It was a typical Saturday night/Sunday morning at Hell, Inc. Central Intake Center. This night of the week, during the northern hemisphere's summer months, was always chaotic. The eve of the sabbath in the Christian world could be reliably counted upon to provide a boon of drug overdoses, fatal gunshots and vehicular accidents. Add to this the many long-running conflicts around the globe, and the on again/off again Iran war, it was a banner day for new admissions.
In Hell, as in the overworld, July often marks the vacation season. Much of the big brass, including Reggie himself, were off from their normal duties. The Devil and his erstwhile chief of staff, Mr. Hemingway, had left to attend the Swift-Kelce nuptials. That was long over; they were now suspected to be on a prolonged rum bender, somewhere in Cuba. This left HR Director Sam Kinison in charge of operations in the front office, and Hell's Undersecretary for Intake Affairs, R. Lee Ermey, as the duty officer for the Intake Center.
There are, in fact, numerous misconceptions about Hell and how it operates. Damnation, while it may seem straightforward enough, is a rather complicated matter. Ironically, there are those who never quite find or achieve their purpose in life, but then somehow manage to shine in their afterlife; to actually find some twisted form of redemption in their damnation. Then, there are those who just really enjoy the work. Gunnery Sergeant R. Lee Ermey was of the latter category.
For readers familiar with Hell's Chronicles, it is known that we often extol the virtues of HR Director Kinison. There is not enough to be said for the improved efficiency and value of services rendered since Director Kinison's historic reforms. Among these are the installation of wall-to-wall big screens throughout Central Intake. Such a thing might seem counter-intuitive to many, until one realizes that this was not done for the purpose of entertainment; rather, as an instrument of torture. This elevated Kinison's innate sadism to a level unattainable in mortal life. We now remind you that this is also the man responsible for hiring Sergeant Ermey.
As one might well imagine, those finding themselves suddenly in the midst of the throngs of Hell's new supplicants can be rather bewildering. Now, try to imagine this in a dark, cavernous hall that goes farther than the eye can see, with big screen televisions lit up on the walls all around. The individual subject must know that they have arrived in Hell, at that moment when realizing that every single television had the volume setting of a late-night infomercial fed through a Bose sound system. If the decibel level failed to stun them, then the content upon the screens would, in nearly all cases, reduce them to blubbering babies in fifteen to thirty minutes. Sometimes less.
Director Kinison had devised a very regimented broadcast schedule. To begin with, they aired re-runs of Mr. Belvidere, around the clock Monday through Thursday. These broadcasts were interrupted at four-minute intervals to air commercials. The same commercials. All day, every day. It was Bob Dole hawking Viagra; William Devane pitching gold coins; Robert Conrad challenging you to knock that battery off his shoulder, and finally, a reminder from the Humane Society to spay and/or neuter your pets.
I know. Utterly diabolical, isn't it? But that's not all, no. For Fridays, Director Kinison mined deep, deep into the darkest depths of his soul for even greater horrors. At 12:01 AM on Friday commenced some of the most gruesome television viewing within any one twenty-four-hour period since..., since the invention of television. It was a marathon of re-runs, in an entirely random order, from a selection of The Phil Donahue Show, The Porter Waggoner Show and The Sally Jesse Raphael Show. These ran at the same four-minute intervals, with four commercials airing in each break. The commercials were presented in a chronological order from a complete, alphabetical library of every auto insurance commercial ever aired, oldest to latest. At the end of the broadcast day, they had completely run through the Allstate library and one quarter of the way through the Farmer's Insurance catalogue. In subsequent broadcast cycles it would take three weeks to exhaust all of the Geico commercials, which incidentally took fifteen percent less time than it would have with a comparably sized library of any competitor.
The piece de resistance came with a weekend-long marathon of The View, sponsored with the same banal parade of pharmaceutical commercials as are aired during the program's normal broadcast. A committee of former ad executives (yes, they do all go to Hell) determined that these commercials are of no more value and are every bit as off-putting in Hell as they are on Earth.
In yet another demonstration of his bold and daring management style, Director Kinison entrusted Sergeant Ermey to, as he put it "have some fun! Get creative!", in his absence. The man has flawless instincts. Ermey accepted this invitation with gusto, starting out with around the clock re-runs of The Chevy Chase Show, regularly peppered with Sid's original Sham-wow infomercial. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth, though it could barely be heard over the blaring televisions.
By Saturday evening Ermey decided it was time to stir it up a bit more. At 7:00 PM everything went dark, the shrieking din of the big screens fell silent. To the crowd filling the great hall this came as a great relief. Being new to the establishment, there were many who had moments of gratitude. Of course, any veteran of Hell knows that such instances are only momentary and are certain to be followed by something even worse.
After a few minutes, all of the screens on the left wall lit up, resuming their deafening volume. It was a live broadcast of Fox News Channel. Some cheered. Most groaned. After a few more minutes, all of the screens on the right wall came to life in a similar fashion. These screens displayed a live broadcast of CNN. Some cheered. Most groaned. The Sergeant was pleased.
It was shaping up to be just another Saturday night at the Central Intake of Hell, Inc. Sergeant Ermey found a seat available in the Intake's comms booth, with an empty desk where he could (and did) put up his boots. This was the time for a well-deserved cigar, one of those fat Honduran things. Ermey relaxed there for some time, puffing away and building a considerable cloud within the booth. It was feeling a lot like the good old days in the barracks. After having spent a few years in Hell, Ermey was finding the experience rather like being in the US military, just with better food and a more clearly defined mission statement.
Shortly after midnight there was a shift change at the booth, one nameless, faceless schlub to replace another. Ermey paid them little mind, instead focusing on the monitors on the board...
"... this is a Fox News Alert: South Carolina Senator Lindsey Graham has died suddenly, following a brief illness. This is a breaking story...."
and then, a short time later from Iranian State Television...
"...I congratulate the Iranian people on the death of US Senator Lindsey Graham, who has been sent to hell."
"Well ho-lee shit! Looky there! We got us a Nancyboy! How'd those camel jockeys get a scoop like that? Get Director Kinison on the horn, Sparky!"
The tech was startled by this outburst at first, but quickly recovered to execute Ermey's order. While he was dialing, Ermey reached over the panel to switch on the intercom. The Sergeant clutched the microphone from it's stand, fumbling for a moment. The tech adeptly turned with his free hand to engage the microphone switch. Ermey gave a curt nod in thanks, then leaned into it.
"ATTENTION! This is Gunnery Sergeant R. Lee Ermey, acting director of this here shit show. All of you maggots can shut your mother-humpin' pieholes, effective immediately! It has been brought to my attention that within the last hour, a very special new admission has passed through our gates. It is my solemn duty to ensure that this individual is accorded the protocols befitting a closet queen war pig. Security detail will sweep until this individual is found and brought to me at the Intake comms station. Subject: Graham, Lindsey, US Senator, South Carolina, aged 71. Probably find him on his knees in the Ukraine line. That is all!"
Ermey snapped the mic smartly back into it's cradle, then looked to the tech. Reading the query in the Sergeant's eyes, the tech held his hand over the mouthpiece and reported, "Still holding for Director Kinison, Sir." Then after a moment the tech thought to add, "That was good, sir."
"It was, wasn't it? Damned if I don't impress myself sometimes!"
Ermey plugged the stump of his cigar back into one corner of his mouth and began a slow, deliberative pacing back and forth. His thick, bushy brows were knitted in concentration. Clearly there was something further on his mind. He wasn't given a long time to ponder whatever it was.
"I have Director Kinison, sir."
Ermey took the phone from the tech. "Sam?"
"Yeah, Sarge. Everything okay there? Sorry to keep you waiting. I just got off the weirdest call..."
"Yes, Sam. We're fine here. I am sorry to disturb you, but I just discovered something I thought you should be aware of..."
"Ree-ee-eal-ly...heh heh. Do tell!"
"Lindsey Graham died and Iranian television got the scoop on him being sent here!"
"Graham...Graham... is that the graham cracker heiress?"
"No Sam. Lindsey Graham, US Senator? From South Carolina...that's not what's important here. What about the Iranians?"
"Oh, that? Of course they got the scoop! They're leasing studio space from us. I thought everyone knew that!"
" The Iranians, Sam?"
"Yeah, it's one of the Big Guy's deals. He offered the same to Fox and CNN. Whole thing got nixed because he refused to validate parking, can you believe it?"
"Oh! Well, the boss already knows about it, so... I am sorry to have bothered you, Sam."
" s'alright, Sarge. Lindsey Graham... that's one of Cheney's butt buddies, isn't it?"
"Why, I believe he is, sir!"
"Right...right. When you have him, send up my way, would you?"
"Certainly!"
"Yeah...they can be bunk mates and work mates..."
"Now see! That... that right there. That's why YOU are the Director, Sam. What will they be doing?"
"What?"
"What's their work assignment?"
"I've got them giving rim jobs over in the Hindu section. Hope he likes curry."
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