Just Another Tuesday
Hell, as it turns out, wasn’t all fire and brimstone. Well, okay--technically it was. But nobody tells you about the downtime. About the long, slow afternoons when the screams echo too rhythmically to be interesting anymore, and even the tormentors need a break.
Take today, for example.
Two mid-level demons lounged at a battered wooden picnic table perched on the edge of a lava stream. They were hulking, horned, and rippling with sinew—but at the moment, their monstrous forms slouched in comfortable laziness.
Bob was munching thoughtfully on a ham and brimstone sandwich, while Greg Jr. squinted with intense concentration at the joystick clutched in his claws.
"Any good?" Bob asked, mouth full, nodding toward the video game. The smell of scorched rye and existential dread wafted up from his meal.
"Still can’t beat level three," Greg Jr. grumbled, wings twitching with irritation. "The mortal keeps escaping the bureaucratic maze. I think someone patched the AI."
“Mm.” Bob turned another page in Philosophy for Dummies, which he held with impressive care for someone with claws like scythes. He had dog-eared the chapter on Sartre. “Hell is other people, huh? Guy wasn’t kidding.”
Behind them, chaos casually brewed.
A gnome in full guerrilla military regalia sprinted past, tiny legs pumping as he hurled a grenade the size of a grapefruit with gleeful abandon. A riotously colored parrot clung to his shoulder, squawking something unintelligible but clearly motivational.
“FREEDOM FOR THE FLOWERPOT FOLK!” the gnome screeched.
The grenade arced beautifully through the smoky air, bounced off a jagged rock, and landed harmlessly in a pool of lava with a pfft.
“Third dud today,” noted Greg Jr. without looking up.
"He's passionate, I'll give him that," said Bob, now balancing an apple in one hand and the book in the other. “Though I still don’t understand how he got down here. Did he sin, or was it some kind of extradimensional paperwork error?”
“Both,” Greg Jr. said. “Filed a false claim of moral superiority while refusing to sort his recycling. Classic double-whammy.”
The table between them was cluttered with the detritus of the damned: apples with suspicious bite marks, a lattice-topped pie steaming like a portal, half-melted candy bars no one dared touch because they may or may not be cursed, and a single plastic fork that had somehow fused with the wood.
Off to the right, two gremlins twerked with abandon by a lavafall, completely naked and unbothered. Their rubbery limbs flailed with the kind of chaotic joy only those truly devoid of shame could muster. One of them let out a cackle so intense it popped the eardrum of a nearby screaming soul.
“That’s... new,” said Bob, glancing up.
“They’re protesting.” Greg Jr. tapped away furiously. “Something about Hell’s lack of arts funding. I stopped listening after the glitter-bomb incident.”
A silence fell between them, only broken by the crackling hiss of molten rock and the occasional exclamation from Greg Jr. (“WHY is there an existential quiz in level four?!?”).
The sandwich was gone. The book closed with a thoughtful sigh.
"You ever think we should, I dunno... change departments?" Bob said.
Greg Jr. paused mid-tap. “What, like transfer to Lust or Gluttony? Nah. They're overcrowded. You know how long the waiting list is for Sinful Picnic Coordination?”
“Yeah, but maybe we’re stagnating. Philosophically, I mean. We've been doing this gig for what, four centuries?”
“You were the one who brought a self-help book to a torture shift.”
Bob folded his arms. “I’m evolving.”
“Uh huh. Just don’t go full redemption arc on me. That’s how we lost Phil.”
They both stared solemnly at the empty stone where Phil’s workstation had once been. A faint halo-shaped scorch mark remained.
After a moment, the gnome came sprinting back the other direction, grenade belt flapping, parrot squawking, pants missing.
“WE SHALL RISE AGAINST THE FURNACE!”
“Hope he doesn’t,” muttered Greg Jr. “Last time he rose, he exploded.”
“Same,” sighed Bob. “Same.”
The lava belched. The gremlins twirled. The joystick beeped a victorious chime.
“Finally beat it!” crowed Greg Jr. “Now I get to assign a soul to eternal paperwork duty!”
Bob raised his apple in a lazy toast. “Cheers to that. Now pass me the pie before the gnome gets back.”
And so the afternoon burned on, glorious and absurd, another ordinary day in the mythic ridiculousness of Hell.
Even demons, it turns out, need lunch breaks.
Take today, for example.
Two mid-level demons lounged at a battered wooden picnic table perched on the edge of a lava stream. They were hulking, horned, and rippling with sinew—but at the moment, their monstrous forms slouched in comfortable laziness.
Bob was munching thoughtfully on a ham and brimstone sandwich, while Greg Jr. squinted with intense concentration at the joystick clutched in his claws.
"Any good?" Bob asked, mouth full, nodding toward the video game. The smell of scorched rye and existential dread wafted up from his meal.
"Still can’t beat level three," Greg Jr. grumbled, wings twitching with irritation. "The mortal keeps escaping the bureaucratic maze. I think someone patched the AI."
“Mm.” Bob turned another page in Philosophy for Dummies, which he held with impressive care for someone with claws like scythes. He had dog-eared the chapter on Sartre. “Hell is other people, huh? Guy wasn’t kidding.”
Behind them, chaos casually brewed.
A gnome in full guerrilla military regalia sprinted past, tiny legs pumping as he hurled a grenade the size of a grapefruit with gleeful abandon. A riotously colored parrot clung to his shoulder, squawking something unintelligible but clearly motivational.
“FREEDOM FOR THE FLOWERPOT FOLK!” the gnome screeched.
The grenade arced beautifully through the smoky air, bounced off a jagged rock, and landed harmlessly in a pool of lava with a pfft.
“Third dud today,” noted Greg Jr. without looking up.
"He's passionate, I'll give him that," said Bob, now balancing an apple in one hand and the book in the other. “Though I still don’t understand how he got down here. Did he sin, or was it some kind of extradimensional paperwork error?”
“Both,” Greg Jr. said. “Filed a false claim of moral superiority while refusing to sort his recycling. Classic double-whammy.”
The table between them was cluttered with the detritus of the damned: apples with suspicious bite marks, a lattice-topped pie steaming like a portal, half-melted candy bars no one dared touch because they may or may not be cursed, and a single plastic fork that had somehow fused with the wood.
Off to the right, two gremlins twerked with abandon by a lavafall, completely naked and unbothered. Their rubbery limbs flailed with the kind of chaotic joy only those truly devoid of shame could muster. One of them let out a cackle so intense it popped the eardrum of a nearby screaming soul.
“That’s... new,” said Bob, glancing up.
“They’re protesting.” Greg Jr. tapped away furiously. “Something about Hell’s lack of arts funding. I stopped listening after the glitter-bomb incident.”
A silence fell between them, only broken by the crackling hiss of molten rock and the occasional exclamation from Greg Jr. (“WHY is there an existential quiz in level four?!?”).
The sandwich was gone. The book closed with a thoughtful sigh.
"You ever think we should, I dunno... change departments?" Bob said.
Greg Jr. paused mid-tap. “What, like transfer to Lust or Gluttony? Nah. They're overcrowded. You know how long the waiting list is for Sinful Picnic Coordination?”
“Yeah, but maybe we’re stagnating. Philosophically, I mean. We've been doing this gig for what, four centuries?”
“You were the one who brought a self-help book to a torture shift.”
Bob folded his arms. “I’m evolving.”
“Uh huh. Just don’t go full redemption arc on me. That’s how we lost Phil.”
They both stared solemnly at the empty stone where Phil’s workstation had once been. A faint halo-shaped scorch mark remained.
After a moment, the gnome came sprinting back the other direction, grenade belt flapping, parrot squawking, pants missing.
“WE SHALL RISE AGAINST THE FURNACE!”
“Hope he doesn’t,” muttered Greg Jr. “Last time he rose, he exploded.”
“Same,” sighed Bob. “Same.”
The lava belched. The gremlins twirled. The joystick beeped a victorious chime.
“Finally beat it!” crowed Greg Jr. “Now I get to assign a soul to eternal paperwork duty!”
Bob raised his apple in a lazy toast. “Cheers to that. Now pass me the pie before the gnome gets back.”
And so the afternoon burned on, glorious and absurd, another ordinary day in the mythic ridiculousness of Hell.
Even demons, it turns out, need lunch breaks.
Important disclaimer: In Jewish tradition, the concept of "Hell" is very different from the Christian version. Jews generally don't believe in a place of eternal torment; instead, there’s a concept called Gehinnom—a temporary spiritual cleansing process for the soul, lasting no more than 12 months, before it moves on, and not everyone even goes there. It's not fire and pitchforks, and it’s definitely not picnic tables and twerking gremlins (unless you’re reading very creative midrash). Many Jews, myself included, believe in reincarnation and also believe that it's most important to focus on this life instead of speculating on the afterlife. This story is purely comedic fantasy and not reflective of Jewish theology.
Vibrant Visionaries #12: Nonsense, Hell, Philosophy, Guerrilla, Joystick, Exotic, Lunch
