Hawkman
03-02-2015, 09:32 AM
Well, here I am. I’m where everyone told me to go. I’m in Hell, and at the back end of a very long queue. Somewhere, out there, in the infinite distance, at the end of an endless line of lost souls, there is a computer terminal, or so they tell me. They also tell me that if I want support for the duration, I must submit an online application. Of course, being dead, or at least an unperson in any recognised legal sense, I no longer have my own internet account. Can’t do it from home, because I haven’t got one. Haven’t got anything of my own anymore. Don’t have a life. Nix, nada nowt, nothing. About the only thing I might possess is a Zip code.
When I eventually reach the end of the endless line, and I’ve filled out the online application, they’ll send me an appointment for an interview, where I’ll have to answer all the same questions that I answered online. Then they’ll give me another appointment to see some nasal, adolescent clerk, whose command of English barely equates with that of a three-year-old, who’ll take the opportunity to treat me like shi t while telling me it’s my own fault that I’m dead. And then they’ll lay down the law. They’ll tell me the rules. They’ll tell me what happens when I break them. The daemons are waiting.
Hell is a government-sponsored jobcentre.
They don’t like intellectuals here. Well, to be honest, I don’t think they like anybody, but they really hate intellectuals. And people who believe in excellence. In hell, it’s all about mediocrity. Mediocrity and obedience, and the wielding of power by stupid people in order to crush the intelligent.
The vast, fluorescently-lit, sticky-carpeted, open-plan hall in which we stand, and wait, and wait, and wait, smells of sweat. Sweat, and fear, and decay. The cattle-prod-wielding security guards patrol the line, eyeing everyone with contempt. Occasionally they give someone a poke, just to break the monotony. Sometimes we hear the screams.
I shuffle forward a pace, and look, for the umpteenth time, at the posters on the little noticeboards hanging from the pillars supporting the infinite roof. They’ve got pictures. Pictures of happy smiling faces of every imaginable ethnicity, all cut out and Photoshoped onto a bile-yellow-orange background, with blue lettering in a sans serif font designed to look friendly, and helpful, and encouraging, just so they can crush your hope with institutionalised unfriendliness when you reach the end of the endless line. The words are in French, in German, in Polish. There are some in Chinese and some in Arabic. At the bottom there’s a little note saying, “If you need help reading this notice, you can go online to www. hell.gov.uk where you’ll be able to find the same information in English.” Well, they call it English. Basically, the message is, “Abandon hope, all ye who enter.” "Arbeit macht frie," only there isn’t any. No arbeit. No frei. Just the macht.
The Devil looks down on us all; fat, glossy, sleek, smiling his contemptuous smile, despising us all, wallowing in his false consciousness—the consummate politician, revelling in his treason. Big Brother.
I hate him.
I hate his minions.
I’d kill him if I could. I’d kill them all. But how do you kill the Devil?
Powerless, I endure the unendurable. I wait, and wait, and wait, while the anger burns in my core, smouldering. A hot coal, a tight knot of pain, slowly expanding to consume me. Soon, all that will be left is the hate. A raging furnace of hate, focussed on the fireproof Teflon of power. But for the moment, I shuffle forward another pace towards the end of the endless line.
When I eventually reach the end of the endless line, and I’ve filled out the online application, they’ll send me an appointment for an interview, where I’ll have to answer all the same questions that I answered online. Then they’ll give me another appointment to see some nasal, adolescent clerk, whose command of English barely equates with that of a three-year-old, who’ll take the opportunity to treat me like shi t while telling me it’s my own fault that I’m dead. And then they’ll lay down the law. They’ll tell me the rules. They’ll tell me what happens when I break them. The daemons are waiting.
Hell is a government-sponsored jobcentre.
They don’t like intellectuals here. Well, to be honest, I don’t think they like anybody, but they really hate intellectuals. And people who believe in excellence. In hell, it’s all about mediocrity. Mediocrity and obedience, and the wielding of power by stupid people in order to crush the intelligent.
The vast, fluorescently-lit, sticky-carpeted, open-plan hall in which we stand, and wait, and wait, and wait, smells of sweat. Sweat, and fear, and decay. The cattle-prod-wielding security guards patrol the line, eyeing everyone with contempt. Occasionally they give someone a poke, just to break the monotony. Sometimes we hear the screams.
I shuffle forward a pace, and look, for the umpteenth time, at the posters on the little noticeboards hanging from the pillars supporting the infinite roof. They’ve got pictures. Pictures of happy smiling faces of every imaginable ethnicity, all cut out and Photoshoped onto a bile-yellow-orange background, with blue lettering in a sans serif font designed to look friendly, and helpful, and encouraging, just so they can crush your hope with institutionalised unfriendliness when you reach the end of the endless line. The words are in French, in German, in Polish. There are some in Chinese and some in Arabic. At the bottom there’s a little note saying, “If you need help reading this notice, you can go online to www. hell.gov.uk where you’ll be able to find the same information in English.” Well, they call it English. Basically, the message is, “Abandon hope, all ye who enter.” "Arbeit macht frie," only there isn’t any. No arbeit. No frei. Just the macht.
The Devil looks down on us all; fat, glossy, sleek, smiling his contemptuous smile, despising us all, wallowing in his false consciousness—the consummate politician, revelling in his treason. Big Brother.
I hate him.
I hate his minions.
I’d kill him if I could. I’d kill them all. But how do you kill the Devil?
Powerless, I endure the unendurable. I wait, and wait, and wait, while the anger burns in my core, smouldering. A hot coal, a tight knot of pain, slowly expanding to consume me. Soon, all that will be left is the hate. A raging furnace of hate, focussed on the fireproof Teflon of power. But for the moment, I shuffle forward another pace towards the end of the endless line.