Hell's Headquarters According to Henry

"Hmph," Wilma grunted, nimbly looping yarn around a crochet needle. She dropped the beginnings of a potholder in her lap and fumbled for the remote. Each station broadcasted the President's special appeal to support healthcare reform. "Hmph," she griped again, "politicians."

Henry hobbled in from the kitchen, his cane rapping on the hardwood floors. Feebly balancing a pitcher and two empty glasses on a platter, Henry propped his cane against the couch and poured his wife a glass of tea. Grim faced, Wilma silently shook her head.

"You don't want it?" he asked.

"No, it's not that," she said accepting the drink. "I'm frustrated over this healthcare debacle. Why premiums are gonna skyrocket. Before long our deductibles will be around $20,000."

"Eh?" he said, cupping his ear.

"Healthcare," she shouted.

Henry shrugged, pointing helplessly at his ear.

"Healthcare," she repeated again, louder.

"I don't know for sure," he said, stroking his chin. He set his glass on a coaster, and shuffled to the bookcase. "But I think I might have an idea. Hell might be in the center of the Earth," he commented, looking for a specific reference. "Years ago I wrote down some notes while listening to that white suited televangelist. You seen my little black notebook?"

"What?" his wife asked confused. "What are you talking about, Henry?"

Giving up on finding his notebook, he hefted a leather bound text from the shelf and settled back down on the couch. Flipping through the encyclopedia, he found the page and jabbed the spot. "Here," he grinned broadly, showing off his new gold tooth.

He handed the reference to his wife and she accepted it, curious. Several paragraphs detailed the Earth's inner core and it's chemical make-up. His wife stared at her husband, dumbfounded. "I still don't get it, Henry."

"The center of the Earth's hot, right?"

"Right," she nodded.

"Well, Hell's gotta be somewhere, so why not the center of the Earth?" He took a sip and continued. "There have been documented reports of oil men hearing screams billowing from holes in the ground where they're drilling for crude."

"What reports?" she asked, skeptical. "Where've you been reading this information?"

"The check out lines at Lola's Groceria," he responded with a smug grin.

"Hmph," she commented, returning to her crocheting. "Those same magazines report sightings of Elvis in Toadsuck, Arkansas. Besides," she scowled, "I didn't ask the whereabouts of Hell. I was complaining about healthcare reform and politicians."

"Eh?" he questioned cocking his head to one side.

"Nothing," she snapped.

A firm rapping at the front door sent Wilma catapulting to her feet.

"Your prune juice kicking in?" asked Henry, wide-eyed.

"No," she scolded. "We've got company."

Henry followed slowly in his wife's wake, still uncertain of her destination. Wilma yanked open the door.

"Well, hello Reverend," she greeted enthusiastically. "Come in, come in."

Revered Pillsworth extended a warm hand to both homebound congregants. "I just thought I'd stop in and see how you folks are doing."

"Great, Preacher," bellowed Henry. "Come grab a seat on the couch. The Missus and I were just discussing a question that maybe you can shed some light on."

"I'll try," he responded.

"Wilma asked the question, 'Hell's where?'."

The pastor nodded his interest.

"My theory is, it's in the center of the Earth. What do you think?"

"Well," he began, adjusting his collar, "we can speculate, but we can't know for sure because the Bible doesn't tell us the answer. We can only know for certain that Hell exists."

"I'm living it," Wilma muttered, expertly working her F-hook and orange yarn.

The Reverend offered Wilma a sympathetic glance. "Though such questions are interesting to discuss," continued Reverend Pillsworth, "there's an issue of greater importance. The key is, knowing you're headed to Heaven, right?"

Both nodded.

"Him sooner," Wilma mumbled, "if he doesn't get a better hearing aid."

The Reverend stifled a grin. "Is there a particular reason why you wanted to know, Wilma?"

"Reverend," she grumped, "I did not ask the whereabouts of Hell. I was complaining about healthcare reform. She nodded at the television. "And politicians..."

"And he thought you said 'Hell's where?'"

"What Preacher?" Henry questioned. "Now you're asking me the same question?"

"Hmph," Wilma said pushing to her feet. "Reverend, would you like some tea?"

"Sure," he said smiling.

"You may be here a while," she warned.

"That's fine," he nodded.

"Now Preacher," Henry began, slapping the Reverend on the back, "I want to show you this book."

"Sure thing, Henry. Sure thing."