The Day Hell Froze Over

The day began like any other day, hot as hell, which is exactly how Satan prefers the climate in the underworld. But then, while deciding the fates of that day’s captured souls, he shivers. It’s a small thing this shiver, so slight. No one would take notice of such a small thing, but Satan notices. He raises his glowing eyes from his work and stares at the broad back of his assistant, a nine-foot-tall bird-like creature, across the room, as far across the room as he can get and still be said to be in the room. He stands on a pedestal, which he moved nearer the door a couple nights ago. The creature feels Satan’s stare and glances over his feathered shoulder then turns back to the wall.

“Beezel, come here,” Satan says.

Beezel cocks a burnt eyebrow, and then with a peevish scowl, flies over to the throne, much slower than he is capable, his black wings bobbing up ambivalently. He lands in front of the throne where the two hounds of hell, Jared and Priebus, bare glittering white teeth at Beezel, who ignores them. With a haughty tone he says, “You called me, O’ Great One, O’ Ruler of The Underworld, O’ Caretaker of Damned Souls, O’ Maker of—“

“Don’t get sassy with me, Beezel,” Satan says.

“I assure you, O’ Leader of the Dark Realm, I don’t know what you mean,” Beezel says, avoiding Satan’s eyes.

Satan sighs. “You’ve been in a mood ever since I made you clean out the Hall Of Unspeakable Vices.’”

Beezel cannot contain himself. “That was really nasty, Sire! That should have been a job for Caligula. He actually likes it there. I still haven’t gotten the smell out of my feathers. There’s all those fluids, and sex things that no one throws away, plus it smells like semen and cigars and everything’s sticky.”

“Stop your bitchin’. I’ll put Caligula back in charge. We have a bigger problem. I felt a chill just a moment ago. I think the temperature might be down under two thousand in here. If it gets any colder, I’m going to have to put on a coat.”

Beezel eases backwards, fidgetting.

Satan grows suspicious. “Beezel. Tell me you re-stocked the brimstone last week.”

“You know how you keep telling me I need to delegate more? Well—”

“Don’t tell me you handed the job off to Hitler again!” Satan says.

“I thought he could handle it. He’s been much better since he started attending those anger management seminars that Attila the Hun gives every other Thursday.

Satan feels another breeze, and it’s definitely less than two thousand degrees. He jumps off his throne. “Follow me, we’ve got to get a handle on this.”

They make their way down, through vast, glowing tunnels, immense chambers, passing by damned souls screaming for justice or crawling along the walls and ceilings, others walking around dazed in eternal denial of their sins. They finally get far, far below to the deepest levels where the furnaces blaze. Satan does not like what he sees. “Beezel, dammit, the fire’s almost out!”

“I’ll get someone right on it, Sire.”

Satan puts a hand on Beezel’s shoulder, stopping him. “I don’t see any brimstone stocked up down here either.”

“We’ve been in short supply since the ‘Corrupt Council of Dead Lawyers, Judges and Congressmen’ outlawed fracking.”

“I vetoed that law!” Satan says.

“The veto sat on your throne while you were topside scrounging up souls from Breitbart and Fox Newsd. The veto expired before you got back and fracking got banned.

The fire flickers in the large furnaces and the chamber dims.

“Beezel, we’ve got an emergency on our hands. Gather a construction crew of worker souls and get back to fracking brimstone before we all freeze.” As he finishes up his instructions the fire dies out.

Satan points beyond the furnaces. “Move, Beezel! The lake of fire has already stopped bubbling!”

Beezel flies away screeching orders to souls all around. Satan stomps out of the chamber stirring up cinders from his footfalls. When h3 returns to his throne the thermometer on the wall reads fifteen hundred degrees. He shivers.

A voice calls from above, coming seemingly from everywhere at once. “LUCIFER, I CAME BY FOR ONE OF OUR LITTLE CHATS,” God says.

Satan hears but doesn’t respond.

“I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME.  I’M ALL KNOWING, YOU KNOW.” God says.

“I don’t want to talk right now,” Satan says.

“OH, IS THERE A PROBLEM?”

“We ran out of brimstone. How about you produce some for us.”

“I”M BUSY COOKING UP A HURRICANE THIS AFTERNOON. NO TIME.”

“I thought you wanted us to all burn in hell?”

“I’M JUST AS HAPPY IF YOU FREEZE.”

Two hours later

Satan confronts a red-faced Beezel who stands before thousands of worker souls wandering around aimlessly.

“What seems to be the problem here, why aren’t they fracking more brimstone?” Satan asks.

“They claim it’s against their union by-laws because of the law making it illegal to frack. I can’t get them moving,” Beezel says.

“Grab the foreman and bring him to me.”

Beezel flies over to a pot-bellied soul in a yellow hardhat, grabs him with his giant claws and flies him back to Satan.

Satan points a long, menacing finger, terminating in a razor sharp, red nail at the foreman. “I don’t care if the Corrupt Council of Dead Lawyer, Judges and Congressman passed a law against fracking, you will get your crew busy fracking immediately or else!”

The foreman puffs out his chest. “Yeah, whatta ya gonna do if’n we don’t? Send us all to hell? Well, we’re already here, pal.” At that he turns and struts back to the rest of the construction worker souls.

Satan slumps and mutters, “I hate unions.”

The crowd of lazy souls disperses and Satan is left alone with Beezel,

“Forget democracy O’ Dark One and go back to a dictatorship.”

“The engine of a dictatorship runs on fear, Beezel,. That fat little toad was right, what more can I do to them?

“Good point.” Beezel lowers his shoulders and kicks a few chunks of half-molten rock around.

The Next Day

Satan hunches forward on his throne, draped in several overcoats and a Russian, bearskin cap pulled down tight onto his head with just the points of his horns jutting through. He shivers violently. The thermometer on the wall reads twenty degrees. Beezel hunches nearby with his wings wrapped tightly around his body. Satan reaches an arm down to the side of his throne to pet Jared, or maybe it was Priebus, but his hand sweeps through open space.

“Where are the Hounds of Hell, Beezel?”

Beezel pops his head out of his feather cacoon. “They’re chasing skulls across the frozen Lake of Fire.”

Charon suddenly appears at the mouth of Satan’s Hall.

“Charon, why have you left your post?” Satan asks.

“I’ve come to report that the River Styx has frozen over, Evil Master,” replies Charon.

“If you’re here, then who’s guarding the gateway to hell?”

“I’m only one old man, Sire, I can’t watch the whole river alone now that it can be crossed anywhere.”

Satan sits up straight, alarmed. “When the souls find out, they’ll run across and join the living.”

“What’re we gonna do, O’ King Soul-Snatcher?” asks Beezel.

Satan ponders this question while Beezel and Charon stand shoulder to shoulder in forlorn allegiance, looking to their Underworld King for leadership.

Satan slumps back down in defeat. “My tail is frozen to my throne and I’m too cold to chip it out. We’re not going to do anything, not a damn thing.”

“Don’t get so depressed, Sire,” says Beezel. “Charon and I will go back and guard the River Styx. Maybe we can keep some of the souls from escaping.”

“Don’t bother, it’s God’s problem now.”

One Month Later

The escaped, damned souls run amok on earth, having quite a merry time wrecking the place. Most have joined the GOP and several have won elections (Republican constituents couldn’t tell the dead damned souls from the live ones, or didn’t care). Hitler showed up in Tel Aviv soon after the River Styx froze over and has been spray-painting disgusting epithets on the sides of buildings and crashing bat mitzvahs, scaring everyone, ever since. Stalin went straight to Moscow and is now Putin’s most trusted advisor.

God looks down and is not pleased. He watches Satan sitting motionless on his frozen throne, barely breathing.

“LUCIFER! says God.

“What now?” Satan replies.

“YOU CAN HAVE ALL THE BRIMSTONE YOU WANT. JUST GET THE DAMNED BACK INTO HELL.”

“I can’t right now, I have a head cold. Beezel is going to make soup and then I’m going to watch re-runs of South Park.”

“I’LL GIVE YOU SOMETHING YOU’VE ALWAYS WANTED,” God says.

Satan’s head snaps up. “You’ll give me Pat Robertson?”

“ON HIS WAY.”

A that very instant Pat Robertson keels over with a massive coronary

And wakes up on a slab of white-hot granite, flames licking up around him. He notices the searing heat right away. “Oh my goodness gracious, why is it so hot in here?” Pat looks around. He’s in a small glowing chamber, and standing at the door is Satan, smiling.

“Who are you? Wait a . . . NO!”

“Welcome to the Underworld, Patty-boy,” Satan says.

Pat looks up. “I’m not supposed to be here! Lord, are you testing me?”

“He’s not going to talk to you now. You’re all mine Patty-boy. I’ve been waiting all your snively, deceiving, phony, greedy life to get you down here. I need a new evil mind in my cabinet and you’re perfect for the job. You’re one of the slickest hucksters I’ve seen since Machiavelli. You’re part of my plan to re-instate a dictatorship down here.”

“I’m not working for you. God is just putting me through this ordeal to challenge my faith. He’ll hear me and take me to where I belong. It’ll be any minute now.” Pat looks around with hope in his eyes.

“God traded you for all the souls in hell. He won’t be reconsidering that particular bargain,” Satan says

“But I dedicated my life to God. I served him better than anyone. Why has he betrayed me?”

“Come now, you never served God. You only served yourself. You got rich stealing money from little old ladies living on social security. Even I wouldn’t stoop that low.”

Pat’s pleasant face turns hard. “Screw you, Satan.”

Satan picks a chunk of flesh from one of his claws. “You’ll come around.”

A Year Later Jim Bakker is run over dead by a pimp’s black SUV

And his soul is led into the Hall of Thrones by Beezel, who stands poor, dazed Jimmy Bakker before Satan’s throne. Pat Robertson is standing there, smiling, wearing a beautiful, new purple robe. He has his own smaller throne on the right hand side of Satan’s. Pat leans over and whispers into Satan’s ear as Jimmy is brought forward.

“Well look who we have here before us,” Pat says.

“Oh, shit,” Jimmy says.

 

By Big Charles Calderon