Lawyers in Hell

by Morris, Janet

  “It’s not a farce, and it begins now. Take your seat. I’m about to open the door and let you meet your first client.”

  *

  “This is all a mistake,” the middle-aged woman in the nurse’s uniform whined. Her fat rolls wiggled like Jell-O as she daubed at her eyes with a mascara streaked tissue. “I took great care of my patients. I treated them like family. I washed them and dressed them. I made sure they had clean sheets.”

  Monty looked at the file on his desk.

  Johanssen, Maureen. Age at death: forty-three. There followed all of the expected data about school, training, experience, family, et cetera. What caught his eye was the notation regarding her reason for assignment to the home. Whenever her patients developed life-threatening conditions, she waited until the last possible moment to call the ambulance so that the institution where she worked would collect every possible penny from Medicare and Medicaid.

  Glad I didn’t have to depend on her for my care, he thought as he scribbled a note on the Infernal Action Request Form.

  “Exactly what sort of remedial action are you requesting, Mrs. Johanssen?”

  Before she could reply, Monty felt suddenly dizzy. A sensation of vertigo washed over him. The office shimmered before his eyes and then vanished.

  The dizziness vanished along with his office.

  Monty rubbed his eyes and looked around. He stood in a massive room. Red, polished sandstone formed graceful Moorish arches creating walls open on all four sides. Muslin sheets – bleached white and gauzy – billowed on the dry desert wind blowing in from one side. Persian rugs decorated the smooth stone floor. A low, square table covered in marble and supported by curved, intricately-carved leg stood in the center of the room. A silver coffee pitcher and two dainty demitasse cups in wrought silver holders sat on top. Thick, tasseled cushions lay on the floor on all sides of the table. A hookah-bottle of green glass trimmed in brass and sporting two tubes tipped with ivory mouthpieces stood near one corner of the table. Small silver cream and sugar pitchers rested on an ornate oval service platter. A silver ewer with droplets of condensation on its sides was positioned close. Elegant gold-rimmed crystal goblets decorated with gold filigree surrounded the vessel.

  Through the arches came the distant sounds of voices, of vendors calling out their wares, the bleating of sheep and the braying camels and donkeys. He heard the clatter of hooves as horses walked on stone streets. Bells tinkled and music drifted on the wind. Although he spoke none of the Arabic tongues, the picture was clear enough to Monty. Somewhere beyond the arches was a market. It was exactly as he imagined Marrakesh or Tunis or even Cairo might sound.

  “Please be seated, noble sir.”

  He turned. A beautiful black-haired woman (odalisque?) had slipped silently into the room. Standing less than five feet tall, she was quite a bit shorter than he. Her figure was petite, yet deliciously rounded. She wore a loose-fitting harem outfit. The diaphanous fabric revealed as much as it showed. The lavender blouse and aqua trousers were so pale they were more hints of color than actual hues. She pointed a graceful arm at the table and cushions.

  “My master will join you shortly,” she smiled, her cheeks dimpling and her dark eyes downcast. A kind of circlet of brass wire with tiny brass bells hanging from it circled her head just at the top of her forehead. “I am instructed to see to your comfort until then. If you wish, I will serve you coffee at the table. Or, if coffee is not to your liking, I can bring you juice or water or tea.”

  “T-thank you,” Monty stammered as he turned and walked toward the table. Before he had taken two steps she had somehow slipped his suit jacket from his shoulders in a deft and mostly invisible motion. One moment he was wearing it; the next she had it draped over one arm.

  “I will have one of the household slaves take care of your garment while you and my master converse. It shall be as new when you are ready to depart.”

  So, Hell has a one-hour dry cleaning service, he thought. He sat down, cross-legged, on a cushion and looked around again. He felt like a backwoods bumpkin visiting a well-to-do city cousin for the first time. He thought for a moment and then shook his head. No, that wasn’t quite right. There was none of the rub-your-face-in-it garishness of the nouveau riche. This was the simple elegance of a palace – the more impressive because of its understated presence. He felt it more than he saw it.

  “Coffee?”

  He looked to his left. She knelt on the cushion beside him holding the silver vessel in both hands. The position pulled the fabric taut across her right breast revealing a slightly oval silver dollar-sized aureole. His breath caught in anticipation of a painful response, yet the stirring in his groin was surprisingly pleasant. He slowly, carefully relaxed.

  “Please,” he smiled as he reached for one of the dainty cups and held it toward the curved spout. The aroma from the thick dark liquid filled his nostrils and he suddenly realized that it was the first pleasant, appetizing thing he’d smelled since his passing over. He took a deeper breath. The girl’s perfume – heady and intoxicating – washed over his senses like a tsunami. Riding the aromatic wave were notes of coffee, of course, but also notes of fruity essences and a dry spiciness he couldn’t quite identify. Saffron? Sesame oil? Clove? Frankincense? All of them and more besides. He swayed, nearly reeled from the olfactory onslaught.

  One thing was missing: the noxious stench of brimstone.

  “So, how do you like the torture, damnation, and deprivation over there in New Hell?” A tall, dark-complexioned man asked. The newcomer walked toward the table. Monty started to rise but the man gestured for him to remain seated.

  “Please forgive the disconcerting method I had to employ to bring you to me. I imagine you are – or were in life, anyway – more accustomed to having someone send a car and driver.” The man spread his arms in a “what can we do” expression as he folded his long legs and sat opposite. His white linen suit was impeccably pressed. The white silk shirt fairly glowed against his dark skin showing above the open collar. His smile and open demeanor put Monty in mind of Omar Sharif, a former movie star. “The Goetic faction likes to control the comings and goings within their realm. Of course, we do, too.”

  “This isn’t New Hell?”

  “Take a deep breath, my friend.” His host closed his eyes and inhaled expanding his chest fully, then slowly breathed out. “Does every breath you take here smell like flatulence?”

  “No,” Monty conceded. “It doesn’t. In fact, it smells fantastic after breathing the daily sewer for – for however long I’ve been breathing it. I’ve wondered about that. I’m supposed to be dead. Why am I breathing?”

  “For amusement.”

  “Amusement?”

  “Of course. Anyone – excuse me, any being that runs an operation built around punishment and torture and pain and suffering must be some kind of sadist, don’t you think?” Monty’s host gently clapped his hands together. As the female slave filled his cup with coffee he asked Monty, “I trust that Mari has seen to your comfort.”

  “Yes, indeed, sir.” Monty held up his cup and took a sip. The thick, dark liquid was strong and bitter. After the food and drink offered in New Hell, however, he found it ambrosial. He set the cup on the table and stared at it for a moment. He shook his head, a wan smile on his lips.

  “Is the coffee not to your liking?”

  “It’s fine. Strong, but fine.”

  “Then I fail to understand your facial expression.”

  “Who are you?” Monty looked up. “What’s really going on here?”

  “I doubt that my name would mean anything to you.”

  Monty leaned back and crossed his arms. “You’re probably right,” he replied. “Religion was never the strongest part of my life, which probably explains why I’m in this mess. Since I’ve been here I’ve been raped by an old woman whose pussy sprouted tongues covered in sores that felt like sandpaper. Since then, every time I get hard, the pain is harsh. Imps insulted me and took me places
on elevators that only had one destination, yet delivered me to different places. I found myself assigned to work as an ombudsman and legal advisor in a nursing home filled with former nursing home owners and caretakers. My secretary is a succubus so provocative that I find myself with a perpetual erection and constant agony. I’ve breathed air and fumes and gasses that would gag a maggot. I’ve had drink that – on its best day – was flat and tasteless, although most times it had the flavor and consistency of industrial waste. I eat the food because for some reason dead people need to eat down here. Alive, I would have been afraid to dump it into the garbage for fear the EPA would hunt me down and throw me in jail.

  “Suddenly, I find myself yanked out of my dreary office to a desert palace. The air smells like perfume. The hard-on I get from looking at this beautiful woman doesn’t cause me excruciating pain. The coffee tastes like strong, bitter, wonderful coffee. The fruits look fresh and smell enticing.

  “So, I find myself waiting for the sound.” Monty took a deep breath and let it out in a long, drawn-out sigh. “I’m waiting for the thump of the missing shoe. I’m tired of being someone else’s play-toy. Who or what are you? Why have you brought me here? Is it to remind me of what I no longer have? Just how much shit do I have to shovel for you and where do you want it dumped?”

  His host’s black eyes glittered as he looked at Monty. Despite the hand rubbing across his beardless chin and hiding his mouth, Monty could tell he was smiling.

  “I realize this is hell,” Monty continued. “It’s all part of the grand, celestial game to make me and other sinful mortals suffer. I get it. Can we dispense with all of this and let me get back to the hell I was already in?”

  “In spite of all that was done to you, you still have the courage to demand respect.” The man stood. “You have the intestinal fortitude to look me in the eye and demand that I treat you as a man.”

  Monty shrugged. “What are you going to do to me? Kill me? Send me to hell? Sorry. Already dead. Already there. I’m not courageous. I’m just tired.”

  “I believe I have chosen well.” The tall man spread his arms. His body shifted and changed as Monty watched. “You asked for the truth and you shall have it. Behold!”

  Marty swallowed, but the hard lump in his throat refused to budge. The being in front of him could only exist in a nightmare. The head rising above the silk shirt collar and smooth lapel was a lion’s – long, sharp teeth, rounded furry ears trimmed in black, tawny mane streaked with sable strands, and long, twitching whiskers. Its thin black lips curled upward in a snarl. Its nostrils flared and its gold-colored eyes with their vertical pupils sparked as it spoke. Two pairs of wings sprouted from its back and twitched menacingly. A scorpion-like tail curved back and up over the being’s head. After his experience with the Welcome Woman upon his arrival, Monty really did not want to know what was squirming inside of the football-sized bulge at the being’s crotch. He shuddered at the memory.

  “I am called Pazuzu,” the being’s voice rumbled across the marble floor. “In Babylon of old, I was worshipped and feared. Believers filled my temple with gold and myrrh and silk and precious gems.”

  Monty scrambled backward, his eyes never leaving the horror towering above him. When the creature failed to pursue, he stopped. The more he looked at the demon, the more familiar he seemed.

  “I-I’ve seen you somewhere,” he stammered. With the light behind its wings, it formed a haloed silhouette that was mildly frightening, but more and more something of memory rather than nightmare. Suddenly, he had it. “A movie! The Exorcist! You were the demon that possessed that girl.”

  Pazuzu seemed to shrink a little. “Is that what I’ve come to? A motion-picture monster? Is that how I’m remembered up there?”

  “Don’t knock it. It was a pretty scary movie when it came out back in the seventies.”

  “Yes, well, that is the problem, I’m afraid. Image and following. Nothing’s been the same since Jehovah sent his rejects down to the fiery pits.” Pazuzu began to pace as he spoke. “First we had all of that sulfur smell drifting into our little paradise. Then, Jehovah sends his followers all over the deserts, pillaging Palestine, eliminating the Pharaoh’s troops.”

  Pazuzu turned with a chuckle. “I have to admit, though, that his trick with the Red Sea when he had it drown all those soldiers was classic. How stupid were those officers? Come on, even a Philistine could have seen it was a trap. I mean, could it have been more obvious?”

  Monty shook his head. This was not how he expected the conversation to go after the creature changed form.

  “When they came out of the desert, though, that’s when it all started going to hell – literally. Sodom. Gomorrah. Jericho. I don’t know what was going on in the desert all those years, but when they came out they started kicking some major ass. Yeah, they had their setbacks, but for the most part they were unstoppable. When they took on Babylon and Damascus, well…” The demon stopped and shook his head. He sighed. “I guess we’ve got no one to blame but ourselves. We just didn’t take them seriously. And, we didn’t think Jehovah would intervene as often as he did. The gods all thought there was some sort of unwritten code or something. You know, I fight you, you try to kill me, but we leave the mortals out of it.

  “Things kind of quieted down for a while. Yahweh had Jerusalem and Canaan and all those countries down by the Jordan River. Ra and his bunch had Egypt. We had Persia. There was a balance of power and everyone was happy. Not Yahweh, though. It should have been enough that he had hell and the area around the Sinai and the Eastern Mediterranean. No, he had to have more. He wasn’t going to be happy until he had it all.

  “So along comes this carpenter.” Pazuzu paused and looked directly at Monty. “I ask you. Who would take a carpenter and his band of hippies seriously? Would you? We certainly didn’t.”

  “Is there a point to this story?” Monty started to refill his coffee cup but Mari was quicker. She materialized by the table and filled his cup. She held a silver tray piled with fruits toward him. He took a huge strawberry from the stack and leaned back.

  “What? Do you have somewhere to go? Are you in a hurry to listen to Madame Greylocks’s whining? If so, I’ll send you back.”

  “No, no,” Monty responded quickly as smells and sights and sounds from the rest home flooded his memory. “I’m not in any hurry. I was just wondering where this history lesson was leading, that’s all.”

  Pazuzu looked closely at him, eyes narrowed. Finally, mollified, the demon continued his discourse.

  “We did not take the carpenter seriously and that was our undoing. How were we to know that his bloody death would create a sub sect of Yahweh worship that would grow until it swept around the world like a wildfire fanned by a Santa Ana wind?

  “That was bad enough. We felt it had somehow missed us. None of our followers seemed interested, until another upstart god entered the contest. His name was Allah and his champion was Mohammed. Those who avoided the Christ banner leaped for the Prophet’s call to arms.”

  Pazuzu sighed. “And, here we sit, like a bunch of Kathy Griffins on a polytheistic D-list.”

  “So, who is this we you say are on the D-list?”

  Pazuzu waved dismissively. “I doubt that you’ve heard of them. No one cares about the old ones anymore.”

  “Humor me, please.”

  “Do the names Apsu, Marduk, Mummu, or Ba’al mean anything to you?”

  “I’ve heard the names Marduk and Ba’al before. Not the others. As I recall, they weren’t all that nice. Didn’t that last one require his followers to throw babies into his statue’s burning belly?”

  “Propaganda. Lies spread to demonize a culture being conquered. So, you actually know nothing about them.”

  “I guess I don’t.”

  Pazuzu sighed. “That’s exactly what I mean. There was a time when the mere whisper of our names caused fear and anguish. Nations trembled before us.”

  “So, what does this all have to do with me?
” Monty sipped his coffee. Despite Pazuzu’s protest, he was pretty sure about the baby issue. When he set the cup back on the table Mari quickly refilled the cup. She handed him another fist-sized strawberry. “And, where do you get these magnificent strawberries?”

  Monty bit into the berry and allowed the sweet yet slightly tart juice to trickle down his throat.

  “Well, to put it succinctly, we want to regain our position in the celestial hierarchy, and we want you to help us.”

  Monty choked. Once his coughing subsided and he wiped the tears from his eyes, he laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding me. How on earth – I mean, how in hell am I supposed to do what you, a demon, cannot? Or will not. I’m sorry but taking on His Satanic Majesty and his legions of demons is just a bit out of my league.”

  Pazuzu tilted his head back and laughed, a sound not too dissimilar to a volcanic eruption.

  “Take on Satan and his demons,” he said, still chuckling. “What a concept. What an ego. Did you really think we would even consider such foolishness?”

  “That’s what it was starting to sound like to me.”

  “No, no, no, no, no, my friend.” Pazuzu changed back to human form. “I – we have nothing so dramatic in mind.

  “We know that we have neither the power nor the numbers to take on Satan and his gang in a stand-up fight. Even if we should try such a thing and find ourselves winning, Yahweh would step in and throw his angelic host into the fray. No, my friend, a head-to-head conflict is a losing proposition.” Pazuzu took a sip from his cup.

  “We plan to take a page from Yahweh’s own book. It will take a long time, but we have eternity in which to work. We shall work from within. An insurgency, if you will. We will encourage some events already taking place, such as Che Guevara’s intermittent revolution. And, we shall add to that some minor irritants – political itching powder, if you will – designed to weaken the belief that the status quo is invincible. Stir the pot a little and add a dash of promise and voila! Suddenly, the powers that be no longer exert the same control and New Hell becomes New Babylon. No muss, no fuss, no god wars.”