“Hi Lou,” Alan said one morning while retrieving his newspaper from the driveway. He was clad in a bathrobe and waddling in slippers, blinking at the sun. Lou, his next door neighbor, a handsome bachelor who seemed far too young to own his own house, was outside inspecting the hedges in his yard critically.
“My yard needs work,” said Lou. “My shrubs are looking ragged, weeds are taking over and my lawn's overgrown. I thought I was a better caretaker than this.”
“That's a bummer,” said Alan. “Better fix that before the Homeowners Association gets word.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Lou. “I don't want to get fined again.”
“You got fined?” asked Alan. “I'm sorry to hear that. I hear they've got lawyers for their lawyers.”
“Yeah,” said Lou. “It was before you and your family moved in next to me. Some kids performed some damned satanic ritual on my yard.”
Alan blinked a few times. “And the Home Owner's Association fined you for it?”
“They've never been lenient in the time I've known them. Didn't matter that it wasn't my fault.”
“So... what'd they do?” asked Alan with a humorous smile. “Draw a big pentagram on your yard? Cover it in trash? Thrash some lawn ornaments?”
“They built a stone altar and burned a lamb alive on it,” said Lou.
“Jesus Christ,” said Alan.
Lou sighed. “What can you do?” he said. “When kids get an idea in their heads, they just can't get 'em out. It doesn't bother me so much that they found me; the part that bothers me is that Levitcus 1:9 clearly states that burning lamb entrails creates a pleasing odor for the Lord. I'm not the Lord.”
“It says that in the Bible?” said Alan.
“It says a lot of things in the Bible,” said Lou. “It's three-quarters of a million words long. Depending on the translation, that is.”
“Wow,” said Alan. “Well, I'll leave you to that yard work.” He peered at Lou's lawn, still squinting from the bright light in the sun. “Your lawn's pretty long. I haven't seen it that long before.”
Lou shook his head. “Wouldn't you know it, my lawnmower broke. And my warranty expired. I knew I should have bought the extended coverage. A friend of mine got his tiller in 1802 and they still covered it when it broke last year.”
Alan chuckled. “Nothing's built to last these days. Tell you what. Why don't you borrow my mower?”
“That'd be awful swell of you,” said Lou.
Alan shook a warning finger at Lou. “But you better give it back. My wife doesn't want me lending out any of my garden tools. And my twelve-year-old son needs to earn his allowance somehow.”
Lou chuckled. “Tell you what. Why don't I get in writing?”
“Oh, that's not necessary,” said Alan. “You've been my neighbor for- what is it- two years now? I know you're good for it. Besides,” he added, “I know where you live!”
The two neighbors laughed at the joke. Lou reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a piece of brownish paper and a pen. He started writing. “No, I insist,” he said. “I'd like to get it in writing. I've got a reputation as a liar at my old work and I'd like to clear my name.” `
“Sounds like you need a new job, Lou,” said Alan.
“Don't have to tell me twice. But it still managed to pay for this nice house!”
One last time, the two neighbors laughed. Lou placed the piece of paper in Alan's hand, and Alan went out to drag his mower from the garage. He didn't even bother reading the piece of paper Lou had given to him, and simply tucked it into the belt of his robe.
Alan retired to his living room to have his morning cup of coffee and read the paper. His wife, Betsey, trotted in moments later. “Lovely day out,” she said, giving her husband a peck on the cheek. “Good way to start the weekend.”
“Can't say the same of our neighbor Lou,” said Alan as he took a sip of coffee. “Poor fellow has a lot of yard work to catch up on.”
“Oh, I sure hope the H.O.A. doesn't report him,” said Betsey. “He's such a dear, that Lou.”
“We were talking about that this morning,” said Alan. “Did you know he got fined once before?”
“I heard about that. Poor dear. Some kids come by and wreck his lawn, and not only does he have to pay to fix it, but he had to pay the Association as well.”
“That H.O.A.,” said Alan, “They're devils, I tell you. Charging a young guy like Lou for something he didn't even do. A fine how-do-you-do.”
“Money is the root of all evil,” said Betsey. “I think it says that somewhere in the Bible.”
“I wouldn't doubt it. It's three-quarters of a million words long, you know.”
“So what are your plans today, dear?” asked Betsey.
“To enjoy a weekend like it's meant to be enjoyed,” said Alan. “Read my paper, drink my coffee, and not think about my job.”
“Good for you,” said Betsey. “Thomas, meanwhile, will be mowing our lawn this weekend.”
Alan looked up from his coffee. “Looks like our son has earned a lucky break. I just loaned my lawnmower to Lou.”
Betsey looked upset. “What have I told you about loaning our expensive tools to neighbors?”
“It's all right,” said Alan, pulling out the slip of paper from his bathrobe. “I got it in writing.”
“Oh?” said Betsey. “He promised he'd give it back?”
“I insisted,” lied Alan. “Now he is required by powers far greater than myself to return my lawnmower.”
Betsey smiled. “Well, good,” she said. “I'm glad. Thomas will get to the lawn later, then. I don't want the H.O.A. fining us. Anything good in the paper?”
“Just another crazy group of nuts claiming the apocalypse is coming.”
“That's nice, dear,” said Betsey, and went out of the kitchen.
* * *
Alan watched Lou perform his yard work. He would have offered a hand, but he was tired. His joints were not like they once were.
Lou started with the hedges, pulling out a pair of sharp-looking shears. He gently trimmed each leaf with the care of an experienced botanist, sometimes measuring branches with a ruler. He took ten steps back to admire his work, and took a short break. After a few minutes, Lou emerged with a glass of lemonade in his hand. It was shortly after this time when a black car pulled out in front of Lou's yard.
The man that got out of the car to talk to Lou was very... strange-looking. He had a slick Hugo Boss fashion sense, a wide-brimmed black fedora, and a dominating swagger in his step. But there were one or two things that seemed off to Alan, like his towering height and the fact that his skin wasn't strictly the color of flesh, but instead a very convincing mockery of it, like a painting on canvas.
The man tapped Lou on the shoulder, and Lou almost jumped from surprise. The tall man began to speak, and Lou sipped his lemonade with one hand and put his other in his pocket, listening with interest. The two had a conversation that became progressively more heated with every moment. Lou started shaking his head violently and gesticulating so rapidly with his lemonade that he spilled most of it on his as-yet unmowed lawn. Finally the tall man quickly spun around, walked aggressively to his car, and pulled away. Lou, obviously still upset about the encounter, began the process of weeding his lawn before the mowing.
“Dad. What are you looking at?” came a voice.
Alan jumped at the interruption. In his doorway stood his twelve-year-old son Thomas, leaning against the doorframe and glowering.
“Good morning, Thomas!” said Alan cheerfully, folding up his newspaper and pretending to look at a story on the back page, which was indeed a full-page grocery store spread.
“You're spying on the neighbors again,” said Thomas. “Geez, you never mind your own business.”
“I was just staring into space,” said Alan defensively. “I wish you would say good-morning to your father, Thomas.”
Thomas walked over to the refrigerator and violently plucked it open. “Whatever,” he said. “I wish you would stay out of my room.”
“Maybe you should be a little more appreciative of the people who house and clothe you,” said Alan gruffly.
Thomas withdrew an entire quart of orange juice and started drinking straight from it. He walked over to the bay window in the kitchen, through which Alan had been watching his neighbor do yard work. “What's so fascinating about Louis anyway? He's so cheerful and boring.”
“Watch how you speak about your neighbors!” snapped Alan. “And don't drink from the carton either! What's wrong with you?”
Thomas threw out his arms, almost spilling the orange juice. “Why do you have to talk to me like that, Dad? I feel so antagonized by you.”
“Stop talking to me like that!”
Ever the angry pre-teen, Thomas turned around and resumed watching Lou. Alan angrily resumed reading the paper. He wished the child-rearing books he'd bought had mentioned this. Thomas has a mean comeback for everything, it seemed.
Thomas giggled. “What's so funny?” asked Alan, still gruffly.
“Looks like our neighbor has a bee problem,” said Thomas. “They're all over the place.”
“Why are you laughing about that?” said Alan angrily, getting up from the kitchen table. “That's not funny! He could get really hurt!”
“They're not stinging him,” said Thomas. “It looks like he's talking to them.”
“Oh, don't be ridiculous-” said Alan, but he stopped. It was true. Lou was indeed talking to a swarm of bees.
The conversation seemed just as unpleasant to Lou as the one with the tall man in the Hugo Boss suit. The swarm of bees maintained a cylindrical pillar shape, instead of a shapeless cloud like the swarms Alan was familiar with. It contracted and expanded in controlled ways as Lou spoke, displaying a wide range of flight patterns. The bees flew in graceful spirals and drifted into lazy loop-the loops; then progressed into urgent swoops and again into angry, jagged vibrations. If Alan didn't know better, he would have thought that the swarm of bees was trying to express different emotions.
Lou, apparently no longer willing to be buzzed at in such a rude way, angrily strutted towards Alan's lawnmower. With a single, powerful pull on the rip-cord, it roared to life. The swarm of bees, recognizing the battle cry of its natural and hated enemy-- the lawnmower-- rapidly dispersed in a state of panic.
“Dude,” said Thomas. “That swarm of bees was fucking pissed.”
Alan resolved not to discipline his son for such harsh language. “Poor Lou. First, an overgrown lawn, and now, bees.”
“Isn't that our lawnmower?” said Thomas.
“That's right,” said Alan sternly, looking over at his adolescent son. “I've loaned it to him. The only thing preventing me from sending you out there with it to do our lawn is that Lou's broke last week. You should be thankful.”
“Wow!” said Thomas, excitedly. “Maybe he's not such a boring, white bread, goody-two-shoes after all. Thanks Louis!”
“Watch it how you talk about people!” snapped Alan.
“Sorry, Dad,” said Thomas, who turned around and started walking out of the kitchen, orange juice carton still in hand. “I'm going to go play video games!”
Alan sighed as his son left the room, and resumed watching his frustrated neighbor drag the lawnmower back and forth across his lawn.
Lou shook his head angrily, gritting his teeth as he forced the lawnmower across his lawn. The visit from the tall man and the swarm of bees seemed to make him quite angry indeed, angry enough that he was missing entire rows of grass with the lawnmower.
Alan resolved to give Lou a helping hand to cheer him up, but he wasn't about to do it in his bathrobe. He went to his bedroom and changed into a pair of ruddy jeans and a stained T-shirt. When he went to the back yard to get his straw hat, he heard the lawnmower stop. Alan didn't think anything of it. He thought Lou must have stopped to empty the grass-catcher.
Alan walked through the house and into the front yard, whistling cheerfully as he went around the hedge and into Lou's yard. It wasn't until he was halfway down the lawn when he realized that both his neighbor and his lawnmower were nowhere to be found. He looked left, he looked right. There was simply no way that Lou could have managed to sweep up all the grass clippings from the sidewalk, put away the lawnmower, and go back inside in the time Alan had taken to change into work clothes. Furthermore, the lawn was not by any means finished, and the missed rows of grass were still unkempt.
Alan walked up to Lou's door and knocked. There was no answer. He waited a minute or two and knocked again. Still nothing.
Alan walked back into his own house and continued his day. Perhaps Lou had an urgent errand to attend, and had stashed away Alan's lawnmower in the backyard until he was finished. In either case, Alan was sure that his lawnmower was safe, and whatever was bothering his polite and unassuming neighbor would surely be resolved.
* * *
A week later, Lou was still missing, and Alan's lawn was now starting to look like it needed attention. Alan knocked on Lou's door, and was treated with the same silence he had experienced the weekend before. Nothing seemed to have changed, except a notice from the Homeowners Association taped to Lou's door notifying him that if he didn't mow his lawn soon, he would be faced with a fine.
Alan turned around. Lou's lawn was still unmowed, and in fact, since it had been a week, was now even worse. He went back to his house and woke up his wife.
“Dear,” he said, “have you seen our neighbor?”
“Lou?” asked Betsey. She was still groggy with sleep, and rolled over to rub her eyes in protest of the unwelcome consciousness.
“Yes,” said Alan. “I think something might have happened to him. I haven't seen him since I loaned him my lawnmower.”
Betsey frowned. “I told you not to loan out our tools. I told you.”
“He was just right next door, all right?”
“Well you need to get our lawnmower back, Al,” said Betsey. “Our yard has to be done this week, or we'll get fined.”
“Looks like they already fined Lou,” said Alan. “I saw a notice on his door.”
“But he was taking care of his lawn last week, wasn't he? You should call him.”
“I'd call him, but I never got his phone number. He didn't finish. His lawn is still terrible.”
“Well, that's not our fault,” said Betsey. “Get our lawnmower back. Thomas needs to do some yard work if he's going to get an allowance from us this week. Maybe Lou's at work.”
“Where does he work?” asked Alan. “Do you know?”
“Some office on Seventh Street,” she said. “The one with the ugly architecture.”
“All right,” said Alan. “I'll check it out.”
Alan took a shower, got dressed, and got in his car. Seventh Street was only half a mile away. The office building with the ugly architecture was immediately apparent: While the surrounding buildings were easy to look at with a nice desert motif, Lou's workplace was painted a bright, obnoxious red. He walked up to the building and paused at the glass door, chuckling at the address printed on it: 666, Seventh Street.
Alan went inside. The lobby was completely and alarmingly bare. There wasn't even any furniture to sit down in while waiting: Just a single desk and a single chair, occupied by a single receptionist.
The room was red. The desk was red. The paintings hanging on the walls had red frames and held nothing but canvases painted solid red. The receptionist had red hair, and was even wearing a red dress and a red pair of glasses. Alan walked up to address her. “Um, hello,” he said.
The receptionist was silent.
“I'm here... um...” Alan continued. The receptionist pursed her cherry-red lips and her thin red eyebrows started to slowly sink into a frown. “My neighbor works here. I just wanted to see if I could talk to him.”
“If he does work here,” said the receptionist rudely, “and it's doubtful, I promise, then you can't see him because he's busy.”
“Um...” said Alan, “How would you know? I need to see him. It's kind of urgent.”
“We're all busy,” said the receptionist. “We have a deadline we're trying to make before our competitors, the firm on 777, Sixth Street.”
“His name is Lou,” said Alan.
“Definitely not someone who works here,” said the receptionist. “Please, leave.”
Alan hung his head forlornly, and reached into his pocket for his car keys. He felt something in his pocket that he was sure he hadn't put there. He pulled it out. It was a folded piece of paper; the contract that Lou had signed, stating that he promised to return Alan's lawnmower.
Alan handed the paper over to the receptionist. “He gave me this,” he said. “Do you recognize the signature?”
For a moment the receptionist did nothing, but then she reached out and snatched the paper from his hands impatiently. With complete disregard for the condition of the document, she unfolded it roughly and read the first few lines. Then, she screamed.
It was like a thousand damned souls from the depths of Hell crying out in simultaneous and incalculable surprise. Alan jumped two feet in the air from the noise, and stared at the receptionist in sheer astonishment. She still had the document in hand, but her eyes were brightening up in excitement. Something was lighting up her face, and it took a few moments for Alan to realize that the light was coming from the document itself.
The receptionist snapped her head up. There were tears rushing from her eyes. “Where did you get this?” she asked. Her voice was a strange cross of hopefulness and desperation.
“I told you,” said Alan, still startled from the reaction of the secretary. “From my neighbor, Lou.”
“Lou?” asked the secretary. “Why do you call him Lou?”
“He told me to call him that,” said Alan with a shrug.
The secretary got up out of her seat. There was a brightness in her eyes, and it wasn't a figurative one. Her eyes seemed to be replaced with a pair of twinkling stars. “Well, your neighbor is not named Lou. He is Lucifer, the First of the Fallen, the Last to be Saved. He is the Prince of Darkness, the Father of Lies, and the ruler of Hell! Your neighbor, sir, is the Devil!”
Alan stopped backing towards the door. He thought about Lou, how he seemed so young and so successful. He remembered the tall man with the fake skin and the Hugo Boss suit, and the swarm of bees that could talk, and the fact that Lou had vanished without a trace and had taken Alan's lawnmower with him. And for these reasons, Alan thought, it made absolute, one hundred percent, perfect sense that his neighbor, Lou, was actually Lucifer, the Prince of Darkness.
Alan put his hands on his hips. “Well,” he said authoritatively, “I'll have you know, ma'am, that the Devil still has my lawnmower.”
* * *
Alan was escorted into an elevator that revealed itself when a regular-looking bit of red wall slid away. The secretary shoved him in roughly, and glowered at him. “Please hurry up,” she said. “We're almost done preparing.”
“What for?” asked Alan.
The receptionist just smiled as the elevator door closed.
The elevator was also red. It had two red buttons, oriented vertically, without labels. The elevator only stopped two places, it seemed: on the top floor, and on the bottom. Alan hit the bottom button, and the elevator started its hellish descent.
It seemed to take hours. No fewer than ten times did it seem like the elevator would finally stop, only to accelerate again. To pass the time, Alan unfolded the signed document that seemed to cause so much distress to the receptionist.
If he had any doubts that his neighbor Lou was in fact the ruler of Hell, they vanished at that moment. Firstly, when he had first been given the paper, it was scarcely larger than a typical sheet of folded notebook paper, yet when he opened it, it unfurled all the way down to his feet like an ancient scroll, complete with luxurious crimson tassels.
Secondly, the words inscribed on the parchment were made entirely of fire. Alan read them aloud.
“I, Lucifer, Lord of the Nine Circles, the First of the Fallen, the Last to be Saved, the Abaddon, the Leviathan, the Antichrist, the Lawless One, the Serpent of Old--
--Do Solemnly Decree That I Shall Return My Neighbor Alan's Lawnmower Upon Completion of the Caretaking of My Yard.” Alan read it over and over again. When he saw Lou scribble the contract out, it hadn't taken more than half a second. How he had produced such an enchanting legal document was beyond Alan's comprehension.
Alan was agnostic. He had attended church when he was young, because his parents thought it was something that families ought to do. Alan could never quite understand how someone could love a being who had no physical form, never spoke, and who didn't even attend his own worship ceremonies. As he grew up, though, he would never flat-out deny that some kind of spiritual connection existed in the world, but also acknowledged that such a connection could not be proven in any way.
He nodded, folded up the contract, and put it back in his pocket. Once again, the document assumed the form of a regular sheet of folded notebook paper. He put it back in his pants pocket just as the elevator finally came to a rest and opened its doors into the yawning depths of suffering and misery that was the final resting place for the souls of the damned.
It was pleasantly warm, actually.
Alan, confused, stepped forward. The elevator closed and ascended behind him. He turned around and stared back at it. “Hey!” he shouted as it disappeared into the blackness above. “Come back here!” He accidentally bumped into something. It was a stalagmite. It had an elevator call button on it. “Oh,” he said.
Hell, it seemed, was not how most people let on. It looked like a reddish, well-lit cave. There were rocks and stalagmites everywhere. And nothing else.
He was expecting lakes of fire from which legions of tortured hands protruded, their owners forever burning, screeching, reaching for the heaven they had been denied. But there were no screams, nor was there anybody to make them.
“Hello?” called Alan. Nobody answered. He walked forward. “Hello?” he called as he walked. “Is anybody there?”
For ten minutes he walked, until he finally met someone. It was a janitor. He was dressed in a blue jump suit and had a white mustache that could easily sweep the cave floor as efficiently as the broom he was holding. “Um, excuse me,” said Alan. “Do you know where everyone's gone?”
The janitor stopped his sweeping and stared at Alan alarmingly. “What're you still doin' here?” he asked. “Everyone's gone. Yer late.”
“Where've they gone?” asked Alan.
“Don't mock me,” said the janitor, and resumed sweeping.
“Look,” said Alan, withdrawing the contract from his pocket. “I'm Alan. I've got a signed document here from your boss.”
“Boss ain't here,” said the janitor. “I'm just sweepin' up after everyone so when they come back it'll be nice an' clean.”
“But where have they gone?”
“You work here,” said the janitor. “You must've gotten the memos.”
“No, I don't work here,” said Alan.
The janitor paused his sweeping again. He stood up and looked Alan up and down. “No,” he said. “You don't work here.”
Alan once again offered the signed document, and this time the janitor took it. He unfurled it, and read the fiery letters. A faint smile could be seen under his enormous mustache. “Lord,” he said. “You must really want yer lawnmower.”
“Not really,” said Alan. “I'm more worried about my neighbor. He disappeared one day. He never told me he was the Devil.”
The janitor folded up the document and handed it back to Alan. “Yer a good man,” he said. “Nobody every worries about the Devil. Who says he doesn't need lookin' after?”
“Well, where's he gone?” asked Alan.
“Same as everyone else here,” said the janitor. “Off to purgatory to fight the Apocalypse.”
“The Apocalypse?” asked Alan. “You mean that group of religious nuts I read about in the paper was right?”
“There's always someone proclaimin' the Apocalypse,” said the janitor. “One of em's gonna be right eventually. Can't beat them odds.”
“Well, then, if they're fighting the Apocalypse, what are you doing here?” Alan asked. “If it's the final battle, they aren't coming back, are they?”
“Oh, they never actually do it, y'know,” said the janitor as he swept. “Somethin' always comes up, and they get interrupted. Then, they come back and wait till the next End of Days.”
“Something always happens?” asked Alan. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, if I'm readin' that there document correctly,” said the Janitor, gesturing with his broom handle towards the folded contract in Alan's hand, “Looks like this time, that somethin' is you.”
Alan thought about this for a good long while. He nodded, and put the contract back in his pocket, knowing what he had to do. “Well, then,” he said, “Can you tell me how I get to Purgatory?”
“If I didn't,” said the janitor, “I'd be out of the job.”
* * *
The written directions from the janitor were both well-illustrated and tirelessly explicit. He had clearly drawn them much, much earlier. Either that, or he had the same time-defying hand as Lou. It wasn't that far-fetched.
As Alan walked, he passed many things that he thought didn't belong in an eternal pit of suffering at all: A courtyard with chess tables, a Squash court, even an arcade with pinball tables and a popcorn machine. But as fascinating as he found these, he had somewhere to be, and therefore didn't stop to inspect any of it. He looked down at the directions the janitor had given him:
Turn left at the stalagmite that looks like it has a big bite though it. Check. Keep walking twenty paces until you find a stalagmite that's twenty feet tall and looks like it's covered in dragon claw marks. Good. Now spin left three times, close your eyes after the second turn, and say--
“Too bad for Heaven, too good for Hell;
“What place can there be for a soul like me to dwell?”
As Alan said the words, he felt some kind of disturbance, somewhere between a headache and a gust of wind. And then there was a door.
It was the plainest door that Alan had ever seen in his life. It was inoffensive, unobtrusive, and unspectacular. It must have taken a group of twenty bureaucrats to design such a door, and not one of them must have been allowed to have a hobby.
Alan reached out and opened it. He couldn't see what was on the other side. It was just a blinding glare of shapeless, white light. He had to go in.
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and entered Purgatory.
At last, he could see the denizens of Hell. He was expecting pitchforks. He was expecting forked tongues, flaming tongues, mangled flesh and burnt hair. He was expecting impossibly ugly creatures a thousand times stronger then men, he was expecting the smell of rotting flesh and the screams of mortal torment. He received none of these things. The Denizens of Hell were no more remarkable than any other random sample of the human population. Hell is where people go when they die; it never occurred to anyone that they might remain people.
Alan pushed his way through the throngs of standing bodies. It was amazingly hard to navigate, considering that there was no way whatsoever to tell where he was going. The g