I guesstimated it was about three hours since I sat down, but it might as well have been fifteen. After downing 4 large pints with Khan, six shots of rum with Hemingway and god knows what kind of drugs with Hitler (''I gave zhis to my zoldiers! Zey felt like Zuperman, ja?''), I seriously lost track of time. Leaning back in the chair, limbs heavy, head throbbing, I actually felt rather relieved. If this was Hell, then it really could not be that bad. I mean, think about it. You die, after you break your dick. That's pretty bad. But then you get to down three rings of Hell or how many it was and you end up in a shady bar with fat women and stale beer. BUT! You get to play poker with some serious historical figures of weight. A question popped into my head;
''Say guys.''
Everyone turned to me, except Khan, who was fiercely looking a Ta'shanda, hanging on a pole, bending it in the middle ever so slightly.
''This ain't so bad. I mean, if this is Hell...'' I said, though not fully convinced of myself yet. Perhaps I was looking for some sort of approval. Though the moment the words were out of my mouth, I regretted the question instantly. The look I received was not one of understanding. It's the kind of look your parents give you when they have to tell Santa isn't real. Or Jesus. A flat-out, painful moment of truth time.
''How to put this eloquently...'' Christopher Hitchens pondered, scratching his brow.
''Look-a. Hell might-a not be entirely-a what-a the Bible told-a ya. But it is still not a fun place-a,'' the most often silent Columbus put forth. He continued, ''when I came to India...,'' emphasising the ''I'' and placing both hands on his chest.
''AMERICA! everyone else but Khan shouted.
''America, India, whatever. When I-a arrived, I was a good Christian, and my goal was-a to convert these peoples to-a good Christians,'' Columbus explained.
''But then you killed everyone with your filthy diseases. And sent them here. How ironic,'' Twain commented.
''Well-a, yes. But we did not know that back then-a. That-a we had those things. What do you-a call them?''
''Germs, bacteria. DISEASE,'' Hitchens expounded.
''Veramente, those-a things. Anyway, the Bible told me that-a all of those-a people would be flocking to the Cross like sheep-a. They-a did not. I never lost-a my faith, but then I came-a here.''
''Why do you think you ended up here?'' I asked.
''Well, not because he broke his penis,'' Twain snickered, leaning back with arms crossed and feet on the table, a thin cigar dangling from his mouth. To his right, Khan was now furiously humping the grossly oversized pole dancer in an undisputed standing doggy style position. Whether he was actually having sex or just gyrating with a lump of her fat, I could not say.
''Right,'' I responded. ''But Mr. Columbus,'' I continued, 'might it be because you killed so many people, not only because of the diseases that you spread but also because you well, basically were a rampaging Christian murdering machine, killing any Indian that did not meet your approval?'
''See! India! You call them Indians!'' Columbus cheerfully responded, throwing his hands up into the air. With a fat grin on his face, he peered around the table triumphantly. I, on the other hand, was rather disappointed. It did not seem possible to get a straight answer here. I decided that I experienced enough trouble for one day and took another line of the Nazi-drugs (to Addie's apparent delight) and another couple of shots of the disgusting Tequila, which was probably made from Hell-cactus and hooker piss. Khan sat back down, looking rather satisfied with himself. There were still blood stains around his mouth and in his scraggly and long beard. I shuddered to think what the origin the blood was and took another shot. It was not long before he noticed my demeanour, written on my face.
Of all the men at the table, I would have put Khan as the least emotionally observant of the group, due him being a rampaging mass murderer, but people surprise you, even seasoned, pillaging rapists that made the history books.
''WHAT AILS YOU, FRIEND? FUCK A HOOKER, YOU WILL FEEL BETTER!'' Khan let out in his customary manner. Wanting to pose a counter question or any coherent answer of sorts, the response got stuck in my throat. I decided I could not argue with that logic, at least not right now. I stood up, almost fell back down due to the rush of blood to the head, walked around the table, towards one of the hookers, grabbed her arm and pulled her towards one of the cabins in the back. None of them had functioning doors, making sure everybody could see you having sex with a whale in a stained thong. Hell was not for the faint of heart, nor the squeamish. But then again, those kinds of people would have probably been sent to Heaven anyway, right?
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