Part I

The ground was dark and felt like fresh coffee grounds. If only it smelled as nice.  An older gentleman raised his brow, looking all around him.  The muddy red sky, and the shrieking in the distance made him realize…

“Oh dear,” he said, “I must be in hell.”

“WELCOME TO PURGATORY,” shouted a winged creature from a brightly lit entrance, “PLEASE HAVE YOUR TICKET HANDY.  BAGGAGE MUST BE CHECKED IN UPON ENTRY.”

With nowhere else to go, the man made his way to the imp.  The sign above the lit archway blared a bright red: THE RIVER STYX.  Thorns decorated lazily with Christmas lights lined the pathways.  The imp guarding the archway looked more like a monkey with a lion’s head and tail, dark and ruddy in color, like the ground.  Its little wings flapped constantly like a bat, and the man wondered how much energy it took for it to stay afloat in the air.

“Hello,” the mad said, fidgeting with the bag over his shoulder, “How are you?”

“Ticket please!” shouted the creature.

“Ticket?  I don’t think I hav-“

“They always say that!  Look in your right hand, dummy!”

With a sheepish frown, the man did as the imp said, and sure enough, he was holding half silver colored ticket.  1 (ONE) PASSEN, it read.  “I suppose I had a rough way down,” he said.

“Ehh,” the creature waved a clawed hand and huffed, “Don’t matter!  Don’t lose it!”  It ushered the man in and directed him to the baggage claim where similar-looking creatures tacked away at computers behind what looked like an airline baggage check. Other people were there, filed in long lines.  Some had normal suitcases, and others needed several imps to help them load their oversized bags (some had more than one) onto the scale.  The man paused a moment and looked at his own bag: a small, green parcel with a shoulder strap that wrapped loosely around his shoulder.  With a shrug, he stepped in a line.

 

Virgil sighed, a strawberry smoothie in hand. It had been a long day, and his pagan mates in Limbo had been giving him a hard time.  To relax?  Watch the poor, unfortunate souls in baggage check.  If he was lucky, maybe he’d get to watch an altercation.  There were always a few souls that just couldn’t accept that they were dead.  Virgil sauntered up to the entrance, spotting the imp guard.

“Hey, man,” he greeted.  The imp’s wings fluttered as it crossed its arms in reply.  “Has Phil left yet?”

“No!” the creature screamed.

“Thanks,” Virgil took a sip of his smoothie and patted the devil on its fuzzy shoulder.  In the baggage check, he noticed how long the lines were today. Or tonight.  There was no telling, really.  The skies were always red.  Spotting a calm-looking gentleman in a green button-up, Virgil thought a conversation might help him chill out.  He had a knack for helping others (no matter how begrudging he could be).  “This seat taken?” he asked.

“Oh,” the man snapped out of his thoughts and ran a hand through his grey-speckled locks.  “No, please,” he gestured to the empty space.  Virgil made himself comfortable, letting out a groan of relief.

“So,” the poet started, “What’s your name?”

“Paul Davers,” the man extended a hand, the greeting left incomplete.

“Virgil,” said the poet, taking another slurp of his drink.

“Nice to meet you, Verge,” Paul retracted his hand and smiled warmly.  “Can I call you that?”

“Sure,” Virgil shrugged, “Call me whatever you like: Verge, Cheeky Bastard, whatever sticks.”  Paul let out a chuckle as silence hummed over the two.  Virgil took another sip and asked, “So, Paul.  What got ya in purgatory?”

“Well, uh,” Paul scratched at his stubble, “I’m not all that sure, actually.  But I suppose everyone’s done something.”

“Hrm,” the poet gnawed at his straw.  “Another one of these self-righteous ones.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing, man,” Virgil waved the comment away.

“How about you?  Why are you here?”

“I’m just hanging around,” Virgil shrugged.  An odd little furrow adorned Paul’s brow. “I’m not a demon or anything; don’t look at me like that.”

“Oh.  All right,” Paul smiled weakly, “Sorry about that.”

Silence rang in the air as the two watched the other humans check in their bags.  There were parcels and packages and crates and cases, some filled to the brim, others nearly bursting at the seams, and a few riders checked in cardboard boxes with dirty, ordinary items or papers and parchment blotched with fresh ink.  Such were particularly unwelcome, as the imps working that day had to take inventory of the inside in case a piece got lost (which happened rather rarely; demons do good work for hell).

Somewhere down the line, a middle-aged man with deep, dark circles under his eyes sighed under the weight of his pack.  The pack, dirtied and worn, looked to be thrice his size. The woman behind him clutched her own bag, packed so tightly the seams seemed to have been held together with nothing but luck and prayers.  She gazed at the man’s giant burden.

“It don’t help any to carry that much in life. Some things you have to let go,” she said, proudly, thinking of her own life and the smallness of her backpack.

“Oh yeah?  Sure looks like yours is ‘bout to break,” he replied in indignation as the flying devils dragged his pack to a scale.

“Maybe, but compared to you, I’m not half bad, am I.”

“What does it matter, lady?” said the man, giving her a once-over, “A whore is a whore.”

“Excuse me!!” she screamed.

From the bench, Virgil rolled his eyes.  “Here we go,” he grinned and nibbled at his straw. The two began to bicker back and forth, and the imps had just about run out of patience for the two.  Virgil turned to Paul, who looked onto the scene with concerned eyes.  “Not really the kind of action I was looking for,” said Virgil.

“Do spontaneous disagreements happen often?” asked Paul.

“Yeah, this is a normal thing here.  People hate having to admit to their own sins.  But so long as they’re better than the next guy, they’re not so bad now, are they?”

“That’s quite an awful way to look at things…”

“This is the gateway to hell, man,” Virgil shrugged, “Everyone and everything is awful.”

Paul frowned and looked at his own small parcel. A humble little thing, the green purse was rather light and was held together by nothing but a slender, braided string.  Virgil noticed the ghost’s pondering gaze.

“You can open it, you know,” he said, shaking up the near-empty plastic cup.  Satan’s Sweet Shoppe, it said on the side in a dainty font.

“What’ll happen if I do?”

“You’ll get to see what all your sins look like,” Virgil stated matter-of-factly before he slurped the rest of the smoothie and incinerated the cup in a snap of fire from his fingers.  “Although…” He examined the parcel.  “Yours is oddly small.  Y’don’t got any guilt about anything?”

Paul scratched his chin.  “Not really.”  He shook his head and continued to thumb the string.  “I think I’ll open it.”

“Wait, are you serious?  Y’know people usually reg-“

Virgil’s sentence went unfinished as Paul undid the little tie and unleashed a small handful of light.  The light was so bright, it caught the attention of several people in the lines.  Virgil leaped out of his seat, made a grab for the parcel, and tugged the strings together to shut it once more.  Paul’s eyes were wide as saucers.

“You…  You aren’t supposed to be here, are you, Paul Davers?”