Back at the table, with double Aces in my hand, I went back to drinking. True to form, Hell provided me with a hangover before I even fell asleep. I felt bored. The decision was made by my alcohol induced mind that a change of scenery would be necessary. Every single one of my table guests was as fucked up as I was and generally incapable of coherent conversation. Khan had fallen asleep after having minded the whale-hooker trice more, Twain seemed to be asleep, but occasionally the front end of his cigar seemed to light up, which at least made sure he was alive. The amount of grade shit whisky from Hell in his bloodstream both stunned and surprised me. He should have been dead. Hitchens was in a deep discussion with Columbus about Christianity. The former was a staunch defender of atheism, the latter a mass-murderer. Neither was particularly pleasant at the present moment.
''I dare say, your false god is a capricious, malignant force for evil! You are nothing but a prime example of the audacious excesses of a faulty religion, a worship of a celestial dictator!'' Hitchens was foamed at the mouth. Columbus was even further gone.
''You-a infidel! I did-a my best for tha glory of God-a!'' Colombus was at the state of drunkenness where he had one eye closed in the rather futile attempt to see sharper with the remaining opened eye.
''Guys! I just had a brilliant idea!'' I shouted. I really thought I did. I would live to regret it. Well, not really ''live'', but you get the point. The table seemed to liven up a little to this idea. Khan was the first to respond.
''FINALLY! I AM IN NEED OF PLUNDER, WOMAN AND KILLING!''
''Isn't that what got you into this place?'' Hitchens slyly remarked.
''EXACTLY!'' Khan responded loudly. He took a swig of his beer glass, which easily fit a full litre of beer. Shitty beer, but beer nonetheless.
Hitchens then turned to me. ''So son, what dó you have in mind?''
''Do you guys know the yellow brick road? It's just beyond the fountain?''
The room fell silent. People stopped drinking, the one-man-jazz-band stopped playing and they all turned to me. The level of shame was equal to loudly farting in a crowded room, worse than realizing your fly is open, but neither had the intense level of dread.
''Did I say something bad?''
''Oh yes'', Hitchens responded. ''We do not speak of that road.''
I knew I should not ask, but I did anyway. The amount of alcohol and the fact that I was already dead might have had something to do with it.
''What's there? What's on the end of the road? A man behind a curtain?'' I forced out a grin but failed since nobody even attempted to smile back.
''Worse, my friend. Much more dreadful than you can possibly imagine.''
I failed to understand. We were all in Hell. We all met the Devil. He seemed like a nice guy.
''So what IS there, then? It can't be the Devil'', I said, speaking my mind.
Twain leaned in. ''It's worse. It's God.''
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