Mainly because I have a deep and unforgivable flaw. Not only do I know this treatment is coming, I know I deserve it.
Listening to scratchy mp3s at top volume. I will be in the center of a wet cement floor, Duct-taped to a broken lawn chair, with old Victrola megaphones stuffed in each ear. The ceilings and walls will be slathered an institutional shit-brown. No, my hell will almost certainly take place in a windowless basement room buried deep in the purgatorial nethers. There will be no cloven hooves or torture racks or rounds of cribbage with Pol Pot and Hitler. There will be no eternal fire, three-headed dogs, or seas of percolating sinners. But I’m fairly sure it’s not going to be of the William Blake-etching variety. This story has been corrected since it was originally published. This article originally appeared on The Weeklings.
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