Revenge for the Devil

I never thought I’d be running through hell with only one arm; fleeing the demons that get off on torturing the souls of the damned. Let’s clear one thing up, they don’t carry around little pitchforks. They prefer tools that can cause more damage, like a hatchet or a sharp blade or two. As I run madly, I get a whiff of the oceans filled with vomit, bile, and the blood leaked out of the tortured. I don’t know if I’ll ever find a way out. You see, Dante was wrong. Hell isn’t composed of circles or layers. It’s a vast realm filled with evil incarnate. The sky is always pitch black. The ground is dark red and rocky, littered with trash and razorblades. It’s a place that deserves to be void of all life. In a way it is. And in another way, it isn’t. By now I’ve realized that I’m running in circles. I passed Hitler being crucified for the second time. I’m feeling weak, hot, and tired. One thing they got right: it’s really hot in hell. Worse than Arizona in July, believe me. My stub is throbbing, and I remember vaguely when they cut off my arm. They drugged me, paralyzed my body so I couldn’t fight back. The one thing I remember most is the sound of the knife hitting into the bone. And the pain was excruciating, as only one can imagine. It was one of my punishments for trying to rescue her. And for trying to kill the Devil. Wait, let me back it up a little bit. I should start at the beginning. Or at least, the beginning of the end.