I am here today to convey a warning that, alas, only the wise shall heed: Hell is VERY real. I know for I have been there. I have experienced first hand the misery of the place, smelled the stench of the ovens and the countless bodies that have passed through the gates, and heard with my own ears the cacophony of the tortured souls contained therein. How I found myself, an unwilling guest, there among the damned, I do not know; obfuscation and confusion are allies of the tormentors and the scourge of the tormented. I recognize my good fortune in that I somehow managed to escape, by what means I cannot say. I know only that my gratitude at being free of that wretched realm is without bounds. I now feel it my duty to sound the alarm, to alert the unknowing, the unwitting, and the unbelieving, for the portals of damnation are often close and perilously easy to enter.
Through subtle plea or determined summons, the unsuspecting are enticed into the maw of the abyss, as if guided by the hand of an innocent little child. The curious and the obliging make such easy prey. Once through the gates the assault on body, mind, and senses begins. The false promises of fun and games give way swiftly to a stunned awareness that condemnation is at hand.
Hell is a place of darkness, yet it is filled with lights of dazzling color and variety, oscillating madly and blinding in their intensity. From every shadowy corner they shine on the assembled throngs, oppressive and unrelenting. There is no solace to be found, for should one light begin to dim, another will take its place, more offensive and more odious than the one it superseded.
Detritus litters the ground, piled high and scattered all about, decomposing where it sits. Cries and shouts like thunder assault the ears as demonic orchestras grind out their tortured melodies. As for respite, there is none to be had, only discomfort and mayhem and distress.
The last thought there is of hunger, but the minions of blackness foist their potions and poisons on the gathered denizens, so-called “food” prepared and served that at once offends the nostrils and turns the stomach, a mockery of the real needs of the cursed.
In this land all is frenzied and kinetic; demons run to and fro, laughing as they torture the masses and even one another. The den of suffering is populated by creatures difficult to describe, with no comparison to be found in nature. Vile Myomorpha the size of full-grown men, taunting and teasing, beasts that sing high praise and dance with glee at the folly of the damned. Lurking in mazes or trapped in cages, it is often difficult to discern the prisoners from the ungrudging sentinels of Beelzebub.
No more, no more, I can speak of my travail no more! Should, by hapless circumstance, my shadow ever again darken the kingdom of torment, I fear I would not be so lucky as to elude for a second time the fiends abiding there which delight in the agonies of another. I confess the very thought brings a sweat to my brow and the trembles to my knees.
Hades, Tartarus, Sheol, Gehenna, and Tophet, all ancient names for the Land of the Lost. But be warned and be wary for there is yet another name for Perdition’s abode. Be vigilant and permit no one to lure you there and dare not even to utter its infernal name:
Chuck E. Cheese’s.
©Billy Red Horse
Well, played, Sir, well played.