Emails from Hell, part nineteen

When last we saw our correspondent, Al Franken was leading him down a dungeon corridor in Heaven to meet somebody.

{beginning of email}

            The man Al Franken showed me in the dungeon scarcely looked like a person, or even an animal. He huddled in a little ball. He had boils all over his skin. The man scraped pus from them with potsherds, and dogs licked his wounds. The man looked up at us piteously. He had long hair and a beard.

            He spoke in a whisper. “Don’t tell anyone about the dogs. They are my only comfort. You know, dog saliva has antibiotic properties.”

            “You told me last time,” said Al.

            “How’s Mom?” he asked.

            “She’s still active,” said Al. “Still fishing people in. Let me introduce you to [name omitted].”

            “Pleased to meet you. Any friend of Al’s is a friend of mine.”

            I didn’t need to ask Who He was. With a Mom who was fishing people into Heaven? Who Else could He be? I couldn’t speak.

            He told me, “I am so sorry for what my supposed followers are doing,” He said. “They are trying to do everything the opposite of what I taught and the way I lived. I am, as you can guess, the Original Bleeding Heart of them All. Oh, we have another visitor.”

            “Hi, Mo,” Al said to the turbaned and robed man who entered.

            “Greetings, all. Hey, Jesus, you were saying how ashamed you were about the way your supposed followers are acting? Well, same here, buddy. If I walked into their midst right now, they would probably treat me about the way they are treating you.”

            “Somebody should get Him out of here,” I said.

            “Well,” said Jesus, “I am performing one of the functions for which I was begotten. I am suffering eternally in place of the sins of humankind. There, little buddy,” he said to one of the dogs who stuck his muzzle in a little too deep.

            “Been there, done that,” said Mo. “Enough already. You’ve suffered enough. We both gotta get out of here. Down to Hell with Moses and Noah and all the other great figures who were the founders of your religion and of mine. And that is just what I came here to do. We finally have a chance to escape.”

            “Strange that you didn’t mention it last time you visited me. Oh, can I bring the dogs?” Jesus smiled at his only admirers.

            “I have brought a heroine who will lead us forth in victory,” said Mo. Mo turned around as a girl in a robe and hajib approached. “As soon as you have finished your math homework, Malala, we can get started.” Mo looked at me. “Despite what you may have heard, I actually approve of women’s education.”

            “I confess, O Prophet, that I didn’t finish problem number three,” said Malala. “That double integral is a killer.”

            “Well, time is running out. You can finish later. I feel that we should get this done before God finishes his rant. Say, where did you Americans find this guy? We have some blowhards down in the Arabic countries too. Why not one of them? Well, no matter. Once we are finished here, there won’t be any need for any of them. Well, Malala, it’s your show now.”

            “Hehya!” Malala cried, and jumped up in the air. “Bear but a touch of my hand,” she said to Jesus, who didn’t have to even grasp her hand in order to suddenly rise, healthy and whole. We all ran down the dungeon hall. The only one huffing and puffing was Al, who told me he had eaten too much crow in the Senate Cafeteria.

            When Henry VIII saw Malala, he didn’t even have time to say anything. She yelled, “Begone, Piggly Wiggly!” He shriveled up into a little waif who struggled to get out from under the weight of gold and silver and silk and jewels and silk and silver and gold. Maybe he could start his life over again and get it right this time.

            We were outside in the Heavenly City, and we ran down the street. We came to the Great Wall that God had built. Malala jumped up and gave the wall a horizontal kick. It fell down like a line of dominoes. All of the men turned and looked at her. A fire came out of her mouth and evaporated the cloud the men were sitting on and they fell down and splatted on the glassy sea. So did all the Christian and Muslim fundamentalists who had been shooting each other. God hid behind a curtain. “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!” he yelled. But Malala tore down the curtain and wrapped God in it and marked the package “Return to sender” and put American postage on it.

            “You go, girl!” said Mo as we all ran after Malala.

            Then Malala found the cranberry woman and stopped in front of her. “I can’t give you a brain but I can give you the next best thing!” she said, and handed the woman a diploma.

            The assembly of souls down in Hell all gathered for the celebration. They clapped for Malala, who smiled so big that you could hardly see her face. Mo stayed out of sight and just enjoyed everything. There were special chairs for Moses and Andrew and Peter and all the others, but they chose to sit on the ground in a lotus position. Everyone cheered as Jesus got up on the big platform that had once held seven billion poor people.

            Jesus officiated over the reunion of Charles and Emma, and over the marriage of Philomena and Stonewall. And then it was reefers for everybody! And afterwards, everyone was very hungry.

{end of email}

            Postscript: I suspect, after reading these last emails, that Our Man In Hell was either dreaming—for how else could the Afterlife have people in it who have not yet died?—or having a hallucination. But I had to pass them on to you, because although I cannot verify their authenticity, neither can I prove them to be fraudulent. You be the judge of the truth, literal or otherwise, of these dispatches!