was saying ...."

"Damn! It's almost ten ALREADY?!"

"May I continue?", a pause and quick adjustment of his tie. "Again, my name is Avraham Meshulam, LL.B. I've been sent in here at the request of your parents and Judge...."

Interrupting self important punks like this was an art I had mastered at an early age, always start by intentionally mispronouncing their name. "Listen ABEraham, first of all my parents couldn't afford an attorney if they rubbed a Jew and a winning lottery ticket together, and second, they're dead. D.E.A.D, dead."

Still no expression from this suit. I hate when a nasty joke is lost without even a snarky grin. So I listen.
What I heard next both surprised me and made me wonder what exactly had I smoked earlier that night.

"You're being charged with a Double Homicide, 2 counts of Aggravated Assault with a deadly weapon, 8 counts of Manslaughter, and 4 counts of Resisting Arrest. Now if you're done with your stand-up comedy routine, you may want to take me a little more seriously. "Thank you.", another quick adjustment of the tie. "As I was saying, I am here at your parents request. They would like their lives back, their son back and the opportunity to learn from their mistakes. Normalcy, if you will."

This time an intentional pause by this.... attorney. Attorney? Can't be. Bring back my parents?... normalcy?.. I'm at a loss for words and expression. This is a cruel prank cleverly crafted by the staff of the J.D.O.C.

"I'm listening...". I say in a horse whisper.

Chills can't be stopped. I'm convulsing inside. Walls fade. Floor falls out beneath my feet. Sun, moon, and stars all hang what seems only feet above my head. Time stands still. I'm on the customer side of a beautiful dark oak and mahogany desk, that is somehow floating in space, a creepy dull Powder Blue galaxy center. Behind this desk sits Avraham Menashe Meshulam, LL.B., framed pictures of political figures, celebrities, Popes, soldiers, and musicians float behind him like a random slide show, all of the pictures are of him shaking hands with a contract in hand.

"Are you the Devi...er.. Satan?", I ask not so much stammering, but more a sudden corrective measure.

With a chuckle and a quick wince, "No. I am not the one you are speaking of. More like an angel of sorts, but I assure you, I am THE attorney. A maker of deals, an advisor of law, and right now, your only way out of a life sentence in prison. And at your age of 14 years, I can guarantee a life sentence is NOT advisable.".

I've done it. I've officially taken the wrong dose of something, and have gone completely mad. Stark raving looney. I'm an atheist, this can't be real. But yet here I am.

Avraham opens a drawer, pulls out a scroll of parchment, an ink well, and quill. He arranges them in a quick and precise fashion. Still not saying a word, he folds his groomed hands patiently, as if waiting for something.

"Shall we work out the details then?".

I am suddenly aware of how serious this man behind the desk really is. His eyes seem to know that I'm trying frantically to grasp this forced new reality. I struggle to answer my own deep questions of time, space, the universe, heaven, hell, and the afterlife. But devils and deals seem so 'Southern Blues' to me.

Nothing is changing. I haven't woken up from some bizarre trip or nightmare. Screw it! I'm not spending my life in prison, and besides, my parents will have their lives back and all will be fine.... I'm in!

Calmly I speak, "Let's hear the damn terms, then I want that tuna tar-tar and a stiff drink.".

A faint grin grows on Avraham's face.

"Okay then, let's begin.". Picking up the quill in his left hand and straightening the parchment with his right hand, he begins to write. A few dunks into the inkwell, he now writes while reading aloud.

"Your terms are as follow: For the price of your Eternal Soul, you will hear by be granted; An alternate timeline, including, but not limited to, a complete reversal of the murder of your parents, A lenient judge, by which you will be met with sympathy, your arrest will reflect a minor infraction of local laws regarding curfew. Judge Asner will sentence your parents to 5 years [no less] of mandatory parenting classes. Your siblings, your parents, and yourself, will have absolutely no recollection of any events of abuse, neglect, or misconduct pertaining to your household. And finally, you will have educational opportunities presented to you never before available."

He pauses again, but this time with an inquisitive look on his face. He slowly leans forward placing elbows on the desk and cradles his chin on flat folded interlaced hands and fingers. After a few comical fluttering blinks he asks, "Anything you care to add to this contract Dustin? ....".

His look is polarizing.

"No, that about does it Jeeves."

He backs up somewhat perplexed and asks, "Are you absolutely certain? This is eternity after all...".

I contemplate this second chance and say, "Naw man, I'm good. Make it happen."
I'll regret these final words.
Hindsight is a bitch like that.

"Let's not celebrate quite yet. I am obligated -- by the powers that be-- to inform you that a signature IS REQUIRED. If you would like to move forward, then l shall hand you this quill. BUT,… Be warned Mr. Hicks, You're young and fool hearted, and eternity in Hell is not something to be made lite of."

He spun the parchment around, and for a fleeting second, I swear to you, I heard moans. Not pleasant moans. Desperate moans. Not the moans of an eager crowd at a rock concert. Not hungry moans of fasting monks lost in the catacombs of some forgotten rural monastery. Not the moans of a toddler lost in the long and confusing isles of a grocery store. No. Theses were moans of those without hope.

With my utmost desperation, I uttered, "I have your word then? My parents will be at court? Is that right? Alright, Let's sign this shit then." And with final resolve, I did exactly that. I signed.

I woke up to a pounding on my cell door. It was the detention officer telling me to ready myself for court.

I put on my clean orange jumpsuit, washed my face, and then down long corridors, I went. You walk like a lame duck, when feet are shackled.
Remembering my deal with the Devil I held my head high smiling inside, with an aire of undeserved pride and confidence. When I entered the courtroom, I was anxiously wanting to get this hole ordeal behind me.

My detention officer seated me in the courtroom. As I looked around, I figured I was early because there was only the detention officer, two armed police officers, Judge Asner, and myself in the courtroom.
No attorney, no parents, no siblings, just the business end of the Juvenile Department of Corrections.

Judge Asner had a scowl on her face, the same scowl I had seen far too many times. Confused I ask, "Where are my parents? My parents are supposed to be here. My attorn--...".

She interrupted me with sternness in her voice, "Mr. Hicks I don't find you humorous. Because of the severity of your crimes, I have been given special permission by the District Attorney to proceed with your sentencing. Do you have any questions in regards to what I have just said?"

"Your honor my parents are alive. My attorney assured me they are alive. What crime have I committed?! What sentence are you talking about?!"

"Mr. Hicks, You waived your right to a public attorney, so I don't know what attorney you may THINK you have. And we have your full confession signed and dated by you, and Detective Avraham Menashe Meshulam. You're being charged with the 1st degree murder of Daniel G. Hicks, and Gretchen A. Hicks. Your sentence is 2 consecutive life sentences without parole."

The sound of the gavel was the first loud bang of many that would soon fill the courtroom. Judge Asner slipped away through the door behind her judge's chair. I felt sick. I felt lost. I felt betrayed. I felt a hand on my shoulder, pulling me to my feet, followed by a gruff voice, "Back to your cell, Dustin.". I stood up dizzy. I could feel blood rushing to my head. As I was being escorted through the courtroom, we passed an officer. I lunged for his side arm. A quick reach for his service piece was met with rapid gunfire from behind me. Seven loud bangs in lightning fast succession. I dropped face down.

Blood covering my eyes was my last mortal vision. No floating above my body. No pearly gates. No spirit guide to show me the ins-and-outs of Hell. No ferryman at the river Styx. Just Hell. I had been sold out. Tricked. Deceived. It seems obvious now, sure, but you know how the saying goes; "The devil's in the details."

You don't really show up in Hell, or wake up in Hell. You just ARE in Hell. This is a concept mortals don't understand easily --or at all. You're alive, then you're in Hell, somehow already in a routine of suffering, unbeknownst to any transition. I have a job in Hell. My job is being one of the countless billions of appointment setters for the very lawyer that swindled me. A fitting punishment I suppose, if that was my only punishment. Tragically though, it isn't my only plight. I WISH! But make no mistake Hell is very personalized.

At the end of each shift, I am transported to a poorly reconstructed version of the home I spent 14 years of my miserable mortal life in. The only other occupants of my home, are my murdered parents. Every night is the same, my parents scream at each other with ferocious hatred, I get beat and tortured by my father, while my mother watches laughing at me, and I get lectured by a television with legs, that follows my every move through the house. Most times, the stalking t.v. is set to a channel with a seething Jerry Falwell, telling me to change my evil ways or suffer the tortures of Hell. Irony isn't a lost concept, here in Hell. But before I am transported back to the cubicle farm, I brutally murder my parents with new and increasingly gruesome variations, each time. Maybe that's a small part of their personalized Hell. I'm not sure what comes to be of them, when I'm not around.

Sometimes I get ill and have to declare a sick day to my Demon Overseer. Yes, you still get sick in Hell, and when you do, it's gnarly. I mean worse than you can imagine. And yes, there are indeed germs of all sort in Hell. In fact, Hell is WHERE all the world's viruses, bacteria, plague, and all forms of putrid pestilence are manufactured. After declaring a sick day, I am transported to Hell's Nursery for work punishment. Hell's Nursery consists of endless rows of changing tables, and each one has on it a nude baby, each of which has an extremely high fever, and projectile diarrhea. I am a giant nose with short arms and legs, that is tasked with cleaning and diapering all of these tortured babies. I have been told by my Demon Overseer, that these are the babies of abortions, infanticide, and the unbaptized new borns of rapists. They're all emaciated, starving, feverish, screaming shit shooters. It is my job on these days to diaper, calm the babies, and finally, clean enormous puddles of black and green liquid feces, except the process is set at a frantic pace like some sick version of Whack-A-Mole. My sense of smell is increased by a million percent. This is what happens when I am too nauseated to answer calls in my cubicle.

At random throughout my eternity in Hell, I'll be transported other places, for seemingly no reason. It is random for one primary reason, the reason of not allowing complacency or too much familiarity of routine.
Some of these other places are indescribably perverse and violent, so I won't even attempt to try painting a mental picture. Sometimes, I am transported to a nursing home, and tasked with explaining episodes of Full House to the extremely elderly, which is enough to force the limits of patience from even the most tolerant. I once witnessed Ghandi lose his temper, trying to explain the plot line of an episode of Beavis & Butthead to a group of old nuns.

A few times, I have been locked in a gymnasium with balloon obsessed Downs Syndrome kids, and forced to pop an endless supply of colorful balloon animals. I guarantee you that you've never experienced a beating quite as unique and slowly agonizing, as you will at the hands, feet, and drooling mouths of the suddenly disillusioned gang of Downs Syndrome kids.

You know that old saying, "Even people in hell want ice water.", well I was once transported to the Arctic North Atlantic, aboard a life boat. I was then made to serve chilled glasses of the coldest ice water to hundreds of people drowning in those dark icy waters, just moments after the sinking of the Titanic. I can honestly tell you, not everyone in Hell wants ice water. They were not enthusiastic about my calls of, "Ice water! Get 'yer ice water here!" As I holler like a beer vendor at a baseball game.

This is MY Hell. Not yours. Yours in all likelihood, will be different, but some places down here are fit for all to suffer. The calls are starting to come in again, so I'll have to leave you with this:

1.) Never trust a man in a designer suit by the name of Avraham Menashe Meshulam, LL.B. Not even in your darkest dilemma.

2.) Dante Alighieri was full of crap! Seriously, he was WAY OFF! He's here in Hell by the way, in case you were wondering. That damned pedaphile!

3.) Pride, envy, and rebellion, are STRICTLY FORBIDDEN in Hell. Strange as that might sound, it's true. There can be only one ruler in Hell, and if you indulge in any one of those three things, believe me when I tell you, "Hell can get a lot worse."

And finally,
4.) When in Hell, don't think of how long eternity is. There aren't any mortal words or calculations that can even begin to help you grasp the depth of eternity, BUT, do try to keep this in mind when asked to bargain your eternal soul.

Goodluck.

~~~THE END~~~

Written by: J.A. Lutz ©

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