God Bless You, Bottoms Up

“Why are you here?”

*BLEEEEP* hears this question often.

In hell, “residents” have a “sigil” - a personalized mark indicating the offense that got them there. Such as the drunkard with his head painfully crammed into a whiskey bottle.

*BLEEEEP* doesn’t have a sigil, a stigma nonetheless. Hence the questions. Most recently, he was asked by a man with a rotund, twerking butt in back of his head.

He approached *BLEEEEP* as they sat for the morning “Hell & You” seminar in a Greek-style amphitheater. *BLEEEEP* was engrossed in a lecture given by DiA (Demon in Attendance), Pruflas about the dangers of smiling.

Unlike students in a classroom, residents of hell are encouraged to communicate. Indeed - how else to disseminate news of the agony of other residents?

“WoSin,” began the butthead, his head cheeks bouncing. “Why are you here?”

“WoSin? What’s WoSin?” replied *BLEEEEP*.

“You are.” said the man. His face was like fleshy ground beef for all the wrinkles and pock marks – an odd contrast as it gave way to the creamy smooth headass.

*BLEEEEP* shook his head, “No no, my name is……uh…” he stammered

“Think all you want. If you’re lucky, you’ll conjure a bleep.” explained the butthead.

“Nobody remembers their proper name. Everyone knows they had one, so we’re christened by the community with a nickname based on our sigil, but you don’t have one. Therefore, you’re presumably ‘without sin’ or ‘WoSin’.”

“Oh…” WoSin agreed. “That make you ‘asshead’?”

The man either winced or reacted to a powerful twerk. “Please… call me ‘Bottoms Up’.” he explained, he must bat away the nickname regularly.

“Glad to know you, Bottoms Up. To answer your question, I sold my soul to Satan for $20,000.”

Bottoms Up’s barbed eyebrows shot up, sending a ripple through his fleshy headass. “$20,000? That’s it? Why?” he asked.

“My wife and daughter got COVID. The pandemic forced me to close my restaurant, so we couldn’t afford health insurance. My daughter recovered, but my wife needed a ventilator. The bill kept going up. As her suffering increased, so did the bill.”

At this, Bottoms Up’s headass convulsed, causing his entire head to throb.

WoSin squinted at Bottoms Up, “You okay?

Bottoms Up straightened and nodded very deliberately. “Continue” stammered Bottoms Up.

“I left my wife’s side briefly to visit the billing office and check the damage. The total was $16,000 and counting.” WoSin continued. “I didn’t want to take this bombshell to my wife’s bedside. So, I took a walk.” WoSin paused. “I left the hospital and came to a crosswalk. A green bus was approaching but seemed to be slowing, so I began crossing. As I stepped onto the crosswalk, I thought ‘I’d do anything for $20,000’. I hardly completed that thought when that bus plowed into me.” WoSin demonstrated by careening his left fist into his right index finger.

Fleshy lava burst forth from volcanoes of rippling tissue on Bottoms Up’s headass. With teeth clenched and neck tensed, he looked like an Easter Island Mo’ai carved for a pug.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Through gritted teeth, Bottoms Up boisterously declared, “I’M FINE…”. The other residents stirred from the lecture and stared at them.

Pruflas, indignant that a resident would declare something other than solemn regret, ran steely talons across the chalkboard.

Undeterred, Bottoms Up continued “I’ll explain…”

He took a deep breath and redoubled his effort to stymie the tremors. “…in life, I was a malpractice attorney. This stuff is my bread and butter. Please continue.”

“I awoke in a formless void facing a dapper fella with fine golden hair in a fiery red suit, carrying a little black book.”

“Sounds like Beelzebub. Likely, you’re headed to level three.”

“Level three?”

“Yeah. You know the third ring of hell - for gluttons. You never read Dante?” asked Bottoms Up patronizingly.

WoSin shrugged, “Only the Cliff’s Notes.”

“What did the demon say?”

WoSin contemplated. At length he replied, “He said he had a ‘tremendous deal’ for me.”

“I see…then?” Bottoms Up replied.

“I hesitated; so he followed up with ‘you’ll be amazed, believe me!’” WoSin’s arms undulated like an organ grinder monkey, imitating the demon. “No harm in listening I thought, so I assented.”

“Did he make an offer?” Bottoms Up interrupted.

“Yes. He told me that he’d give $20,000 for the ‘yuge bill’ if I signed his book.”

“You signed?” Bottoms Up was in prime form for the “obvious question Olympics.”

“Allegedly…”

Bottoms Up loudly wrapped his fist on the bench between them. “Allegedly,” he guffawed “the legalese is strong with you!”

Again, the other attendees were ripped from the hellish tutorial. Pruflas scowled at Bottoms Up. “Asshead! One more outburst and I’ll send you to the Nickelback/Streisand karaoke realm!” Snarled Pruflas.

“Understood, malignant one.” he wheedled. “And it’s ‘Bottoms Up’”

Pruflas growled and returned to the chalkboard.

“You can’t talk to demons that way.” WoSin blurted.

“The hell I can’t. Lawyers have special standing. He has to respect my mantle.”

“Huh?” asked WoSin

“The Identification Defamation Proclamation of 1943…” Bottoms Up asserted.

WoSin scoffed. “Like a court case?”

Bottoms Up nodded. “Yessir.”

“Hell follows the rule of law?”

“Sorta. If a demon goes off and flays a resident, upper management still looks the other way. But thanks to ‘Easy Eddie’, we have what can loosely be called ‘rights’.”

Bottoms Up said.

“Easy Eddie?” WoSin echoed questioningly.

“Yeah. Eddie O’Hare. Capone’s lawyer.” answered Bottoms Up.

“Do all lawyers go to hell?” WoSin queried.

“The good ones do. Look.” Bottoms Up gestured towards the others. “Besides unbaptized children and pagans in togas, what do you see?”

WoSin scanned. He saw some children, burly men and snaggletoothed women in togas and fur loincloths. In contrast, there were many slick, meticulously primped middle-aged men, and the occasional woman in pristine, everstarched gray suits with leather briefcases.

“Shouldn't lawyers be lower?” WoSin wondered.

Bottoms Up shrugged, “The lawyer answer…no. If we were supposed to be lower, we’d be lower. The technical answer…yes. Before Easy Eddie, most lawyers were in the eighth circle, for frauds. Many are still there. The IDDP of '43 set more stringent criteria for admission.”

“…” WoSin leaned closer.

“Recall 1943…” continued Bottoms Up. “World War Two...People were dying in droves. Many of those souls, having done some killing themselves, came here.” Bottoms Up switched gears. “Before 1943, residents didn't have an identity at all. Easy Eddie successfully argued that it’s hard to demoralize a nameless mass.” said Bottoms Up.

“So…how did the lawyers get upgraded to…what circle is this? Four?” WoSin shrugged.

“No no. We’re in the first – Limbo. A relative holiday for the unbaptized and new arrivals like you. Lawyers help thin the crowd.”

“How?” queried WoSin.

“You ever hear about an innocent man getting screwed or overlooked by the system and serving time or worse?”

WoSin nodded.

“Souls of World War Two soldiers were judged too harshly on actions they were often forced to take. So, the lawyers came in” said Bottoms Up, beaming.

“What happens when appeals succeed?” asked WoSin, hopefully.

“A life sentence on earth, where you can repent, maybe even earn your way into heaven. That brings me to you. I’ve an idea to get you outta here.” Bottoms Up pointed up.

“You want to help? But aren’t you a huge asshole?”

“Well, yes. But that doesn’t explain my sigil.”

“What then?” WoSin implored.

“Officially, I’m an adulterer. I’d see a fine ass, I wouldn't stop until I bagged it. I was nicknamed ‘assman’…”

*POP*

WoSin came to, sitting at a long wooden table before a wooden panel behind which sat a statue of a man, a bearded monolith.

On his left, WoSin saw the man in the red suit sitting at an identical table, facing the anthropomorphic monument.

“Beelzebub.” A deep baritone, emanating from the giant, penetrated the gloom. “Do you assert that *BLEEEEP* should be eternally damned to the third circle for a life of gluttony?”

The man at the table stood. In a smug countertenor, he responded, “This is an open and shut case, your honor. Believe me. I’ve a signed contract here.” He raised the little black book, then opened it to a bookmarked page. “I *BLEEEEP* hereby agree to surrender my soul upon death in exchange for $20,000.” he snapped the book shut confidently and dropped it on the table.

“Very well.” Boomed the voice. “The funds have been dispersed?”

“Yes, honorable Minos. I dispatched a minion with the sum after the request was submitted.” said Beelzebub with a sigh, bored with the litany.

“Very well.” Boomed the voice. “How do you plead *BLEEEEP*?” The statue addressed WoSin.

WoSin wished Bottoms Up was there.

Wait. He thought. I wonder…worth a try…

“Your honor, I formally request outside representation.”

“Very well.” Boomed the voice.

“Have you retained representation or shall council be appointed?” asked the voice.

“I've chosen asshe…er…Bottoms Up to speak on my behalf.”

“Very well.” boomed the voice.

*POP*

Bottoms Up appeared in the chair beside WoSin.

His head slumped. His foggy eyes suggested that Pruflas was amid a particularly boring lecture.

At length, the voice broke the gloom “Asshead, you've been summoned to represent *BLEEEEP*, Do you accept?”

Bottom’s Up jerked to attention, replied “Absolutely, Lord Minos.”

“Very well.” boomed the voice. “Know that litigant *BLEEEEP* willingly entered into contract agreeing to exchange his soul for the sum of $20,000.”

“Yes, your honor. I'm aware of the facts.” Bottoms Up affirmed.

“Very well.” boomed the voice. “What is your defense?”

“I will prove that my client was victimized by an opportunistic demon who unscrupulously violated the Faustian Compact of 1808 by causing the demise of my client years before his time.”

“Very well.” boomed the voice. “Proceed.”

“Thank you, Judge.” he bowed. “I summon the alotter, Lachesis, to read my client’s thread.”

*POP*

WoSin blinked. When he opened his eyes, an unremarkable hag stood before the court. She had thick silver hair, a long burlap-like braid draped over her left shoulder, cascading down a coarse black dress to her waist. She held a golden thread in one hand and a shimmering golden rod in the other.

“Greetings, Lachesis.” boomed the voice. “You've been summoned to speak the doom of *BLEEEEP*.”

“Let's be quick” she croaked.

Bottoms Up approached Lachesis. “Milady of the Moirai, regarding that soul,” he pointed towards WoSin. “What is his lot?”

She held the rod up to the strand; she squinted one eye and closed the other.

Finally, she chirped, “Yep! Me first measurement was aq’rit. This bloke ‘as until twe’y for’y’ate.” she declared.

Beelzebub stood. “I OBJ…”

“Very well.” boomed the voice. “*BLEEEEP*, you are sentenced to resume your life, without interruption, until your time is up.” decreed the voice.

Bottoms Up, his head a bubbling torrent of twerks, slapped WoSin on the shoulder, “Congrats, buddy. See ya in a few!”

*POP*

WoSin zapped back into his body at the crosswalk. The bus was stopped, and the driver was waving him by.

Weird. He thought. I wonder…he abruptly swung around.

He marched back into the hospital. Could it be?

He turned to go back to the billing office, but was held up by the retiree manning the check-in desk.

“Excuse me, sir. I’ll need to get your temperature before you go any further.”

WoSin sighed “I was just here! You saw me leave! I just need to visit the billing office again.”

“Very well.” boomed the retiree

Okay...thought WoSin.

“Will you send a message to room 314 that I’ll be right back?”

“Very well.” boomed the retiree.

Riiiight…thought WoSin.

“Whats your name?”

“WoS…no, that’s my name. What’s happening? “Nevermind. Will you please have the valet bring my car?” he handed the retiree a stub.

“Very well.” boomed the retiree, taking the stub with a papery, bespeckled old hand.

Maybe, maybe not. Better safe than sorry…

When his car finally arrived, he jumped in and sped towards St. Mary’s.