It was a far different Bellagio from when Friends Helping Friends set up headquarters there. People given to hyperbole might say that it looked like a war zone. It didn’t. The grand hotel-turned-executive-mansion was surrendered almost without a fight during the invasion and had been spared further degradation throughout the insurgency.
It wasn’t structurally unsound. It wasn’t even pockmarked by weapons fire. It was, however, shabby.
There was a sense of decay about the place. Wallpaper, scuffed and damaged through the course of regular wear-and-tear, remained on the wall because replacements weren’t available. Mirrored and brass surfaces needed polishing, but no help was available to take on the task. Water stains mottled the carpet. The mold that caught hold in those spots emitted odors that were growing progressively worse.
Up on the fourth floor, the Donatello room was buzzing with activity as the staging for the raid continued. Gunny Spamblocker and his troops continued to check and re-check their weapons and ask each other questions about the mission in an oral drill to make sure nobody forgot any details.
General Dishinstaller and Colonel Sanchez went over the strategy. General Veecey and Colonel Celltower discussed their part in the plan, putting their jealousies aside for the moment.
The cacophony was becoming to be too much for M. Griffin Croupier VII. So was the marginalization.
“Hey!” he shouted over the din. “Hey! Could someone explain something to me?”
Things quieted down, even though Croupier could tell he had nobody’s complete attention. Everyone still seemed to be going down their checklists.
“I just want to make sure I got this straight,” he said. “I looked over the plan. General Veecey is going to be in this battle – but not in a command capacity– he’ll be equal partners with Colonel Celltower.”
There were nods.
“Dishinstaller, an American general, will have command of an army comprised, in the main, of Domestic troops but, we’re hoping to not need them.”
Nods again.
“Colonel Sanchez has operational authority but, because we’re depending on the stealth of a small, elite unit, Gunny Spamblocker will have tactical control.”
“So what’s confusing you?” Veecey asked Croupier.
“It looks like everything’s getting done,” Croupier pointed out, “but nobody’s really in charge.”
Dishinstaller, Sanchez, Celltower, Spamblocker and each of the five enlisted troops ceased whatever tasks they were attending to, turned to face Croupier and announced, in chorus, “Welcome to America!”
Then they all went back to work.
Veecey escorted his civilian friend out, suggesting he go take a walk.
–from Land That I Love
We have more cold days in Hell than you might think. That’s because it’s in Idaho.
Nor is it nearly as crowded as widely believed. Most souls who come here stay only briefly. Put your mind at ease: No matter what you’ve done in your life, you are almost certainly going to Paradise. Those of us in the city who were eternally damned took note of new arrivals. There was one in particular that none of us would forget, although I think he has forgotten us.
It was after the invention of television but before that of personal computers when he came through the gate.
“Hello? … “Hello?” he called out to each person he met as crossed the threshold into our decrepit walled city. We damned souls, as is our nature, ignored him. “Is this where I’m supposed to be? Is there a place to stay around here? Hello?”
Looking out of my curtainless, glassless second-floor window, I resisted the urge to help the young East Asian man, and wondered why I still felt that urge. It wasn’t long, though, before a rape gang formed. Some men were dressed as I was, in Mesopotamian kaftans. Others were dressed like the new arrival – in shirts and trousers. And men of every place and time in between joined the lust-filled, hate-filled crowd. They moved in phalanxes down the narrow, dusty streets from all directions as the gates swung closed behind the newcomer.
Even if I alone could have helped him, what would have been the point? I’m one of the few who have been damned for eternity. Over the past few decades, as Americans began arriving in increasing numbers, they introduced us to such terms as “plea bargaining,” “parole” and “time off for good behavior”. We just laughed, we forever damned. Who knows? Maybe the One True Judge laughed too.
It quickly came clear that the newcomer didn’t need any help.
–from “Forever and Ever, Amen”
“Fuck you. I don’t care if you allow me to introduce myself. I never really liked that song. “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” – now that’s a great tune!
“You will spend eternity here in Hell. Heaven has forgotten you and the Earth soon will. You’ll suffer at the hands of countless torturers over the millennia but it pleases me to greet the condemned souls who fall into this pit of … Hold on. My cell.
“Hi, hon. … Of course I’m happy to hear from you, but … Babe, I’m at work! … Yes, dear. (This’ll just take a sec!) … Look, I’m in an intake right now and … No. … Don’t start crying. … ‘You’re my red-hot momma.’ … All better? … Good, gotta go. … Right back at ya. … I said ‘right back at ya.’ … I love you. … I love you more. … OK? … Bye.
“Sorry about that. Yeah, we’re newlyweds.
“Hey, while I’m already torturing you, let me tell you how I met my wife.”
–from “Intentions”
Here are a few things that don’t go together well:
- spent fuel from a nuclear reactor,
- a leak in the container that’s designed to hold it for 9,997 more years,
- shoddy maintenance on the controls that are supposed to alert the command center,
- a gentle, spring-fed creek trickling through the bucolic Wisconsin countryside nearby,
- the adorable woodland creatures who dwell along the creek, and
- the granola-crunching pinhead who thinks they want to be petted.
The result can only be bloody mayhem.
–from Mighty Mighty, a novel in progress
