Just Another Quiet Day in Hell

It was a gloriously fresh morning.  The sky, seen through Dan Backle’s bedroom, was a cloudless deep blue that stretched over the shingled, sparkling roofs of bleached white houses and over green leafed branches.   Somewhere a bird sang.  The world looked whitewashed clean as it had during his boyhood, Maine vacations.  From downstairs came the porcelain clatter of breakfast dishes, and there was the smell of fresh coffee. His eyes fluttered open, but Dan drew his legs up as his stomach spasmed with nerves.  It was the beginning of yet another day in Hell, and Dan knew it.   

            Rolling over in the clean smelling sheets, he looked at the digital clock on his bed stand.  7:15; he’d have to get moving if he was going to make it on time to work. . . whatever that was. Backle’s exact profession in Hell was still a mystery and knowing that he was a “sub-director, lower first level supervisor of the DoGood Archival Section” did not help.  There was just a vague sense of having something to do with organizing and filing at the center.  Still whatever it was, Dan was fairly certain he needed to be there by 8:00.  Tardiness was a relative of Sloth. So, up he got, shuffling his way before the bathroom and its mirror.

            He looked. . .OK.  Not great, but no one ever looked great in the morning.  Certainly he was not how he had envisioned the damned would appear.  Hair disheveled with a beard bordering on needing a trim, his recognizable face stared back at him as it had during most of the mornings of his adult life Around the porcelain sink were all the necessary accouterments: toothpaste, brush, soaps, even a face-cloth with roses on a white background.  He set to work putting himself aright, and glancing again in the mirror, he stopped to gaze at his surroundings.

            The room behind him lacked the horrors he'd been told awaited those who made Hell their eternal dwelling place.  Small rooms, with nondescript, if nice, wall hangings and furnishings, mirrored themselves in the bathroom glass.  There were no screams of agony, no lurid lights flickering against cavern walls, and no demons with beastly grins leering down upon him in a lake of boiling blood: just a quiet, pleasant if unremarkable room.  Wouldn't Rev. Sparrowton be surprised?  And yet this was Hell.  Dan knew this in the same way he had when he first opened his eyes in this place, and he had known it then as certain as he had known his own name.  What he did not know was how long he had been there, but Hell had no sense of time. . .except that one was always late.

Quickly he squeezed his paste onto the brush and turned on the faucet.  No water.

            “What the?” is what Dan wanted to say, but his mouth was too filled with toothpaste suds to make any understandable sound.  He turned both faucets and still found nothing.  His temper flared.

            “Of all the confounded . . .” and then he stopped himself.  There was a gentle knock on the door.

            “Eth?” he bubbled.

            “Mr. Backle?  It’s Mrs. Abernathy.  You asked me to remind you that you wanted to be at work today early, around 7:30.  Something about a meeting with some new co-worker?”

Panic and fury warred in Dan’s mind, but no sound came from his mouth.  She certainly had waited long enough, the old. . . ! And then Dan’s fury hissed within him as a cold sweat of fear covered his frame. Wrath was one of the seven deadly sins.  And Mrs. Abernathy might hear.

Of what he was afraid, Dan was unsure.  He had never been given a list of rules or any list of punishments, but such a list existed; he was sure of it.  That was the way Hell worked.  One was always aware that there would be punishments for breaking the rules, but without the list all he had to guide him through his moments was perpetual fear based on a nebulous suggestion “to behave.”  He knew behaving was central to survival from television shows, posters, little plaques on supervisors’ walls, and interoffice emails.  Wherever he went in the center, there were yellow smiling faces framed by the motto “Have a Do-Good Day!  Even on his own lapel sat a plastic yellow smiling face that leered at him whenever he went to the men’s room. In the depths of the pit, where no hope could sprout, the guiding motto was “behave, stay in line, be good, do good. . .or else.”  So, in Hell he constantly watched himself, avoiding the seven deadly sins.  Dan wanted sometimes to laugh except he was afraid he would not be able to stop.  And besides, someone might hear.

Throughout the populace of Dis--so it was rumored--there were plants who reported violations to their leering masters, but no one knew who they were.  They could be anyone, anybody, a co-worker, a fellow bus traveler, or even a nice old lady who knocked quietly on bedroom doors.  So, instead of venting, Dan gulped down the suds, wiped his face, and opened the door a crack.  White haired, plump, Mrs. Abernathy smiled sweetly up at him.

            “Thank you, um, Mrs. Abernathy?”  Again, how he knew her name or that she was the boarding house owner eluded him.  “By the way, what’s wrong with the water?”

            “Don’t you remember?  There was a memo on the announcement board posted when you came in last night.  The main line burst, and we’re having it repaired this morning.”

            “Of course.  And could you remind me when my bus leaves?”  Maybe his memory about times was off; maybe he was still on schedule.

            She glanced down at a small watch she wore in a breast pocket.  When she looked back at him, Backle saw no red light in her pale blue eyes (just once he wished he would) only bright blue. “The bus leaves in ten minutes, I believe; better hurry.”

            In seven minutes he stumbled down the stairs, tucking in a white shirt and attempting to tie his tie.  The breakfast looked and smelled wonderful, but he had no time for that.  Running out the door, he only just caught the bus. 

Once on board Dan finished tying his tie and then felt around his jacket pockets.  No keys, that meant he would have to ask Darla, his secretary, to unlock his cubical, and that meant he would have to again endure her air of self-satisfied condescension.   Just once he wished she would say something.  However, like Mrs. Abernathy, Darla's unpleasantness never overtly appeared.  He had heard rumors from no precise source that the common phrase was “D. Backle had debacled it again.”  But he had never witnessed it: if he had, Dan could report her to their supervisor.  He was, after all, officially still her superior.  But she kept her thoughts and comments out of sight.  Instead he sensed them like a smell.  In truth, her thoughts and attitudes were less tangible than smells.  Foul odors could be confirmed by others, but no one would believe anything foul of the "staff DoGood worker of the year."   

Sighing Dan reached into his front pocket for his wallet, which was not there.  How could he have forgotten that?  Going from one pocket to another, Dan managed to scrimp up enough change for the bus fair, but he knew there would be no lunch at the office today.  It looked like he would be surviving on coffee once again.

The DoGood Center where Dan worked was a tall structure of glass, steel and gray stone, reaching towards the sky or whatever blue firmament covered the metropolitan sprawl of Dis. Dominating the skyline; it was visible throughout the city, a reminder of every inhabitant’s reliance on its good opinion.  A sharp turn by the driver broke Dan’s thoughts, as it caused the huddled passengers to shift in their seats, bumping one another. Dan’s face flushed with annoyance but neither he nor anyone else griped nor grumbled.  Instead came the usual wave of barely audible apologies and acceptances:

“So sorry”

“Not a problem.”

Excuse. . .”

“Certainly.”

“May I?”

“Please.” 

No eyes met; in fact no one looked up at all.  Outside of the bus the world looked as it had.  Streets, buildings shops—all kinds of shops: coffee shops, vision centers, books stories, gun emporiums. . .everything  The thought that free enterprise thrived in Hell always amused Dan. One could buy the same stuff one had bought previously, but to him it all now seemed valueless.  Worry killed the enjoyment of coffee and he didn’t trust himself with a gun since. . .better not to go there.  The sudden breaking of the bus again shattered his thoughts while causing passengers to tumble as the sliding door squeaked open.

Up stepped a new passenger; an old woman with a pink sweater whose sleeves rode up to expose her arthritic wrists and hands one of which gripped the handrail while the other held a large shopping bag. About her head white hair peeked out from an old shawl covered by a Hawaiian print.  Filmy eyes scanned the full bus.  Glancing about for just a moment, Dan stood up.

“Please ma’m; sit here.”

With little grace and no show of appreciation she did so as Dan stood before her clinging to the upper passenger grip.  He could feel the eyes of his fellow passengers on his back. Tough, they were slow.  Still he felt absurd for what had to be done next.  Hitting his right breast pocket he pulled out the little carbon-backed memo book sized pad.  Shifting on his feet to keep his balance on the moving bus, Dan scrawled the words “Gave up bus seat to an elderly passenger.”

“Excuse me ma’m, would you initial this?”  Eyes looked up belligerently at him.

“I can’t read that.”

“It just says that I gave up my seat for you.”

“I ain’t signing nothing I can’t read.”  Dan, gritting his teeth, ripped the carbon backed piece of paper from its back (getting black ink on his hands) stuffed it into his pocket (now there was ink inside his pockets but it was better than littering) and carefully printed in large letters his “good work.”  Just ahead he could see the open pavilion of the DoGood Center where the bus stopped.

“Please ma’m!”  The old hand slowly and painfully pressed against the pad.  Here came the bus stop.

“There”

“Thank you,” Dan swallowed to keep down the nausea for what must follow. “Have a Do-good Day!”

“Humph.”  Turning to the bus driver Dan held out his pad again.

“Witness please?”  But the bus driver only hit the brake and snapped the door open.

“If you’re getting off, then get off.  I’ve got a schedule to keep.”

“But”

“Stay on or off, your choice, but move it.”  She stared at him, revealing nothing in her heavy face except apathy. He backed off the bus and down the steps still holding the now useless proof of his deed, blinking in frustration and dismay as the door slammed near his nose and sped away amidst the foul odor of diesel.  With a hiss he turned toward the entrance.

Before the center's doors, upon a tower, stood a small black caldron from which flames guttered.  Officially it was suppose to be the "Light of Good Works" in the community, but Dan recognized the sulfurous flames for what they were--a reminder.  Somewhere, perhaps in another circle, more traditional torments existed.  And, however miserable one was—as he was--it was better than having one's flesh roasted off.

Some might be surprised that Dis City, capital of Hell, would have a center whose sole existence centered around the concept of "good works."  However, it should be noted that the DoGood Center's primary purpose was not to encourage good works themselves but to keep a record of them.  According to the cultural setup of the city, no one could advance towards new levels of rank, no matter what their profession, without at least some record of good works.  It was therefore the citizen's responsibility to make sure records of all good works were properly reported, authenticated, approved and filed at the DoGood Center.  Good Deeds which were not authorized and witnessed served no purpose and were ignored.  No one, except the actual doer of the good work, could, with proper forms, report said works and said doers were responsible to follow the filing process of the good deeds until they reached their final resting place somewhere in the bowels of the DoGood Center. 

Furthermore it was every citizen’s responsibility to regularly check on his or her portfolios to be certain all commendations were in their proper order and on file.  Accidents, of course, could always happen, so regular checks were recommended.  But of course, the more one had one's files taken out of storage to be checked the more there was a chance of miss-filing them later. The DoGood Center was, in Dan's opinion, one of the most successful tools of torment in the Abyss.   No one in Dis was free from the terrible influence of the DoGood Center and Dan worked deep within its dark core.

            Sprinting from the bus stop, Dan doubled stepped the long stairway that led to his workplace.   He jealously glanced at the well-dressed upper executives of the DoGood Center who were riding the elevator to their suites.  How wonderful to be able to arrive at the office cool and collected rather than panting for breath, sweating like a marathon runner without the runner's excuse.  One of them, a Ms. Scratchworth he thought, glanced in his direction.  Dan looked down quickly.  Envy was another snare, and he didn't want to appear ungrateful or prideful.  Pride was even more problematic than envy.   Workers of the DoGood Center were to set a constant example to the rest of the city with their observation of good works and the avoidance of attitudes that might not fit with the spirit of the center.

            "Good Morning Mr. Backle."  It was Nester Hissth, over-supervisor of his wing, waiting for Dan as he stumbled up the last few steps.  Had Hissth seen him glancing at the upper echelon?  Bristles of fear on Dan's neck competed with his hammering heart for his attention.  Dan ignored them both.  

            Hissth was hardly imposing physically.  While impeccably dressed, he stood only about a slender five foot four, was bespectacled with a balding dome framed by retreating dark hair over each ear. On his lapel he wore a gold happy faced button with the ubiquitous motto: “Have a Do-Good Day!”  Except for that, he looked more the candidate for a clerk in a patent office than a feared overlord of the infernal regions.  Still, feared he was.  Employees who crossed him vanished and no one knew quite where.  That was not entirely accurate.  Employees vanished and it was assumed they had crossed Hissth, but no overt connections were ever made.  Administrative comments would just filter down about “so and so” not being a "team player" or precisely "in line with the Spirit the DoGood Center."  So they had found employment--insert torment--elsewhere.

            Hissth held out an employee file, raising an eyebrow as Dan took it with a carbon ink stained hand.  Although their never touched, Hissth pulled out a white handkerchief and wiped his withdrawn fingers.  Glancing down at the name tab, Dan could feel the heat in his cheeks. “Grievous Charnel.” 

            Grief indeed!  Who thought up this one?  The names in Hell were assigned, although no one had to inform a new arrival of the change. Somehow he or she just knew.  Someone somewhere had a twisted sense of humor, but Dan had learned early that on his level, at least, absurd names were no laughing matter.

            “Mr. Charnel is waiting for you Mr. Backle, don’t make him wait for you anymore than he has.”  Dan nodded and tried to move on.  No such luck.  “Also, please be sure to clean yourself up before arriving at the center: let’s be professional about our appearance, shall we?”

            “Yes sir.”  Keeping his voice and head low, Dan made another attempt to escape.

            “Oh, and Mr. Backle?”  Dan froze. 

            “Sir?”

            “Have a Do-Good Day!”  Dan pushed open the double doors to his work area and felt the breath of hot, stale air of people working together too closely hit his face.   Only when the closed again hiding him from Hissth did he feel some relief.

            “Hey Backle!”  It was Finieus Lurks, sticking his head out of his assigned hole in the wall.  I just heard through the grapevine, that the staff straw vote concerning the name change came back negative.”

            “Really?”  Dan made his response as non-committal as possible.  He’d been lying awake recently wondering if he had been too vocal about his personal opposition for the big change.  In the last few cycles there had risen an initiative, vaguely originating from higher up, that the DoGood Center’s name be changed to the Disentium DoGood Institute. 

            “Is there even such a word as “Disentium”? Dan had asked during one break.

            Around the coffee machine, it had been generally agreed that the new name meant nothing as far as the work’s purpose nor would it better define what the center was doing in the community.   Furthermore, the change in name would cost both time and labor as signs throughout Dis would be torn down and replaced and even office stationary, backlogged for years, would have to be tossed and replaced.  Those above would just get a chance to say they directed an institute rather than a center.  The staff, after being told to lay aside their filing, had been encouraged to give their input by filling out an interest survey.

            Lurks seemed jubilant about the negative results, but Dan felt nothing but discomfort.  An unhappy administration rarely meant a happy work force.

            “I’ll talk to you later Lurks; I’ve got a green one to mash through the apple grinder.”

            “Oh, right.  Catch you later.”  Dan decided that if Lurks was going to be this jubilant about an administrative setback, he, Dan, would no longer be seen in Lurks’ company.

Dan found Charnel in the staff waiting room—smelling as it always did of stale cigarette smoke and vomit.  This was another irony since smoking had been forbidden at the DoGood Center for as long as Dan could remember.  What he smelled was the residue of tobacco stench never washed away from some time past.  Of the vomit he could not guess, but he recognized it from the many Departments of Motor Vehicle and Medicare offices he had visited in his former life.  Charnel’s white shirt contrasted starkly with the dark, if cheap, wood paneling that covered the walls.  A navy blue tie drew the eye from his middle up to a face almost as pale as the shirt.  Dan decided he did not like the face.

If ever there were a person who should be called “moon faced” it was Charnel.  A high forehead and rounded cheeks, almost jowls, created a circular impression bordered by thin black hair.  In the midst of this white expanse sat two round eyes set in perpetual surprise or anxiety.  These eyes were the wide watery blue type under each of which were a scatter of spots—freckles or acne. Below the surprised orbs sat a small unimpressive upturned nose turning pink at its end probably caused by the sniffle Dan had heard as he entered the room.  And below that a mouth with full lips which tended to quaver.  The whole face sat there like a target and Dan had to resist the impulse to strike out and smash the red nose in the center, certain as he was that it would make a most satisfying crunch.

“Mr. Charnel?”

“Yes?” A squeaker; why was he not surprised?

“I’m Daniel Backle, Mr. Daniel Backle, sub-director, lower first level supervisor of the DoGood Archival Section. I’ll be walking you through your first day here.”

Charnel sat with his mouth working, looking like a fish in a bowl with not a peep coming from his throat.

“Well?”

“Uh, yes sir.”

“Good follow me; we’ll check out your office first.”

Charnel’s “office” was like everyone’s on this level of administration—a cubical made of gray partitions that only came up to Dan’s chest and Charnel’s chin. Within it, like all the others, was a computer station on a desk.  There was barely room for the squeaky office chair to turn from the desk to the terminal—although it was doable especially if one stayed within the recommended weight of 120-150 pounds. Dan’s 270 frame was problematic. When Dan and Charnel arrived at Charnel’s little corner

in. . .wherever, there was a staff member still working to put things in place.

Dan was annoyed to find himself having to wait.  It might look to an outsider that he had not planned things well—which, of course, he hadn’t, but this complication was still unforeseeable. 

“Nearly finished?”

The workman looked up at Dan, his graying five o’clock shadow well on its way to a ten o’clock shade.

“Who the _____ are you?” Dan had often noted that “being there” had not diminished the use of “Hell’ as an expletive by some at least.  Personally he avoided it, too close to blasphemy.

Now, however, with cheeks burning, he glared down at the worker. “I am Mr. Daniel Backle, sub-director, lower first level supervisor of the DoGood Archival Section.”

“Well Mi’sta Backle, sub-director, lower first level whatever, this will be finished when I say its finished.  And I can’t say when that will be. Some stains can be a [`female dog’ Dan thought] to get out!”  The old man turned his attention back to a large reddish spot on the carpet.

“Someone spill something?” Charnel’s nerve seemed stronger than Dan had originally thought.

“You might say that; the last guy who had this spot-- Cuddleclank?  --apparently spilled some of himself here.

“Really?”  Charnel was doing the impossible--turning whiter than he had been originally.

“Yep, you know when you think of it, human bodies ain’t more than soft containers full of warm liquid just waiting to be spilled--sort a like overfilled paper coffee cups.  Hey, what’s this?” Reaching under the desk, he pulled out what looked like raw hamburger.

“What would raw meat be doing under. . .?  Oh.” Charnel swayed for a moment.

“We’ll come back later.”  Dan, with his hand in the middle of his companion’s back, hurried Charnel down the hallway towards the men’s room.  The younger man only barely made it, staggering the last few feet through the doors.  Waiting outside Dan wiped his face listening to the echoing sounds of Charnel being sick.  Close, too close, if he had not made it to the safety of porcelain, there would have been a mess needing immediate cleaning.  And even if he were fast about it, the simple existence of a pile of vomit could be reported as Sloth or even Pride if it suggested he had been slow, being too good to clean things up.

The retching ceased, and Charnel poked his head out of the bathroom.

“Did you make it?” A weak nod in response.  “Good. Here use a tissue to wipe your mouth.  Have you been ill?  That was a pretty strong response for just a left over piece of meat from some sandwich.”

“That was not a left over sandwich”

“So you say.  Well, let’s get on with the tour.”

“Wait a second; do you think he was telling the truth?”

“About what?  The stain?  I can’t say.  I haven’t seen Cuddleclank for several days.  He was last seen inviting Ms. Honeybuns, the doughnut girl, into his cubical while he got change for a bear claw. 

“And?”

“Oh nothing conclusive.  You may hear some talk about a sucking noise that at first resembled a kiss, but it kept getting louder and stronger until it became mixed with screams and the sound of tearing. . .but I wouldn’t pursue it.”

“Why?”

“Because no comment has come from the administration except that Cuddleclank’s work space was available.

“And Ms. Honeybuns?”

“Seen leaving the cubical but later vanished; maybe they were transferred together. Or. . .”

“Or what?”  Dan looked at Charnel, his eyes narrowing.

“You must learn to concentrate on your tasks at hand Mr. Charnel.”

“WHAT. . .what about Honeybuns?”  Dan sighed.  He was enjoying this too much, and it had to stop or he himself would overstep his own guidelines.  So leaning toward the white face he whispered:

“A Venus Flytrap once sprung is no longer useful in catching flies.”

Charnel suddenly reached into his pants’ pocket, turned away and pulled out a memo pad.  Flipping through several pages, he scratched out one bit of writing and scribbled down something else.  Dan tried to peek over his shoulder but failed

“What are you doing?”

“Just making a note to myself to perhaps make an excuse to Ms. Megamounds, the candy girl in the booth out in the outer vestibule, in order to cancel our date.”

“Probably a good plan.”  Dan had not noticed a candy booth out in the vestibule, probably spending too much time squinting up at Ms. Scratchworth.  It was probably an innovation put in by Hissth, who was rumored to be addicted to sugar like a fly.  Dan wasn’t fond of candy but she sounded interesting.  Maybe, after work, he could.  No, definitely not.  Best to head straight home after this. “Come Mr. Charnel, follow me if you please.”

The two walked down a corridor that led to a cross bridge illuminated by windows on both sides which looked out into a vast room.  This room was still inside the greater DoGood Center building.  Overhead were row after row of illuminated panels forming lines that seemed to meet in the distance.  Down below, meanwhile, could be seen small electric carts. At least Dan had always assumed them to be electric--what the actual physics of Hell were he could not guess.  On the whole, things worked mechanically as they had done his whole earthly life, but here, of course, there were some exceptions which Dan had no desire to bring to mind.  He rubbed his eyes.

The carts, meanwhile, whizzed up and down vast passageways formed by great cabinets on which were stairs and ladders.  Each one was several floors high, being nearly the size of a house.  Side-by-side, they stretched out until the pathway they and the passageways they formed vanished at what appeared to be a horizon.  The window on the opposite side revealed a mirror panorama of the same stretching out into the opposite direction.

“This is the archival file zone.  Everyone who functions in the city of Dis has a file down there somewhere.”  Charnel yawned.

“Sorry, I didn’t sleep well last night, and after the tension of the morning with only a candy bar for breakfast, and then getting sick.  Well, I’m suddenly exhausted.” Dan did not smile.  He had gotten nothing for breakfast.  Charnel coughed and then nodded out the window.  “You were saying that there is a file for everyone who functions in Dis.  Don’t you mean everyone who lives in Dis? I mean, functions sounds so. . .”  Dan continued to look at Charnel whose white face turned red suddenly.

“Oh, right.  No longer living, dead.  I forget sometimes.”

“Well don’t; forgetting will get you transferred.”  There was a moment of silence.

“Do you know where?”

“No, and I don’t want to.”

“And why is that?”

“Questions make questioners stand out, make them noticed, make them into lightning rods, and lightning rods get struck.  If I asked where Cuddleclank or Honeybuns have gone, I might find out--first hand.”

“And are you certain it could be so much worse?” Dan looked at Charnel for a moment, were these questions just curiosity or something else?

“Tell me Charnel, back then, before here, when you were in a dentist’s chair as he drilled a particularly deep cavity, was there any doubt in your mind that it could be worse and that, in fact, it might be worse any second?”  Charnel seemed to shudder slightly.  “It most certainly could be worse; we are hanging over a precipice.  `Sinners in the hands of an angry God’ is what Jonathan Edwards called us.”

“Who?”

“A minister from America’s 18^th century, but that’s unimportant. Instead remember that we are gripping on what he called the `slippery places’ over an edge, `a great furnace of wrath, a wide and bottomless pit, full of the fire of wrath, that you are held over in the hand of that God, whose wrath is provoked and incensed as much against you, as against many of the damned in hell.’”

There was another strong moment of silence.  Dan found that he was breathing and sweating heavily.

“Where did you get that?” Charnel whispered. 

“I. . .I don’t know.”

“Your voice, it actually changed just now.  You, you were someone else; were you a minister before?”

“A minister? Don’t make me laugh!  Too many ministers I once knew had read nothing more than was required in Bible Schools.  Drilled in their tradition’s answers for everything, they no more knew their own religious traditions than they did the world in they lived.  Some of them are here; amazing that more are not.  No, I was a professor, a History professor.  But I still don’t know where I got Edwards’ sermon.  It was not one of those works I memorized back then.  Still it fits and trust me on this; as unpleasant as you may feel where we are now is, it could be worse, much worse, and there is no hand of grace holding us now.  Just you; just me.  Alone.”

“What do you mean alone?”

“I mean there is no spiritual support down here to help us keep from messing up.”

“So?”

“You’re pursuing again.”

“Humor me.”

“All right.  But don’t come back later and ask me to collaborate this: Have you noticed that H. . .that this place is not what you expected?”

“Well yes, I was expecting more. . .uh I don’t know, more `special effects?’”

 “Pitchforks; boiling blood, impossibly huge mouths gaping to consume you, things like that?”

“Right.”

“Well they exist; I won’t admit this openly, but I believe I have even glimpsed such creatures here.”

“Really?  Where?”  More questions.  The brief illumination of who and what he had once been, had triggered a chain of ideas in Dan’s mind, and even in the face of danger, he felt compelled to talk things through.

“You never know where you will see them.  It might have been a few weeks ago, but there was once here a guy here named Ron Colic, a real hothead. He was always just a thimble finger away from a fight, always grinding his teeth and punching his desk.  I made a point of staying clear of him.  On day, he went storming into the men’s room when a worker was taking his sweet old time fixing the john.  It was 10:00 Shade now that I think of it.  At any rate, I heard some sputtering comments, what sounded like a kick and yelp; and then came the sound of a scream and a. . .

“And what?”

“and a flush.  Colic’s not been seen since.”

“Oh please.”

“I’m not finished.  I didn’t want to.  I’ve told you, I do not pursue these things, but I had to use the facilities right after that. And when I went into the stall that the workman had been fixing, done my bit, and flushed the toilet, the whirlpool before me turned black and seemed to drop away to infinity.”

“What?”

“The bowl vanished and all that was left was this maelstrom.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Fine, don’t believe it.  But I’m telling you that the vortex filled up my sight.  And far, far below, nearly unrecognizable, were what I thought could be pieces of Colic being pulled around and around.”

“Oh.” Charnel’s eyes narrowed.  “And you had the gall back there to tell me I couldn’t tell innards of a human from a piece of underdone hamburger?” 

“You might have been better off just thinking it was hamburger; because by far the worst of all this was that although torn apart, the fragments of Colic were all alive—calling to me.”

“And. . .what did you do?”

“What else could I do?  I backed away and almost ran over the workman who reappeared that moment from another stall.  I remember he was pretty mad because he said he wasn’t finished with the plumbing yet.  And then he asked how it had all looked to me.  Not since the day I first arrived have I been more afraid to give an answer.”

“And did you tell him?”

“Tell him what?  That I had seen a co-worker in pieces swirling around the insides of a toilet?  Are you mad?  I just said the water looked black, and because of that I had refrained from using it. That seemed to satisfy him although his grin gave me the willies for the rest of the afternoon.  Later I wasn’t sure myself; the memory here is so flighty. 

Still I think what I glimpsed was a gateway to another part of this, this place.  Maybe Colic was sent in the whirlwinds Dante described as tossing those about who can’t control their emotions.  I don’t know.”

“Didn’t you try to question anyone about it?”     

“Look, I said I wasn’t sure, and the point is I don’t want to see these things.  This part of He. . ., of this place,  where we now exist seems to function in a state of denial.  No one analyzes where we are really.  And no overt manifestations of evil are allowed.  Anyone who threatens the status quo endangers the setup and is sent elsewhere.  It’s terrible here; sure, all the unknowing of what is expected and what will happen, but it’s made worse knowing that things physically could be excruciating instead of just continuously unpleasant.”

 “Why do you suppose there are different--what shall I say? --departments with different levels of unpleasantness?”

“I can’t be sure.  Maybe cruder punishments are given to cruder beings.  Here all is fine as long as one stays clean and, at all costs, avoids trouble.  Personally I try to keep things simple.  I live by the Ten Commandments while avoiding the Seven Deadly Sins.

“And that works?”

“I’m still here aren’t I?  I’m not being tortured am I?”  Charnel glanced at Dan’s eyes nearly startling from their sockets just above a set mouth that held its breath in pain.  Charnel smiled.

For a moment the two men looked down through the window as several electric carts whizzed by, setting of an occasional spark.  Dan was thankful for the window: he hated the smell of ozone.  It reminded him of other burnt things.  Beside him, Charnel coughed.

“So, everyone has a file down there?”

“Everyone.”

“That’s quite a job.”

“Yes it is.”

“And I suppose we have to make sure all those files are up to date and stored correctly?”

“We don’t maintain the files; that’s the responsibility of the file holder, but, yes, we do store them which is why those high speed carts are vital for taking archivists to various parts of the zone. If we had to walk it; a single filing job could take the entire afternoon. Of course it’s not as bad as it could be: each of candidate has only one file.”

“Only one copy?”

“Only one.”

At that moment one of the electric carts bumped off its guide track.  Runners sparked as the metal sides touched conductor rails while the driver for a moment tried to regain control. However, seeing another cart flying up from the opposite side, he suddenly leaped and the two vehicles crashed together. Smoke and fire billowed up but what made Dan sick in his stomach was the sight of file after file fly up into the air.  Precious papers burst into flames or got tossed aside only to be trampled as the damage control crew rushed in to control the blaze.  The air was filled with paper, a mini blizzard of official documents, witnesses and reports. Was his file in there?  Had he asked for a recheck recently?  No one would report the incident, and those whose records had just been turned to ash and crumpled garbage would never know until they went to call up the needed material for their mandatory review.  No explanation would ever be given.

“We should probably make a point later today to check our files.”

“Shouldn’t we report this?”

“Absolutely not; just check to see if you are still on file.  If not, begin rebuilding now while you still have time.  Come on; let’s get out of here.”

Going down another set of halls, Dan’s nose suddenly perked at the aroma of French fries.  Apparently it perked Charnel’s nose too:

“Say, isn’t it time for lunch?”  Dan remembered his empty pocket where his wallet was supposed to be.

“We better check instead to see how your cubical is coming along; you have a lot to learn.”  However, when they got there, Charnel’s space was ribboned off with a pail within and a sign hanging on the partitioning line: “Gone to Lunch” Dan picked up the sign and felt his stomach growl.

“Looks like everyone has the same idea eh?”

“Seems so; lets go.”

Retracing their steps Dan found himself within the oppressive racket of the cafeteria, swimming in the smells of deep fried food.  He thought he might faint but motioned Charnel towards the line 

“You go ahead; I’m not hungry.”

Finding a table with only a minimal amount of sticky residue on its surface, Dan sat and pressed his hands over his eyes.  It felt as if his stomach’s front was rubbing the back of his spinal column: he was starving!  Of course, here in the eatery nothing was free.  Back in the office place he might be able to get a cup of coffee and pretend not to see the paper cup set beside the pot with the word “Donations” printed on it in blue magic marker.  But out here even water cost 20 cents. Paper cups are, of course, not free. Charnel, meanwhile, had apparently remembered his wallet, arriving as he did with a tray loaded with food: a steak and cheese sub with a pile of hot smelling French fries.  Even with his eyes closed Dan smelled it all--even the effervescence of Charnel’s coke touched some chord in his nose.  Charnel smacked his lips.  If this was not Gluttony, Dan thought, it was sure close.  Dan hoped that when they came to take Charnel away they would at least leave behind the fries.

“Well, I’ll say one thing;” Charnel started pushing fries into his mouth. “However bad things are, the cooking here is unusually good.” 

That was true; the cooking today was unusually good.  Dan looked up, curious.  How many days had he come with his wallet and found only macaroni and cheese as a main dish or a mystery meat casserole with mint green Jello for dessert?  Something was up. 

“Whew!” Charnel jerked his head behind Dan and leaned forward to whisper.  “How do you suppose he even gets through the halls to get down here?”  Dan glanced behind him only to see Anthony Flubbincheeks waddling his way back to the server line.  Behind him on the table was a tray stacked with empty dishes, all swept clean of food except for the smallest of crumbs.  Anthony was certainly going for seconds, maybe thirds, and Dan suddenly thought he understood. 

“How long as he been here?”

“I can’t be sure, a month maybe.”

“Well that sort of blows your theory about the Seven Sins doesn’t it.  He’s a walking image of gluttony.”   Dan watched as another fist-full of fries vanished into Charnel’s mouth but did not comment.  Instead he pursued the question of Anthony.

“No that’s not true.  Although Anthony’s always eaten his lunches with gusto, I’m certain I never saw him eat more than anyone else in the office--at least up until this moment.”

“Your kidding, but just look at him!” 

There could be no doubt that the huge man’s girth dwarfed even Dan’s 270 pounds.  When walking down the office halls Anthony moved side to side, bumping the cubical partitions with his hips, and Dan noted that none of the man’s clothes fit him right but were, instead, just a size or so too small. 

Dan remembered that even after enrolling in the employee voluntary food management program, directed by a twisted and flaking twig of a woman whom all the staff suspected hated food, Anthony had lost no pounds.  And under Ms. Prunapple’s gaze (the aforementioned twig) Anthony’s face, as he veered away from our potato and cheese casserole line and headed towards the (wilted) salad bar, became more and more pinched.

            “I used to sit with him,” Dan continued.  “He was a pleasant fellow, but recently the man’s started to gaze at the discarded food on the plates of others, mine especially.”

“Oh, he’s one of those annoying people who want to know if you’re going to finish this or that.”  A similar question about the still hefty sized pile of fries on Charnel’s plate had been rising in Dan but now choked in his throat.

“No he didn’t.  I think Anthony was warned about Gluttony in some memo or something since he never asked, never suggested and never got more food than he was allowed.” 

Instead, Dan thought, Anthony had carried in his eyes the look of unending desire. Cuddleclank had carried it too, if for a different reason.  However, Dan had been less aware of Cuddleclank’s problems since Dan had, himself, neither witnessed Cuddleclank’s desires, nor been the inspirer of such longings. Dan shuddered remembering Glen Lietinloafers who had tried to get close to him and had thankfully not lasted a day at the center. The possibility of guilt by association always lingered.   Glen, however, vanished after being seen—so went the rumor—with an unknown mailroom boy.  Anthony’s stare, meanwhile, had started to burn on Dan’s forehead during lunches; so much so that Dan had finally begun to avoid him.

“Well, he may have not eaten more than he should have when you knew him, but he’s shoveling it in now.”  Charnel’s glee about this made him especially unpleasant.  “What do you think is up?”

“I don’t know.”  Dan had, however, noticed that at the counter was a new server.  Instead of the grim mouthed worker whose iron gray hair had peeked out randomly from an old hair net, there was instead a pleasantly full-figured woman of about fifty.  Although silver around her temples, the rest of her hair was darkest ebony that seemed to almost absorb the mandatory hair net.  Large brown eyes twinkled gaily over dimpled cheeks set in a clear olive colored face.  Her mouth was full and red and with it she talking animatedly to Anthony.

“Come, come, eat, eat!  It’s so good to see a man who enjoys his food! Most of these people break my heart with heir picking at this and that.  That Ms. Pruneapple, what does she know?  A man’s spirit will wither in her kitchen.”

Her voice broke Dan’s heart.  Although different from his own, it was a mother’s voice.  He would have done anything to hear that kind of encouragement and support, and realizing that he also knew that this set up was a trap.  Watching helplessly, he saw Anthony take two more helpings of the steaming lasagna.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, your attention please.” It was Hissth.  He had entered from the administrative wing furthest away from the serving line and somewhere behind Dan’s back.   A chill run up Dan’s spine while Anthony almost dropped his plate.  Peeking behind him, Dan saw Hissth standing on a chair, his immaculate, double-breasted brown-green jacket perfectly buttoned over his five foot four frame. Although illuminated by the ceiling lamps, Hissth’s hair-framed dome gave no sign of perspiration.  He was at ease; Anthony was caught.  However the new server motioned her charge to put the food down and follow her to the back behind the counter.

“Quick, quick!  You don’t want him to see you, do you?  Come back here in the cooler.  Besides let me show you some of the pastries I’ve just finished.”  How Anthony hoped to escape Hissth’s notice, Dan could not guess, but in fact the supervisor seemed indifferent to the commotion at the end of the room.  He spoke in his usual calm, if fluty, voice:

“I wanted to remind you that there is a meeting this afternoon to discuss our lag time in filing documents.  Please make room in your schedule since no filing will be allowed as we review the findings of our ad hoc committees.  Please also remember that quota reports are due at the end of this week.”

A crash of plates and silverware shattered the murmur that had followed Hissth’s announcement.  Turning Dan looked for Anthony or the new server.  Instead, shuffling from the side door, came the regular sullen, gray haired old server moving towards the cooler.  She pushed a mop thrust itself into a pale that squeaked on un-oiled wheels.  Later she returned to her serving post as if she had been there all day.  Hissth called for the remaining staff’s attention again.

“I also wanted to mention that a new option has been added to your minds.”

Charnel stopped chewing, and Dan, realizing the futility of looking for Anthony, strained to see Hissth’s face.  “Of course you know that when you first arrived here you all received appropriate new names.”  Dan winced; recalling his first days how he had tried to remember his “earth” name.  It was buried somehow, and while there were times he had been able to pull it out of his mind’s debris, keeping it there had proved too painful, literally.  Somehow pain was linked to the actual shape of the words.  Even thinking about it now was spawning a headache which only diminished as Dan refocused his attention to Hissth’s announcements.

“I’m glad to say that most joined in the spirit of the Do-Good Center’s goal of creating a new beginning and have accepted this development.”  Dan remembered the some that had not. 

Fordyce Cringe sitting in his cubical had written and rewritten the name Charles Strom.  He put it on his screen saver, printed it on his hands, and scrawled it on his walls.  Every memo from his desk had Cringe crossed out and Strom printed in large letters—sometimes crossed out itself and followed by the name Cringe again--and then again came Strom as if he had compulsively written, crossed out, and rewritten each name.  Dan remembered the cheap partition separating their cubicles shaking as Cringe scrawled Strom here and there on his wall, groaning all the while: he had lasted a week.  The “official” rumor, filtering down days later, had said deviations from the standard appearance of office space were not allowed.  That afternoon Dan had taken down the painting of the clipper ship he had purchased at a nearby shop and returned the painted flowers print originally issued upon his arrival.  Hissth continued.

“The name programming was achieved by a neuro-net interact-chip.  I suspect many of you who have not read the entire employee office manual may not known that the link remained inside of you thus making updates of information available to you at all times.” That explained the Jonathan Edwards phenomenon earlier that day.  Dan wondered when he was supposed to find time to read the five volume series of extra-fat, three-ring-bound notebooks filled with eight font print presently gathering dust in his office. Still he kept silent trying not to attract Hissth’s attention by any expression of surprise or dismay.

“Thanks to that chip” Hissth said “and the Dis-Info-Net available throughout the city, you will now be able to access any document written up to the present.  Now, I know that what the present is remains a debatable point among many of you.  Still this should expand your access to many useful documents.”

“Oh yes,” Dan murmured, “more useless information to distract and clutter.  Poor Anthony had probably been pulling up cook book pages before lunch.”

Of Anthony or the new server there was no sign.  But later, after Charnel had finished, and dumped more than a third of his fries into the garbage uneaten, Dan thought he had seen her standing in the back kitchen hall smoking a cigarette.  He wasn’t sure since the figure he saw was more massive than he remembered and when she dabbed her mouth with a napkin, her lipstick seemed redder than memory served as well.  But red on white is always more intense.

When they returned to Charnel’s cubical it was finally clear.  As Dan showed Charnel how to use the computer to bring up files and print them out, he noticed that Charnel had on his wall the same innocuous flower print as he.  The printer chugged through its task of printing, spewing out pages which had to be caught lest they scatter on the floor loosing their order.   

“These must be carried to the administrative wing where they will be officially sealed. Then you file them by hand.”

“Why don’t we just forward the documents electronically to them, let them be sealed and then send different filers carrying files with a common names or at least the same first letters to specific areas of the zone?”

“Just remember where you are and do as you are told.”

“OK, but maybe I could bring it up to Mr. Hissth or maybe send a memo.”

“Sure,” Dan’s grin had no mirth in it. “Do that. . .just as soon as I’m a safe distance from you.”  Charnel looked at him apprehensively but said nothing.  Leaving Charnel to begin his duties, Dan noticed that the old “ten o’clock shade” worker clearing and cleaning up and clearing out Anthony’s space.  He didn’t stop.

Dan sat, chin on chest, tailbone perched at his seat’s edge with his back pressed to his chair, staring at his desk.  The pile there had actually grown during the two hours filled by the surprise staff meeting.  Even fifteen minutes before the then, having finally been relieved of guiding Charnel through the office, Dan had picked at the pile only to find the folder of Megan Zwooki.  Someone had slipped him all of the “z” files, furthest in the zone from the office and impossible to reach before he faced Hissth’s looming diatribe on unfinished work. Dan had tossed it back in helpless desolation.  Ahead of him lay two hours of condemnation and boredom.

However, this time the meeting had contained a few surprises as well.  Hissth began by reminding Dan and the others that curbside evaluation was coming.  This was when staff members gathered input from the people off the street on how well they perceived the DoGood center was doing its job.  The fact that said people had no clue about the Center’s workings and made their judgments on how foul a mood they were in (and how attractive or unattractive the questioner was) made no difference.  For as meaningless as this data was it was also utterly vital: the information was put on the interviewer’s record and placed on file.  Individuals were held from advancement because of the poor response the DoGood Center earned.  Dan wished that when he had been reconstituted he had been given the shape of Ms. Megamounds who sat at the end of the table not far from Hissth, quietly eating am O. Henry bar.  Mr. Hissth glanced his way and Dan ducked his head down again.

Hissth also reported on the negative response by the staff concerning the proposed DoGood Center’s name change.  It had been noted, and the input of the staff was appreciated.  However, Hissth reminded the row of silent, downcast faces that the staff was only part of the questioned database (which would also included the upper echelon as well as again the “ignorant” people off the street).  And so far the majority of those asked were enthusiastically supportive.

“Sure” Lurks muttered, “Ask the people who haven’t got a clue and those with egos the size of all of Hell’s ten circles and what do you expect?”

“And remember,” Hissth said loudly, “we implemented this survey out of courtesy to you; the administration is perfectly in its rights to make decisions about institutional names as it deems best.” Dan shifted his weight so that he slid further down in his chair, nodded quietly and avoided acknowledging Lurks’ attempts to catch his eye.

                        Charnel, however, said quite a bit.  He first enthusiastically supported the name change but then went on to bring before Hissth his entire plan for electronically forwarding citizens’ records to the administrative wing.  All of this fit into Hissth’s agenda of being more efficient.

            “See me after the meeting, Mr. Charnel.  Come to my office.”  Dan had raised his eyebrow at that.  As far as he knew Hissth had never invited a subordinate to his office publicly before.  These summonings always occurred on the sly and were reported later by rumor.  Thus Dan was slightly prepared when Hissth returned to the main office a little later and announced that Mr. Charnel has been advanced in rank to a sub-director, a full level higher than Dan himself.  Dan looked at Charnel critically.  He looked different somehow, but the change was hard to pin down.  Perhaps he looked glazed, shiny, but if he had perspired at all during the interview, this was understandable.

            So Dan sat, looking at the growing pile of files, while he contemplated his new situation.  The man he had shown around the building this morning, the man he had managed to keep from making a mess on the main office floor, was now his boss.  Having used up a whole day acclimating his new superior and then spending two hours in a staff meeting about employee inefficacy, he was utterly behind in his work.  Even as he sat looking at the pile, more files were placed on his desk, and he wondered when the administration would call another mandatory meeting to explain why work was piling up.  Around him the office personal had thinned out.  He would be working late, maybe even miss the last bus. He would have to walk back his boarding home where dinner would be long ago cleared away.

            “Backle” Dan looked up.  There peering down on him with his chin just able to clear the cubical wall was the man himself, Charnel.  “Mr. Hissth is concerned that the Z files assigned to you have not moved all day.  I’m going to have to report you and place it on record.”  Dan’s mind spun.

            “Report me?  Report me?  Charnel have you forgotten where I was all day today?  Has it slipped you mind who it was who first showed you how to use the DoGood Center’s online system?”

            “The Disentium DoGood Institute Mr. Backle.  You better get used to it.  Also Mr. Hissth suggested you take some time to see a company counselor.  He’s concerned over some of your ideas about what we do here.”

            “You told him. . .about what we talked about?  But you confirmed what I said.”

            “Oh please Mr. Backle, what is a new employee to do?  I could hardly contradict you on my first day.  But really, the whole concept of this fine city and this illustrious institution actually being the City of Dis in. . .well you know.  Where on Earth do you really think you are?”

            Something broke.  Perhaps Dan had not yet entirely acclimated himself to the fact that Charnel was now his superior.  Perhaps it was only that he had not eaten all day, but what ever it was, Dan stood up and smashed his fist into the great round face with the red nose. 

            As he fell to the floor, Charnel’s face, broke open into two pieces and from inside something black and hairy reached out towards Dan. 

            Like whips or tentacles they snapped around Dan’s wrist but by fortune he grabbed a hold of his chair and threw it into the widening spit of Charnel’s face.  As the chair struck, the thing’s hold on Dan loosened. And with that he pulled away and pounded down between the line of cubicles.  Some coworkers who were working late looked up, but no one moved: indeed, all quietly returned to their filing.  From behind Dan came a roar, but he didn’t look back.  Instead he leaped through the doors and jumped into the crowd, now growing and exiting as the DoGood Center’s day came to end.  

            He did not stay at home that evening.  Whatever he had seen, would certainly be coming for him.  Instead Dan walked into his room snatched his wallet and did what so many DoGood Center workers did that evening, he wandered the shopping district taking random samples.  Most were quite negative but it didn’t matter since Dan threw them into wastebaskets as soon as his clients turned a corner.  He went shopping.  Had a cup of coffee,  had his glasses adjusted, and visited the gun emporium.  Wherever he went, he pretended to be either doing the survey or inquiring about the institutional name.  He stayed nowhere long.  Occasionally he thought he saw dark things in courners, but he never made eye contact and moved quickly into crowds.  As the hour approached ten, Dan tried to make a move none would expect: he returned to the center—by foot.

            Using his entrance card would be a mistake, if the administration knew what he had done there would be alarms.  Instead, he waited outside watching the staff doors.  At eleven the first night watch left and a new one entered.  Dan waited and after the guard had gone in, he ran forward and grasped the handle of the door.  If he were lucky—yes Wanders, the night watch was not a careful man and had not noticed that the door although closed had not latched.

            Dan swung it in and then, having removed his shoes, quietly made his way down the deserted halls.  He went past his old cubical, already cleared out he noticed, past the dinning area and into the administration wing.  He could hear the cleaning people working from room to room.  And then he came to Hissth’s office.  From around the corner he could hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner.  Dan waited.

            In time the worn out old soul lost in her own misery shuffled out the door.  Again Dan moved as fast as he could, but this time the door did latch.  What could he do?

            “Mr. Backle?  Are you working late?”  Dan’s heart almost burst from his chest.  But looking at her he clearly saw she had not heard of anything being amiss.  Of course, that was the way of things.  No one ever knew.

            “Yes, that’s right, I’m working late.  I went to the restroom and forgot to bring my keys with me and now I’m locked out of the cubical room.

            “But your office don’t have a key.”

            “No, I was--well, I’m afraid to tell you—but I was using the executive restroom not the ones in my own part of the building.  I thought I deserved some perk for these late hours. But now I’m caught outside.”  Then Dan saw something in her hand.  “Say, isn’t that one of Hissth’s O.Henry bars?  Does he know you’ve been into his stash?”

            “Aw well, no one need know—about either of us, eh?  Here you go.”  She handed him the keys.  For a moment Dan thought about reporting her both for the breach of security as well as the intrusion on an administrator’s private candy box, but he knew that nothing would win back for him what he had lost.  Instead he walked down the hall toward his wing.  Turning the corner he unlocked Hissth’s office and then headed down to his own.  He propped the door open and then returned the key to the old woman.

            “Thanks uh? “

            “Mrs. Drudgmire”

            “Thank you.”

            As she walked away Dan raised his hand and sighted the back of her head.  He could kill her; it would stop her from telling or even raising an alarm.  But he thought not.  They’re shared guilt would keep her quite and non-communication was the very nature of the beast who had been chewing on him for the last few months.  Let it work for him now, at least for this moment.

            Dan returned to the door to where his pitiful cubical had once been contained and closed it loudly so that Mrs. Drudgmire would think he went through.  Then he returned to Hissth’s office.  Inside he sat down in the main chair and dialed up his own phone.  The phone rang and his answering machine answered.  Dan activated his voice retrieving message files.

            Beep!

            “Backle!  This is Hissth!  I want you in my office tomorrow morning! 8:00 sharp!”

            Beep!

            “Dan!  Look, this is Charnel.  Everything will be fine, but you have got to turn yourself in.  Meet me in front of the center tomorrow and walk in with me: we fix up everything.  Don’t do anything foolish.”

            Beep!

            Nothing.

            Dan sat back in the leather chair.  Hissth would be surprised to find him on time tomorrow--early in fact.  Yes, a number of people would be surprised at his timeliness: Hissth, Old Ten O’clock Shade, maybe Ms. Megamounds and certainly Charnel or whatever took his place after that last meeting with Hissth.  They would all be surprised.  Hell!  Even he was surprised.   For a moment Dan almost sobbed.  If they had left him anything.  If they had given him a family to worry about, if there were friends who would care if he were gone, perhaps he would not have hit Charnel and doomed himself.  But now, he was doomed, utterly and completely doomed.  Some pit somewhere was yawning open to receive him, and suddenly Dan Backle was not worried anymore.  He felt the weight of the magnum in his hand.  Eventually they’d take him but not before he had felt the hard kick of this weapon three or four times.

            “Yes” Dan thought, “Tomorrow may not be a quiet day, but tomorrow will--for a short time at least--be a real “do-good” day in Hell.”