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Chapter One

The Tale of the Mashed Potatoes (part one)

The year is not important. If you have some sort of defined time period in your head that you affiliate with ‘way back when’, just go with that. The important thing here is my journey.

I clearly remember the first time I got to come topside on a mission. It felt remarkable to me that the sky was so big, that there were things just growing out of the ground, and that there were people allowed to live without an evil overseer dictating their every move.

How do people live like that?

Where I come from, we’re all assigned personal evil overlords. It’s not a punishment, it’s just how it’s done. Who is telling those people up there that they need to wipe their ass? How do people just know when they’ve done a thorough job?

It’s chaos, I tell you. Nothing like the regimented existence we experience in Hell.

I recall this one time when acid was just beginning to fall for the day. The air was thick and choking, just how I like it. The sound of screams filled the air, my favorite backdrop. But something was off.

These were the good ol’ days when beds full of rusty nails were still in fashion. Nowadays it’s all about broken glass and splintered wood. That’s tame shit.

But I digress.

My sheets were of the coarsest sandpaper available, that really rough, gritty kind that takes a whole layer of skin off if you so much as look at it sideways. I paid a lot for those, and I remember all my neighbors being jealous of how torturous they were.

And while everything seemed to be going properly upon my awakening state, it took me a while to realize no one had thrown tear gas into my room to wake me up yet. I was breathing far too easily, and I didn’t like it. What is life if you’re not feeling constant pain? That’s just mere existence.

I didn’t know what to do. I was sure that I had some boulders to push up and down hills or nightmares to embellish, but there was nobody around to give me my daily assignment. It was dinner time before I realized how hungry I was, but nobody had screamed at me to eat my fucking dinner yet, so I wasn’t sure if I could. I didn’t get out of bed for two days, and it was then that I heard about the do-gooders trying to overthrow the government. They had convinced themselves that hell needed more humanity, and that its natural citizens deserved better treatment.

But the question is, better for whom?

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