"Take my wife... please! I'll give ya her mother for half-off!" sputtered the sweating, pink-faced man on stage. The two burnished iron golems standing on either side of him took a step closer, their bodies glowing a dull red, heat waves curling up around their shoulders. A small yelp crawled out of the man's throat. He stifled it, swallowing hard. "I uh... I was looking at this blog the other day, sumpin' about a gay guy. Didn't know I was on the... the blogosqueer! Heh!" Teeth clenched, muscles tense, the man looked to his left.
The golems took another step. Only one more and it'd be curtains.
"A rabbi and an imam walk into a burger joint. The imam asks, 'Is the ground beef halal?' The rabbi asks, 'Is the ground beef kosher?' And uh... and the uh... the cashier says, 'I don't know, but ha'll tell ya, the kows sher are tasty!' Ah? Ah? Oh God..." The two golems took one final step — they were now within a meter of the man. Their bodies became brighter and redder. The man tried to escape, but the golems fell upon him in a heap, all the while glowing brighter, all the while burning hotter. Gurgling, sputtering cries echoed out of the tangled enclosure as the man was cooked alive. Moments later, he reappeared at the back of the line.
It was open mic night in the west arc of the 3.5th level of hell. This sublevel section was reserved for timeshare salespeople, infomercialists, and stand-up comedians who gave defensive driving classes part-time. Bo was one of the latter, and he was next.
As he ascended the gnarled metal steps, stained with the burnt effusion of countless others before him, Bo consider once more the sidewalk full of children he had ironically plowed through that drunken night before ramming full speed into the side of his own office. Well, that was five years ago, and now it was his turn to stave off death for another few minutes. He'd had a solid hour in line to come up with new material.
As always, the crowd of shadowy, immaterial forms custom-made themselves into those whom he'd hurt most in life: the family he'd left behind, the families of the children he'd killed, and the mangled, broken children themselves. All stared toward him from hollow, eyeless sockets. Bo was used to this group by now. Soon they'd find some other way to torment him; but for now, it was this nonsense again. Maybe the demons were just uncreative, or lazy, or redundant. Who knew?
The golems took their places at Bo's sides, five paces away, five jokes distant from his thousandth oven-roasted death. And really, there was no escaping it. He'd tried jumping off stage, reciting prose, recycling famous material, meditating, kicking the golems in the groin, everything. For these transgressions, a more painful punishment was always served. So Bo resigned himself to his fate. Wednesday night was open mic night, and it wouldn't end until he'd died three times.
"Evenin', guys and ghouls. It's hot in here tonight, ain't it? Speaking of hot, tell me, what's the hottest letter in the alphabet? Give up? It's 'b', because 'b' makes oil boil!" The golems didn't move an inch. Odd, thought Bo. He'd gotten into the habit of telling really crappy jokes right off the bat just to get it over with. "Big John got cooked pretty quick tonight. Guess you could say he's a real ham!"
Still no movement.
From the back corner of the audience a shadow crept, mist-like, slithering along the floor toward the stage. It spilled up over the edge and materialized in front of Bo. The demon took the form of a woman with a raven's head. This spirit was Brick, and Brick was in charge of the west arc of sublevel 3.5.
"Good evening, Bo," she rasped. "Seems like you've been a little... unenthusiastic lately. My associates come here to be amused, you know. Once upon a time, you used to keep us entertained for at least ten, maybe twelve jokes. Could it be that you've become accustomed to your regular torture?"
Bo's throat suddenly felt bone dry. "N-no," he stammered. "I ah... I guess it's kind of hard to come up with new stuff after five years."
"Mmm, I don't think so," said Brick. "We specialize in lying, and that, sir, was a lie. You're one of the few comedians here who actually knows what he's doing. Perhaps we ought to up the stakes a little." She paced over to one of the golems, considered it, ran her smoky black hands over it. "If you don't tell a good set — a real set — I'm sending you to the east arc with the internet trolls, World of Warcraft widowers, and copyright infringers, perhaps for a millennium or so."
"Wait — the copyright infringers?"
"You know, the people who steal music and movies over the internet."
Bo glared at her, slack-jawed, unbelieving. "People go to hell for file sharing? Are you kiddin' me?"
"It is a sin in the eyes of They Who Rule The Universe."
"But it's not even stealing. This is ridiculous! You're ridiculous!"
Brick's heart shrank three sizes that day. She dissipated into a black cloud, then floated over to one of the golems, which she promptly possessed. Its mottled, burnished arms flung forward like those of a robot in a '60s sci-fi flick. Bo knew there was no escape, so he braced himself for the death grip.
Over the next several months, Bo traveled in what was essentially a Dutch over: the golem's air-tight stomach. And in this oven he was cooked alive, non-stop, until at last he arrived — smoldering, both literally and figuratively — in the hub of the east arc. The golem ejected him into the pile of embers and discarded medieval weapons that served as a welcome mat, then promptly turned about face and began its journey back toward the west arc. Bo thought he heard it mumble something under its breath, but the sound was immediately drowned out by the continuous smooth jazz playlist blasting over the staticky loudspeakers.
Bo clambered over the charred shrapnel beneath him, severing off a piece at a time the metaphysical flesh that kept growing back over his barbecued skeleton. After reaching the entrance to the main hallway, he took a few minutes to catch his breath and collect his thoughts (and organs). Soon he was whole again.
Before him lay a dim, possibly trap-filled passage. A blackened sign was bolted to the front of the arch: "W3LC0M3 2 #3LL". Bo rolled his eyes. L3375P34K was so 2002. He took a few tenuous steps. So far so good. But then the Elven mistresses came. They were sultry, pouty, luscious — covered head to toe in ornate tattoos, dripping with sweat, fierce, ready for hours of love making. Bo knew it had to be a trick, but why not? Why shouldn't he get a break every once in a while, huh?
They approached him, licking their lips. Here it comes, he thought. They'll probably eat my intestines or rip my skin off or something. Despite his worst fears, though, they just walked on by without a word. He looked after them for a moment. That's when he walked head first into a beehive and, of course, was reminded that hell is predictable after all. Bees began crawling into his eyes, nose, ears, and other orifices, stinging to protect whatever the hell a beehive in the middle of a hallway protects. Bo collapsed right at the exit arch, the circular hub in sight. A few hours of mind-numbing paralysis later and he was back on his feet.
The hub was a ballroom-sized dome about ten meters tall with a red stained-glass roof. Etched into the panels were a million eyes. One was not to make eye contact with any of them, Bo learned after a few sizzling death rays to the brain. There were a number of other hallways, each leading either to dormitories, torture chambers, or other smaller hubs. Bo looked into each hall, even walking down a few; and into whatever rooms he could, even entering a few. Where was everybody? For the afterlife of him, he couldn't discern any demonic or human presence, not even in the fabulously decorated torture chambers (barbed replacement organs! rugs woven from parasitic worms! a salad bar!).
It wasn't until he passed by one nondescript room in a nondescript passage that Bo finally heard some noise. He listened for a moment, putting his ear up to the heavy iron door. It was cool to the touch! He rapped gently.
Silence.
Then blue light — or more precisely, a blue field, as if he were in a jar. As soon as it was raised, the field fell, and now the door creaked open. From it a gush of condensation flooded the hall, and for the first time in five years Bo felt cool moisture. Steam was a regular punishment device in the west arc, but condensation... What the heaven is goin' on here? Before he could muse on the thought, two beefy hands thrust forward and pulled him inside.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, what is this?"
The bouncer was over two meters tall with a mean beer belly, several weeks' worth of beard, and the dirtiest fingernails he'd seen in a while. Bo couldn't remember the last time his fingernails had had time to accumulate more than four or five hours worth of filth. That meant...
"You're... protected?"
The big guy nodded. "Yep. Haven't seen demons around here for about two months. So now I need figure out what you're doing here."
"I stopped bein' funny," said Bo. He took a quick inventory of his surroundings. The room was sparse: a few chairs, a series of pipes embedded in the walls, and a large, translucent glass wall with a sliding door. It wasn't locked. "Where am I?"
"Easy there — can't just start answering questions. You first."
Bo rattled off a little of his life story, ending with his current situation and the events leading up to it. The bouncer regarded him coolly the whole time, nodding every thirty seconds or so. Guess he's trying to figure out whether I'm a spy, thought Bo. After the bouncer interrogated him for a few more minutes, he seemed satisfied that Bo was legit and led him to the sliding glass door.
"Welcome to HellHex, the only compromised space in the whole organization. I'm Alex, and I'll be your tour guide today." He slid the door open, leading Bo into what appeared to be the English countryside on a rainy morning. The hazy meadow was the size of a few football fields (standard or American, take your pick), dotted with stumpy trees and one exceptionally large yew, grass wet with freshly fallen rain drops, sky obscured by a blanket of thick clouds. In the center of the meadow stood a four-storey glass cube crawling with human activity.
"How is this possible?" Bo asked. He couldn't believe his eyes.
"We hacked it," said Alex.
"You hacked Hell?"
"Well," said Alex with a bit of dramatic flair, "when you have a lot of time on your hands, you tend to do a lot of thinking. You do a lot of thinking, and occasionally you stumble upon an idea."
"...that idea being?"
"That hell is a simulation —that we're all simulations — because if we aren't physical beings, then we must be computational beings. And if we're computational beings in a computational simulation, then there is a way to manipulate the code that drives the simulation."
They had been walking while they were talking, and now Bo and Alex were standing at the door to the glass structure. Bo stopped and put his hand out. "Wait a second. You just described to me the plot of The Matrix."
"Yeah, yeah, we've all been through the grieving process over that one. But it gets better, trust me." Alex opened the door and led Bo inside. Scurrying about were hundreds of nerds of all shapes and sizes. Some were carrying stacks of stone tablets, others typed away at bronze computers with blood-red liquid screens; a few were running cord between machines. No one even stopped to glance at Bo.
"You see," said Alex, "most of us don't really know why we landed here. Your case is a pretty clear one, in the traditional sense, but the majority of these people have led relatively peaceful lives. The pedos end up in another level altogether. We're all just a bunch of nerds. Then we figured out the common thread."
"File sharing," said Bo.
"Bingo," said Alex. "Thieves go to Bolgia Seven, so what are we doing here? What is sublevel 3.5, and who's running it?"
"Got me there," said Bo.
"Think real hard."
Bo let his mind drift. Who could be responsible for creating a simulated hell for file sharers? Who could have that kind of power? Could it... no, no way. Not a chance in hell. It's just not possible! "The RIAA?"
"Haha, now you're getting the big picture. Not just the RIAA, though. The MPAA's in it, too. But it's not our RIAA, not our MPAA. It's the RIAE and the MPAE. 'E' stands for 'Everything'. They're from an alternate Earth. They sued the world into the ground, and then used the money for R&D into more invasive policing techniques. Soon they took over entire governments. With that kind of sway, they got first dibs on the best new research in quantum physics. When the singularity came to pass, the board heads used their power to become free-floating, bodiless, computational gods. Then they twisted the fabric of reality and went to work punishing all file sharers in every alternate universe they could get their metaphysical hands on."
"So why am I on sublevel 3.5 and not with the murderers?" Bo asked.
"Legitimacy," said Alex. "They had to give the sublevel something more substantial, more complicated. But it wasn't enough. Putting all the nerds in same arc was their death knell."
"So even though I've never used Napster, I still got stuck in this simulation?"
Alex laughed (Napster!) and gave him a slap on the back. "This is what happens when you give unlimited power to a third party. Justice motivated by profit tends to see things through green-tinted glasses. Maybe you downloaded a file sharing program without actually using it, or read up on the subject somewhere, or associated with other file sharers. Who knows? All that matters is that somehow they found a loophole by which to spiritually prosecute you."
"But why doesn't God do something about this?" Bo asked, breathless, desperate.
"Because God is in violation of copyright law. Being omniscient means he's seen every single copyrighted work without having paid for any of it. Therefore, as a just and moral deity, he cannot intervene. It's his nature, so he can't be punished in the traditional sense, but he had to pay a jurisdictional fine and release a portion of hell's planal bandwidth."
They now stood on the top floor of the structure, having traversed a few bustling hallways and crowded staircases. They opened the final door and ascended to the mezzanine. A few deer scampered off below after hearing the echo of footsteps on the glass. Starlings called from the yew. In the distance, the sparse trees grew thicker and thicker until meshing together in a forest that stretched to the horizon.
"One day, my son, all of this will be yours."
"Hey," Bo chirped, "you got a good sense of humor. You ever think about doin' a little stand-up?"
"Oh, I had a youtube comedy channel once upon a time, but I used a copyrighted song in one of the bits, and the day I posted it happened to be the day I died. Who knows... maybe I would've been an internet phenomenon!"
"What's youtube?"
Alex laughed again. A couple curious onlookers had come up to the mezzanine now. "Hey Alex, who's the new guy?"
"Sergio, Iris, Dale, this is Bo. Seems like he wound up here by accident."
The three eyed him suspiciously. The last thing they wanted was to see their temporary paradise compromised by an outsider, especially a non-techie. Alex caught their ire before they could speak. "Relax, I already scanned his sim profile for malware. He's clean. He was probably locked up preemptively."
Iris walked forward and gave Bo a tenuous handshake. "It's um... nice to meet you, Bo. Forgive us for being standoffish, but I'm sure you understand the um... the potential consequences of bringing in an outsider. Heh." Dale and Sergio still regarded Bo at a distance. He suddenly remembered that he was, as he'd been for the whole duration of his stay in hell, completely naked. Everyone here was clothed.
"Kee-rist," he said, covering up his junk, "any of you guys got some spare threads? Or at the least, maybe some boxers?"
"Haha, don't worry about it," said Alex, taking off his black XXXL jersey and handing it over. "We don't have a very strict dress code here." The shirt was big enough to obscure Bo down to his knees.
"Don't you guys ever worry that they're gonna catch on? Seems like the demons in my arc didn't have a clue, but maybe they're simulated, too. I guess what I mean is, how long do you think until the suits figure out your little operation?"
"Not long, but don't worry — revolutions always happen from the bottom up. Tyranny can't be sustained when chaos creeps into the foundation. We've already got our hands on the code, and by the time the RIAE and the MPAE catch on, we'll have distributed it to our fellow suffering souls in this universe and the current roster of parallel ones. We're going to share our way back into freedom."
"What about me?"
Alex scratched his chin. "Hmm... you won't be much good here in the tech center. Tell you what: we've got some space over in the call center — see it up there on that floating island, the one anchored to the ground by a chain? Yeah, I know, the WOWers designed it. Anyway, you help those guys out, and we'll make sure there's a place for you in Hell when we turn it into Paradise — our Paradise. We'll even code a little comedy club for you somewhere in the forest. You can have open mic night whenever you want."
"Don't hurt yourselves on that one," said Bo wearily. "I could use a little break."