Is it possible to write a story entirely in questions? Would such a story automatically suck? Would it simply be maddeningly frustrating to read and write? Is it a fatal flaw in the whole concept that stories must necessarily convey information whereas questions are intended to solicit it, and can only convey information by being incredibly long, hypothetical in nature, and so full of clauses which are, in fact, thinly veiled statements that by the the time reader reaches the question mark, he or she is forced to wonder if it even belongs there, and to look back through the monstrosity of a sentence to determine if it's even a question?
Is it further possible that a particular author has already begun to write a story in questions, has finished a gripping introduction, and is now simply floundering about for a way to start the narrative?
Could it be that once, in a far away land, in a distant time, there lived a race (Why not call them the Queri?) who lived their lives in questions? Why would they live such lives? Did an ancient deity once tell them to seek the questions not the answers? Were they simply inquisitive by nature? Does that even matter? What would the Queri be like? Would they speak only in questions, or would living in questions involve more, like the refusal to make decisions if at all possible?
Why don't we focus our story around a little Queri boy named Hanzer? What was wrong with Hanzer (asked all his teachers)? Why couldn't he ever accept a question as a question? Why did he insist on trying to follow them up with a thing that was not a question at all, and sucked the great mystery out of a question?
Who could forget that fateful day in pres-school when Hanzer's teacher asked "What shall we call all of these colors?"?
Did Hanzer reply "What shall we call them?" like all the other dutiful children? Did he even reply with "Why must we call them anything?", as a very smart child might do?
Or did he (and in fact he did) reply with, "Let's call that one Carl!"?
Of course, did it just go away after that? Or did Hanzer go on answering teacher's questions despite repeated discipline?
What hadn't his parents tried to keep down that anti-questioning streak? Hadn't they lectured him with the most obvious leading questions? Hadn't they beaten him with the questioning stick (a bent cane with a ball hanging off the end)? Hadn't they questioned his right to desserts and video games?
But why wouldn't he just learn? Why would they ultimately be forced to banish poor Hanzer from the land of questions?
And how, for his part, was Hanzer to live outside of the village he'd grown up in? Where could he go? Would he head west to the fabled land of exclamations? Or east to the land of pregnant pauses?
Or would he take the most dangerous road of all, due north, to the mythical land of answers, where none dare enter?
Monday, May 28, 2007
Friday, May 18, 2007
Mortimer's Mayhem
To make up for my long silence, I'm crafting a super-long post to wrap up Mortimer's adventures in Hell. Enjoy.
Falling off of things, thought Mortimer as he plummeted off the side of the boat. What do I know about falling off of things?
He knew he couldn't die, but he assumed he could break all his bones. He wished he had Narrin. Of course, there was... It was a remote possibility, but Mortimer whistled the special whistle he hadn't used for many years just in case. He fell some more. No luck.
He looked up, over his shoulder. The boat was not pursuing, but the imp was, and he'd been joined by three nasty-looking winged demons. As Mortimer looked at him, he popped out. Instantly Mortimer threw his weight sideways, which was good because sure enough the 3-foot creature had popped up right below him, spear extended. Before the imp realized that Mortimer wasn't falling into him, Mortimer had marmaladied the critter right between the eyes. They didn't call him the quickest draw in the kingdom for nothing. The imp screamed and recoiled, spiraling into the side of the pit and interrupting some torturing. This was holy marmalade - the oranges came from a garden in the courtyard of the cathedral. Mortimer had planned ahead a bit.
Meanwhile there were three more demons gaining and Mortimer was still falling. He had also spotted the bottom of the pit. It was filled with flames.
One of the demons, a green reptilian creature with bat-like wings and a single hideous horn (just above its single hideous eye) surged ahead (which was, of course, down). It grabbed Mortimer around the shoulders. The claws dug into his skin as the creature moved to bite into his neck. Mortimer slammed his head backwards as the creature's head leaned in, beaning it in the eye with the back of his head. Mortimer could feel the flames and could see, against all logic, that the field of flames was filled with snakelike creatures, huge and seemingly made of fire. His blinded carrier released him but Mortimer had no desire to stay in the bed of flames. He reached his arms around the creature's neck. It struggled to stay above the flames, but sunk lower in spite of itself. A fire snake snapped up, inches from Mortimer's feet, and he took his chance. Releasing the creature, he jumped down onto the snake's head. He had no reason to expect springiness but his gut, yet it delivered. He briefly felt the singe of the beast's impossibly hot head, but the jump did allow him to get a better grip on the demon. He was on its back now, arms around it's neck. But of course it didn't have a human neck, and even in its blind confusion it managed to painfully bite his hands. Screaming, Mortimer fell into the fire.
And through the fire...
And into the room.
***
"You mentioned a room before, at the bottom of the pit," said Stephen Shelley to the tour guide.
"We'll get there," he replied.
"I'm really curious."
"Well, the room is pretty brilliant. It's just a big, empty room."
"That's all?" asked Shelley.
"By the time folks reach the bottom of the pit," the fiend explained, "They've been tortured as much as possible. Well beyond death, but to the point where nothing any longer causes pain. But it's always been new torture, interesting torture. The room isn't new, and there's nothing new in it."
"But they're all in there at once. Surely they entertain each other."
"At first. But after a while, there's nothing people hate as much as people. 500 years, and they've all stopped talking each other. 1,000 years and they're sick of themselves. And we keep them in the room for years after that. Eventually they try to kill each other, just for something to do! It's really quite delicious, if you're into that sort of thing."
"I see," said Mr. Shelley, and smiled a tiny uncomfortable smile.
***
Hundreds of people were in the room, each sitting in their own tiny section of the room, trying desperately not to look at any of the others. Tireoreous, the deaf prophetess, was Mortimer's target. She might well be in the room. Mortimer decided to ask someone. He walked up to the nearest person, a woman in ancient clothing - a sort in fashion 200 years ago, Mortimer guessed.
"Ma'am, I'm looking for someone."
"Are you lookin for an 'orrible excuse for an 'uman beein,'" she asked rhetorically. "Because that's all you'll find 'ere."
"Actually, I'm looking for a deaf gal -"
"Well they're all deaf! Deaf to the suffering of their fellow man! You wouldn't believe 'ow they treated me!"
Mortimer discreetly moved on, but the next man was not much more helpful. Before he could even ask his question, the man started in.
"You know, she's really being very unreasonable. We were all very patient with her. For a century I put up with her nonsense, I even thought she had some sense, but in the end people are all the same."
"Well, actually," said Mortimer, "I'm looking for a particular person."
"You want my advice? Don't. One person's just as bad as another, you see. In the end you can't count on anyone but yourself. You might think this person's worth going through hell for, but in the end, Hell is other people. And that's the truth."
"While I appreciate your philosophical viewpoint -"
But before he could finish someone else had interrupted.
"I can't believe you two of all people would talk about other people being Hell. You're the most annoying ones here! Ms. "O my 'ideous pain' on one hand - Newsflash! We're all in Hell! - and Mr. 'I'm some sort of snooty intellectual so I'm better than you all' on the other. I think you're the reason we instituted the no-talking policy!"
"And you are breaking the no-talking policy!" said a large primitive-looking man.
"Ha!" a small girl jumped in, "Now you're breaking it too!"
"Well as long as we're all talking again," said the intellectual, "I've been doing some thinking."
"No one wants to hear about your thinking"
"Well, maybe 'e's got sumpin good this time!"
Before he knew it the whole room was standing and joining the argument. Mortimer had been in enough crowd control situations to know that they would come to blows very soon. It occurred to him that this could work to his advantage though, in the mean time.
"Everyone, please!" someone said, "Maybe it's not too late to re-instate the no-talking policy! It was working so well."
"Oh, so you weren't circumventing it by signing to Tireoreous."
"I don't even know sign language."
"Like Earth you don't!"
Mortimer had heard the name but he couldn't find the source through all the fighting. He looked all around. Nothing. Finally, he saw her. He ducked and weaved through the physical fights that had began to break out until he made it to the remarkably serene woman (little more than a girl, by her looks) who was still sitting. She couldn't hear the commotion and her eyes were closed. Mortimer shook her.
Her eyes opened wide. They were huge, with a depth that literally took Mortimer aback.
"You come for prophecy," she said. "You've come far."
"Yes! Yes I have! I need your help."
She shrugged and pointed to her ears.
Mortimer turned back to the room. "Does anyone here know sign language?" he asked. No one listened over the clatter and arguments. Mortimer ruffled through his bag. He had a few tricks yet. He threw a small pen-sized object into the air and it immediately erupted in a fireworks display that would have made an impressive finale to any show. The people had all stopped their fighting by the time the show concluded.
"Now that I've got your attention, I need a sign-language interpreter and I'm willing to pay."
A woman near him ran through the crowd.
"I sign," she said.
The others promptly began their arguments again.
"Alright," said Mortimer. The woman made a quick sign. "I need to know who Franklin Pierce is."
"Could you spell that?" asked the woman.
Mortimer shrugged. The woman sighed in annoyance, but continued signing.
Suddenly, the three demons burst through the ceiling. One was now carrying what appeared to be a loudspeaker.
"Attention damned persons," said the demon, a smallish burgundy one who appeared to hover with no wings at all, "There is an intruder in your midst. The first one to point him out will be released and sent to Heaven."
All hands pointed at Mortimer.
"Thank you," said the demon. As the demons descended towards him, Tireoreous. Grabbed his shoulders and spoke.
"Mortimer Lima Bean, you silly person," she said in a strange, possessed voice. "You are really incredibly thick. You had the answer in your backpack all along, but since you have come all this way, I will tell you something you might need to know: Franklin Pierce is a ghost."
She fell silent. Mortimer was kicking himself inside his head, but he knew that know he had to get out or it was all for nothing.
"Thanks," he said. He pulled out the anti-demon weapon Milly had supplied, a small can with a smiley face inscribed on it. With all his might he tossed it at the lead demon's head. The can exploded with children's laughter, causing the demons to scream in pain and fall to the ground. Finally as the laughter died, so did the creatures.
As one the people turned toward Mortimer and began to run at him.
"We would have been freed!" they yelled almost as one.
"No, you wouldn't have!" he yelled, but he was drowned out by the mob. As they descended on him, he took comfort in the fact that he couldn't die in Hell.
***
"Killing each other?" asked Mr. Shelley after a minute. "I thought you couldn't die in Hell."
"Oh, well the room is special. This one came from the big guy himself. You can die in the room, but you don't die - you just move on to the next place. But it looks to all the others like you're dead."
"Why?" asked Shelley.
"Well, don't you see? Guilt! First the room strikes with boredom, than human nature, and finally, for the winners, guilt. Whoever's left has to stay in the room wracked with the guilt of their murders for another thousand years! I love this place!"
"So what's the next place?"
"Well, I can't ruin all the surprises on the tour!"
***
Mortimer woke up with the largest headache of his life, not to mention extremely hungry and thirsty. He wondered if he'd stayed past his deadline. He pulled out his pocketwatch. He had only been out 6 hours. Plenty of time left. Why did he feel so hungry? He had eaten a full meal at the palace before he left. And thirsty, too. He had food in his bag. He rifled through. Apparently he had nothing but an empty canteen.
He looked around. He was surrounded by darkness. He got out the small torch he always carried, lit it, and shined it around. Nothing visible on any side but the smooth, featureless floor. He began to walk in a random direction.
An hour later he was still walking in the same direction. He seemed to be in another very big room, perhaps with no light. At this point he could think of nothing but food and drink. His throat was exceedingly dry. He realized that this was probably a form of torment, and that he wouldn't find anything by continuing to walk. He kept walking anyway. He was stubborn like that.
***
The boat was in the room now, flying over sea of angry people who, after killing Mortimer, had begun to kill each other.
"This is my favorite part," said the tour guide. "The meaningless violence. You know what makes our job so much harder then the other guys'?"
"What?" asked Shelley.
"We've got to make the Hell down here worse than the Hell up there. More or less anything will come across as happiness to you people, but making you as miserable as you make yourselves - that's a toughie."
"Anyway, we should move on. We'll take a little shortcut."
"Could we take a detour before the next place?" asked Shelley. "I'm dying to see some dead lawyers."
***
Mortimer had lost track of time. The pocketwatch was gone. He had gotten frustrated and cast it aside some ways back. He realized now that that was probably a bad idea, but it hardly mattered. Mortimer was starting to wonder if he were perhaps actually dead. Maybe if you die in Hell, he thought, you end up nowhere. And now I'm nowhere. Not a reward or a punishment, just a lack of place. It was a puzzle with no solution. No gadget in his bag or brilliant idea could get him out of this. There was really nothing to work with. Of course, death got him out of the last place...
Mortimer took out his knife and stabbed himself in the heart.
"AAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUGHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWW!"
It really hurt. But he was stubbornly and consistently alive.
Some more experiments yielded similar results. He tried hacking at, digging, and shooting the ground. He tried eating his marmalade and peanut butter, but even those were gone. Out of options, Mortimer tried that special whistle once more.
It had been a good idea, summoning Narrin's mother, his first steed. At least its failure meant that his once-faithful steed was in a better place. Not that he had supposed her to be in Hell. It was just worth a try is all.
But no. Mortimer kept walking. He was so very hungry and thirsty. And he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he was going nowhere. Nonetheless, he kept walking.
And walking.
And walking.
***
"Thanks a lot for all your help," said Stephen Shelley to the ferocious demon as they climbed back into the boat. "You're really an excellent tour guide."
"It's just nice to find someone who takes an interest. Not like that other fellow. A whole masterpiece underworld and he's got one person he wants to see, what a waste. Did you like meeting the lawyers?"
"Very much so. Thank you. So where to next?"
"Well, we'll just wink to the darkness, shall we?"
Suddenly the boat was above a sea of blackness. Not that fake black you see most of the time, a real lack of light.
"Take my hand," said the beast. "So you can see through it."
Shelley took the offered hand and suddenly saw three or four people walking around in the darkness.
"They can't see each other, and not just because of the darkness. They're all slightly out of phase - it automatically happens when they die in the room and awake here. You can hate people enough to kill them all, but once you're here the loneliness is equally maddening. Hee hee - "Can't live with 'em, Can't live without 'em"!"
"So they just wander blindly?"
The demon nodded.
"At first we had their deepest desire linger in front of them, always just out of reach, but that way some still had hope. Humans need goals you see, they need to work toward something. Not here. You can't walk toward anything, make anything, do anything. No goals to accomplish, no way out to find. Just depression descending. Beautiful, isn't it?"
***
Mortimer stopped walking. What was the point? He wouldn't play that ga -
The sound of wings beating on air. A sound he'd know anywhere. Larrin, mother of Narrin. The great winged gazelle descended gracefully into the darkness.
"Good to see you again, old girl!" said Mortimer, actually crying. "Good to see you."
Unfortunately a gang of demons was behind her, far fiercer than the ones he had faced before.
"God's speed, Larrin," he said, and took off.
***
"Well," said the tour guide as he noticed the gazelle pursued by demons , "That concludes the tour. I'll just take you back home -"
"Wait, why can he see the gazelle, and the demons?" asked the lawyer as the boat ascended rapidly.
"Well, the man in question was obviously not broken properly, so he must have retained enough hope to come back into phase through force of will. Unheard of among actual damnees though. Also, the quasi-magical bond between a pet and owner is severed with the theft of a soul, and your friend, retaining his, has also maintained that link. Its a fluke, quite simply."
"Shelley, you alright?" asked Mortimer as he flew by.
"Don't worry about me, sir!" he replied.
***
They were hot on Mortimer's tail and he was out of tricks. No more canned laughter, his Marmalady was out of juice (well marmalade - juice would never work), he was out of ideas. All of a sudden he was back in the room. He kept flying upward. The demons were ever so slightly gaining. He ascended through the fire and snakes, and they were right on him. In desperation, he began to weave through the sides of the pit, knocking over torture machine, lighting things on fire (the few things that weren't permanently on fire), etc. The chaos was somewhat effective. He was gaining his lead back. He passed a man pushing a rock up a hill, and yanked his chain as he flew past. The man lost his footing, fell down, and the boulder rolled down, squashing the man and hitting a pursuing demon full on. This might just work.
Mortimer was almost at the top. He couldn't have much time before the gate closed. He could see the gate. He'd lost the demons, he was going to make it. He was at the threshold, he was...
Falling flat on his butt. Larrin had vanished. Of course she couldn't come home. Mortimer tried to get up but found he couldn't move at all. He heard the patronizing sound of a slow clap, as the big boy himself emerged in front of him.
"Very well done," said Satan. "You actually win this round. That's very impressive, no one has won a round against me in many thousands of years. Of course, I still get your soul." He held up the contract. "Too bad. After all that trouble with the blood, you should have foreseen the redundancy in the system."
"My bad, I guess," said Mortimer.
"Unfortunately for you," said a triumphant voice behind the devil. "His soul is still his own. I think if you'll look at the fourteenth footnote on the bottom of page 12, you'll see that persons born on a leap year are almost categorically exempt."
"What?" asked Satan.
"Um, not born in a leap year," said Mortimer.
"Oh," said Stephen Shelley. "Umm, well, the eighteenth footnote says that if the bloodwork is unacceptable and the person in question has an aversion to fish -" here he looked at Mortimer, who shook his head - "Or isn't wearing underwear -" head-shake - "Or has a five o'clock shadow -" a nod - "that person owns their own soul."
"Let me see that!" said Satan, "This thing is almost entirely loopholes! What gives!"
"Maybe you shouldn't have the people you're eternally damning and torturing draw up your contracts, buddy," said Mortimer. "C'mon, Shelley, let's go."
"Very good, sir," said the lawyer as they walked back through the shrine. "Now there's just the matter of my fee."
Falling off of things, thought Mortimer as he plummeted off the side of the boat. What do I know about falling off of things?
He knew he couldn't die, but he assumed he could break all his bones. He wished he had Narrin. Of course, there was... It was a remote possibility, but Mortimer whistled the special whistle he hadn't used for many years just in case. He fell some more. No luck.
He looked up, over his shoulder. The boat was not pursuing, but the imp was, and he'd been joined by three nasty-looking winged demons. As Mortimer looked at him, he popped out. Instantly Mortimer threw his weight sideways, which was good because sure enough the 3-foot creature had popped up right below him, spear extended. Before the imp realized that Mortimer wasn't falling into him, Mortimer had marmaladied the critter right between the eyes. They didn't call him the quickest draw in the kingdom for nothing. The imp screamed and recoiled, spiraling into the side of the pit and interrupting some torturing. This was holy marmalade - the oranges came from a garden in the courtyard of the cathedral. Mortimer had planned ahead a bit.
Meanwhile there were three more demons gaining and Mortimer was still falling. He had also spotted the bottom of the pit. It was filled with flames.
One of the demons, a green reptilian creature with bat-like wings and a single hideous horn (just above its single hideous eye) surged ahead (which was, of course, down). It grabbed Mortimer around the shoulders. The claws dug into his skin as the creature moved to bite into his neck. Mortimer slammed his head backwards as the creature's head leaned in, beaning it in the eye with the back of his head. Mortimer could feel the flames and could see, against all logic, that the field of flames was filled with snakelike creatures, huge and seemingly made of fire. His blinded carrier released him but Mortimer had no desire to stay in the bed of flames. He reached his arms around the creature's neck. It struggled to stay above the flames, but sunk lower in spite of itself. A fire snake snapped up, inches from Mortimer's feet, and he took his chance. Releasing the creature, he jumped down onto the snake's head. He had no reason to expect springiness but his gut, yet it delivered. He briefly felt the singe of the beast's impossibly hot head, but the jump did allow him to get a better grip on the demon. He was on its back now, arms around it's neck. But of course it didn't have a human neck, and even in its blind confusion it managed to painfully bite his hands. Screaming, Mortimer fell into the fire.
And through the fire...
And into the room.
***
"You mentioned a room before, at the bottom of the pit," said Stephen Shelley to the tour guide.
"We'll get there," he replied.
"I'm really curious."
"Well, the room is pretty brilliant. It's just a big, empty room."
"That's all?" asked Shelley.
"By the time folks reach the bottom of the pit," the fiend explained, "They've been tortured as much as possible. Well beyond death, but to the point where nothing any longer causes pain. But it's always been new torture, interesting torture. The room isn't new, and there's nothing new in it."
"But they're all in there at once. Surely they entertain each other."
"At first. But after a while, there's nothing people hate as much as people. 500 years, and they've all stopped talking each other. 1,000 years and they're sick of themselves. And we keep them in the room for years after that. Eventually they try to kill each other, just for something to do! It's really quite delicious, if you're into that sort of thing."
"I see," said Mr. Shelley, and smiled a tiny uncomfortable smile.
***
Hundreds of people were in the room, each sitting in their own tiny section of the room, trying desperately not to look at any of the others. Tireoreous, the deaf prophetess, was Mortimer's target. She might well be in the room. Mortimer decided to ask someone. He walked up to the nearest person, a woman in ancient clothing - a sort in fashion 200 years ago, Mortimer guessed.
"Ma'am, I'm looking for someone."
"Are you lookin for an 'orrible excuse for an 'uman beein,'" she asked rhetorically. "Because that's all you'll find 'ere."
"Actually, I'm looking for a deaf gal -"
"Well they're all deaf! Deaf to the suffering of their fellow man! You wouldn't believe 'ow they treated me!"
Mortimer discreetly moved on, but the next man was not much more helpful. Before he could even ask his question, the man started in.
"You know, she's really being very unreasonable. We were all very patient with her. For a century I put up with her nonsense, I even thought she had some sense, but in the end people are all the same."
"Well, actually," said Mortimer, "I'm looking for a particular person."
"You want my advice? Don't. One person's just as bad as another, you see. In the end you can't count on anyone but yourself. You might think this person's worth going through hell for, but in the end, Hell is other people. And that's the truth."
"While I appreciate your philosophical viewpoint -"
But before he could finish someone else had interrupted.
"I can't believe you two of all people would talk about other people being Hell. You're the most annoying ones here! Ms. "O my 'ideous pain' on one hand - Newsflash! We're all in Hell! - and Mr. 'I'm some sort of snooty intellectual so I'm better than you all' on the other. I think you're the reason we instituted the no-talking policy!"
"And you are breaking the no-talking policy!" said a large primitive-looking man.
"Ha!" a small girl jumped in, "Now you're breaking it too!"
"Well as long as we're all talking again," said the intellectual, "I've been doing some thinking."
"No one wants to hear about your thinking"
"Well, maybe 'e's got sumpin good this time!"
Before he knew it the whole room was standing and joining the argument. Mortimer had been in enough crowd control situations to know that they would come to blows very soon. It occurred to him that this could work to his advantage though, in the mean time.
"Everyone, please!" someone said, "Maybe it's not too late to re-instate the no-talking policy! It was working so well."
"Oh, so you weren't circumventing it by signing to Tireoreous."
"I don't even know sign language."
"Like Earth you don't!"
Mortimer had heard the name but he couldn't find the source through all the fighting. He looked all around. Nothing. Finally, he saw her. He ducked and weaved through the physical fights that had began to break out until he made it to the remarkably serene woman (little more than a girl, by her looks) who was still sitting. She couldn't hear the commotion and her eyes were closed. Mortimer shook her.
Her eyes opened wide. They were huge, with a depth that literally took Mortimer aback.
"You come for prophecy," she said. "You've come far."
"Yes! Yes I have! I need your help."
She shrugged and pointed to her ears.
Mortimer turned back to the room. "Does anyone here know sign language?" he asked. No one listened over the clatter and arguments. Mortimer ruffled through his bag. He had a few tricks yet. He threw a small pen-sized object into the air and it immediately erupted in a fireworks display that would have made an impressive finale to any show. The people had all stopped their fighting by the time the show concluded.
"Now that I've got your attention, I need a sign-language interpreter and I'm willing to pay."
A woman near him ran through the crowd.
"I sign," she said.
The others promptly began their arguments again.
"Alright," said Mortimer. The woman made a quick sign. "I need to know who Franklin Pierce is."
"Could you spell that?" asked the woman.
Mortimer shrugged. The woman sighed in annoyance, but continued signing.
Suddenly, the three demons burst through the ceiling. One was now carrying what appeared to be a loudspeaker.
"Attention damned persons," said the demon, a smallish burgundy one who appeared to hover with no wings at all, "There is an intruder in your midst. The first one to point him out will be released and sent to Heaven."
All hands pointed at Mortimer.
"Thank you," said the demon. As the demons descended towards him, Tireoreous. Grabbed his shoulders and spoke.
"Mortimer Lima Bean, you silly person," she said in a strange, possessed voice. "You are really incredibly thick. You had the answer in your backpack all along, but since you have come all this way, I will tell you something you might need to know: Franklin Pierce is a ghost."
She fell silent. Mortimer was kicking himself inside his head, but he knew that know he had to get out or it was all for nothing.
"Thanks," he said. He pulled out the anti-demon weapon Milly had supplied, a small can with a smiley face inscribed on it. With all his might he tossed it at the lead demon's head. The can exploded with children's laughter, causing the demons to scream in pain and fall to the ground. Finally as the laughter died, so did the creatures.
As one the people turned toward Mortimer and began to run at him.
"We would have been freed!" they yelled almost as one.
"No, you wouldn't have!" he yelled, but he was drowned out by the mob. As they descended on him, he took comfort in the fact that he couldn't die in Hell.
***
"Killing each other?" asked Mr. Shelley after a minute. "I thought you couldn't die in Hell."
"Oh, well the room is special. This one came from the big guy himself. You can die in the room, but you don't die - you just move on to the next place. But it looks to all the others like you're dead."
"Why?" asked Shelley.
"Well, don't you see? Guilt! First the room strikes with boredom, than human nature, and finally, for the winners, guilt. Whoever's left has to stay in the room wracked with the guilt of their murders for another thousand years! I love this place!"
"So what's the next place?"
"Well, I can't ruin all the surprises on the tour!"
***
Mortimer woke up with the largest headache of his life, not to mention extremely hungry and thirsty. He wondered if he'd stayed past his deadline. He pulled out his pocketwatch. He had only been out 6 hours. Plenty of time left. Why did he feel so hungry? He had eaten a full meal at the palace before he left. And thirsty, too. He had food in his bag. He rifled through. Apparently he had nothing but an empty canteen.
He looked around. He was surrounded by darkness. He got out the small torch he always carried, lit it, and shined it around. Nothing visible on any side but the smooth, featureless floor. He began to walk in a random direction.
An hour later he was still walking in the same direction. He seemed to be in another very big room, perhaps with no light. At this point he could think of nothing but food and drink. His throat was exceedingly dry. He realized that this was probably a form of torment, and that he wouldn't find anything by continuing to walk. He kept walking anyway. He was stubborn like that.
***
The boat was in the room now, flying over sea of angry people who, after killing Mortimer, had begun to kill each other.
"This is my favorite part," said the tour guide. "The meaningless violence. You know what makes our job so much harder then the other guys'?"
"What?" asked Shelley.
"We've got to make the Hell down here worse than the Hell up there. More or less anything will come across as happiness to you people, but making you as miserable as you make yourselves - that's a toughie."
"Anyway, we should move on. We'll take a little shortcut."
"Could we take a detour before the next place?" asked Shelley. "I'm dying to see some dead lawyers."
***
Mortimer had lost track of time. The pocketwatch was gone. He had gotten frustrated and cast it aside some ways back. He realized now that that was probably a bad idea, but it hardly mattered. Mortimer was starting to wonder if he were perhaps actually dead. Maybe if you die in Hell, he thought, you end up nowhere. And now I'm nowhere. Not a reward or a punishment, just a lack of place. It was a puzzle with no solution. No gadget in his bag or brilliant idea could get him out of this. There was really nothing to work with. Of course, death got him out of the last place...
Mortimer took out his knife and stabbed himself in the heart.
"AAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUGHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWW!"
It really hurt. But he was stubbornly and consistently alive.
Some more experiments yielded similar results. He tried hacking at, digging, and shooting the ground. He tried eating his marmalade and peanut butter, but even those were gone. Out of options, Mortimer tried that special whistle once more.
It had been a good idea, summoning Narrin's mother, his first steed. At least its failure meant that his once-faithful steed was in a better place. Not that he had supposed her to be in Hell. It was just worth a try is all.
But no. Mortimer kept walking. He was so very hungry and thirsty. And he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he was going nowhere. Nonetheless, he kept walking.
And walking.
And walking.
***
"Thanks a lot for all your help," said Stephen Shelley to the ferocious demon as they climbed back into the boat. "You're really an excellent tour guide."
"It's just nice to find someone who takes an interest. Not like that other fellow. A whole masterpiece underworld and he's got one person he wants to see, what a waste. Did you like meeting the lawyers?"
"Very much so. Thank you. So where to next?"
"Well, we'll just wink to the darkness, shall we?"
Suddenly the boat was above a sea of blackness. Not that fake black you see most of the time, a real lack of light.
"Take my hand," said the beast. "So you can see through it."
Shelley took the offered hand and suddenly saw three or four people walking around in the darkness.
"They can't see each other, and not just because of the darkness. They're all slightly out of phase - it automatically happens when they die in the room and awake here. You can hate people enough to kill them all, but once you're here the loneliness is equally maddening. Hee hee - "Can't live with 'em, Can't live without 'em"!"
"So they just wander blindly?"
The demon nodded.
"At first we had their deepest desire linger in front of them, always just out of reach, but that way some still had hope. Humans need goals you see, they need to work toward something. Not here. You can't walk toward anything, make anything, do anything. No goals to accomplish, no way out to find. Just depression descending. Beautiful, isn't it?"
***
Mortimer stopped walking. What was the point? He wouldn't play that ga -
The sound of wings beating on air. A sound he'd know anywhere. Larrin, mother of Narrin. The great winged gazelle descended gracefully into the darkness.
"Good to see you again, old girl!" said Mortimer, actually crying. "Good to see you."
Unfortunately a gang of demons was behind her, far fiercer than the ones he had faced before.
"God's speed, Larrin," he said, and took off.
***
"Well," said the tour guide as he noticed the gazelle pursued by demons , "That concludes the tour. I'll just take you back home -"
"Wait, why can he see the gazelle, and the demons?" asked the lawyer as the boat ascended rapidly.
"Well, the man in question was obviously not broken properly, so he must have retained enough hope to come back into phase through force of will. Unheard of among actual damnees though. Also, the quasi-magical bond between a pet and owner is severed with the theft of a soul, and your friend, retaining his, has also maintained that link. Its a fluke, quite simply."
"Shelley, you alright?" asked Mortimer as he flew by.
"Don't worry about me, sir!" he replied.
***
They were hot on Mortimer's tail and he was out of tricks. No more canned laughter, his Marmalady was out of juice (well marmalade - juice would never work), he was out of ideas. All of a sudden he was back in the room. He kept flying upward. The demons were ever so slightly gaining. He ascended through the fire and snakes, and they were right on him. In desperation, he began to weave through the sides of the pit, knocking over torture machine, lighting things on fire (the few things that weren't permanently on fire), etc. The chaos was somewhat effective. He was gaining his lead back. He passed a man pushing a rock up a hill, and yanked his chain as he flew past. The man lost his footing, fell down, and the boulder rolled down, squashing the man and hitting a pursuing demon full on. This might just work.
Mortimer was almost at the top. He couldn't have much time before the gate closed. He could see the gate. He'd lost the demons, he was going to make it. He was at the threshold, he was...
Falling flat on his butt. Larrin had vanished. Of course she couldn't come home. Mortimer tried to get up but found he couldn't move at all. He heard the patronizing sound of a slow clap, as the big boy himself emerged in front of him.
"Very well done," said Satan. "You actually win this round. That's very impressive, no one has won a round against me in many thousands of years. Of course, I still get your soul." He held up the contract. "Too bad. After all that trouble with the blood, you should have foreseen the redundancy in the system."
"My bad, I guess," said Mortimer.
"Unfortunately for you," said a triumphant voice behind the devil. "His soul is still his own. I think if you'll look at the fourteenth footnote on the bottom of page 12, you'll see that persons born on a leap year are almost categorically exempt."
"What?" asked Satan.
"Um, not born in a leap year," said Mortimer.
"Oh," said Stephen Shelley. "Umm, well, the eighteenth footnote says that if the bloodwork is unacceptable and the person in question has an aversion to fish -" here he looked at Mortimer, who shook his head - "Or isn't wearing underwear -" head-shake - "Or has a five o'clock shadow -" a nod - "that person owns their own soul."
"Let me see that!" said Satan, "This thing is almost entirely loopholes! What gives!"
"Maybe you shouldn't have the people you're eternally damning and torturing draw up your contracts, buddy," said Mortimer. "C'mon, Shelley, let's go."
"Very good, sir," said the lawyer as they walked back through the shrine. "Now there's just the matter of my fee."
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