Damned

ChuckPalahniuk

IAreyouthere,Satan?It’sme,Madison.I’mjust

now arrived here, in Hell, but it’s not my faultexcept for maybe dying from an overdose ofmarijuana.MaybeI’minHellbecauseI’mfat—aRealPorker. If you cango toHell forhaving lowself-esteem, that’swhyI’mhere. IwishIcould lieandtellyouI’mbone-thinwithblondhairandbigta-tas. But, trust me, I’m fat for a really goodreason.

Tostartwith,pleaseletmeintroducemyself.Howtobestconveytheexactsensationofbeingdead…Yes,Iknowthewordconvey.I’mdead,notamentaldefective.Trustme, thebeing-deadpart ismucheasier than thedyingpart. Ifyou

can watch much television, then being dead will be a cinch. Actually,watching television and surfing the Internet are really excellent practice forbeingdead.

TheclosestwayIcandescribedeath is tocompare it towhenmymombootsuphernotebookcomputerandhacksintothesurveillancesystemofourhouse inMazatlanorBanff.“Look,”she’dsay, turning thescreensidewaysformetosee,“it’ssnowing.”GlowingsoftlyonthecomputerwouldbetheinteriorofourMilanhouse,thesittingroom,withsnowfallingoutsidethebigwindows,andbylongdistance,holdingdownherControl,AltandWkeys,mymomwoulddrawopenthesittingroomdrapesall theway.PressingtheControlandDkeys,she’ddimthelightsbyremotecontrolandwe’dbothsit,onatrainorinarentedtowncaroraboardaleasedjet,watchingtheprettywinter view through the windows of that empty house displayed on hercomputer screen.With theControl andFkeys, she’d light a fire in thegasfireplace,andwe’dlistentothehushoftheItaliansnowfalling,thecrackleoftheflamesviatheaudiomonitorsofthesecuritysystem.Afterthat,mymomwouldkeyboardintothesystemforourhouseinCapeTown.ThenlogontoviewourhouseinBrentwood.Shecouldsimultaneouslybeallplacesbutnoplace, mooning over sunsets and foliage everywhere except where sheactuallywas.Atbest,asentry.Atworst,avoyeur.

Mymomwill kill half a day on her notebook computer just looking atemptyroomsfullofourfurniture.Tweakingthethermostatbyremotecontrol.Turningdownthelightsandchoosingtherightlevelofsoftmusictoplayin

each room. “Just to keep the cat burglars guessing,” she’d tell me. She’dtogglefromcameratocamera,watchingtheSomalimaidcleanourhouseinParis.Hunchedoverhercomputerscreen,she’dsighandsay,“MycrocusarebloominginLondon….”

Frombehindhisopenbusinesssectionof theTimes,mydadwouldsay,“Thepluraliscrocuses.”

Probablymymomwouldcackle then,hittingherControlandLkeys tolock amaid inside a bathroom from three continents away because the tiledidn’tlookadequatelypolished.Toherthispassedforway-wicked,goodfun.It’saffectingtheenvironmentwithoutbeingphysicallypresent.Consumptioninabsentia.LikehavingahitsongyourecordeddecadesagostilloccupythemindofaChinesesweatshopworkeryou’llnevermeet.It’spower,butakindofpointless,impotentpower.

On thecomputer screenamaidwouldplaceavase filledwith fresh-cutpeoniesonthewindowsillofourhouseinDubai,andmymomwouldspybysatellite,turningdowntheair-conditioning,colderandcolder,withatappingkeystroke via her wireless connection, chilling that house, that one room,meat-locker cold, ski-slope cold, spending a king’s ransom on Freon andelectricpower,tryingtomakesomedoomedtenbucks’worthofprettypinkflowerslastonemoreday.

That’s what it’s like to be dead. Yes, I know the word absentia. I’mthirteenyearsold,notstupid—andbeingdead,yegods,doIcomprehendtheideaofabsentia.

Beingdeadistheveryessenceoftravelinglight.

Beingdead-deadmeansnonstop,twenty-four/seven,threehundredsixty-fivedaysayear…forever.

Howitfeelswhentheypumpoutallofyourblood,youdon’twantmetodescribe.ProbablyIshouldn’teventellyouI’mdead,becausenodoubtnowyoufeelawfullysuperior.EvenotherfatpeoplefeelsuperiortoDeadPeople.Nevertheless,hereitis:myHideousAdmission.I’llfessupandcomeclean.I’moutofthecloset.I’mdead.Nowdon’tholditagainstme.

Yes,weall lookalittlemysteriousandabsurdtoeachother,butnoonelooks as foreign as a dead person does.We can forgive some stranger herchoice to practice Catholicism or engage in homosexual acts, but not hersubmissiontodeath.Wehateabackslider.Worsethanalcoholismorheroinaddiction, dying seems like the greatest weakness, and in a world wherepeoplesayyou’relazyfornotshavingyourlegs,thenbeingdeadseemsliketheultimatecharacterflaw.

It’sasifyou’veshirkedlife—simplynotmadeenoughseriousefforttoliveup toyour fullpotential.Youquitter!Beingfatanddead—letme tellyou—that’sthedoublewhammy.

No, it’snot fair,buteven ifyoufeel sorry forme,you’reprobablyalsofeeling pretty darn smug that you’re alive and no doubt chewing on amouthfulofsomepooranimal thathadthemisfortuneto livebelowyouonthe food chain. I’m not telling you all of this to gain your sympathy. I’mthirteenyearsold,andagirl,andI’mdead.MynameisMadison,andthelastthingIneedisyourstupidcondescendingpity.No,it’snotfair,butit’showpeopledo.Thefirst timewemeetanotherpersonaninsidiouslittlevoiceinourhead says, “Imightwear eyeglassesorbe chunkyaround thehipsor agirl,butat leastI’mnotGayorBlackoraJew.”Meaning:Imaybeme—but at least I have the good sense not to be YOU. So I hesitate to evenmention that I’mdeadbecauseeveryonealready feelssodarnedsuperior todeadpeople,evenMexicansandAIDSpeople.It’slikewhenlearningaboutAlexandertheGreatinourseventh-gradeInfluencesofWesternHistoryclass,what keeps running through your head is: “If Alexanderwas so brave andsmartand.Great…why’dhedie?”

Yes,Iknowthewordinsidious.DeathistheOneBigMistakethatnoneofusEVERplanstomake.That’s

whythebranmuffinsandthecolonoscopies.It’showcomeyoutakevitaminsand get Pap smears.No, not you—you’re never going to die—so now youfeel all superior tome.Well, go ahead and think that.Keep smearing yourskinwithsunblockandfeelingyourselfforlumps.DontletmespoiltheBigSurprise.

But, tobehonest,whenyou’redeadprobablynotevenhomelesspeopleandretardedpeoplewillwant to tradeyouplaces.Imean,wormsget toeatyou.It’s likeacompleteviolationofallyourcivilrights.Deathoughttobeillegal but you don’t see Amnesty International starting any letter-writingcampaigns. You don’t see any rock stars banding together to release hitsingleswithalltheproceedsgoingtosolveMYgettingmyfacechewedoffbyworms.

MymomwouldtellyouI’mtooflipandglibabouteverything.Mymomwouldsay,“Madison,pleasedon’tbesuchasmartaleck.”She’dsay,“You’redead;nowjustcalmdown.”

Probablymebeingdeadisagiganticrelieftomydad;thisway,atleast,hewon’thavetoworryaboutmeembarrassinghimbygettingpregnant.Mydad used to say, “Madison,whateverman ends upwith you, he’s going tohavehishandsfull….”Ifmydadonlyknew.

Whenmygoldfish,MisterWiggles,diedweflushedhimdownthetoilet.Whenmykitten,TigerStripe,diedItriedthesamedeal,andwehadtocallaplumbertosnakethepipes.Whatabigmess.PoorTigerStripe.WhenIdied,Iwon’tgointothedetails,butlet’ssaysomeMr.PervyMcPervertmorticiangottoseemenakedandpumpoutallmybloodandcommitGodonlyknowswhatderangedcarnalhighjinkswithmyvirginalthirteen-year-oldbody.Youcan call me glib, but death is about the biggest joke around. After all thepermanentwavesandballetlessonsmymompaidfor,hereIamgettingahot-spittonguebathfromsomepaunchy,depravedmortuaryguy.

Ican tellyou,whenyou’redead,youprettymuchhave togiveupyourdemands about boundaries andpersonal space. Just understand, I didn’t diebecause Iwas too lazy to live. I didn’t die because Iwanted to punishmyfamily.AndnomatterhowmuchIslagmyparents,don’tgettheideathatIhatethem.Yes,forawhileIhungaround,watchingmymomhunchedoverhernotebookcomputer,tappingthekeys,Control,Alt,andLtolockthedoorofmybedroominRome,myroominAthens,allmyroomsaroundtheworld.She keyboarded to close all my drapes after that, and turn down the air-conditioningandactivatetheelectrostaticairfiltrationsonotevendustwouldsettleonmydollsandclothesandstuffedanimals.ItsimplymakessensethatI should miss my parents more than they miss me, especially when youconsiderthattheyonlylovedmeforthirteenyearswhileIlovedthemformyentirelife.Forgivemefornotstickingaroundlonger,butIdon’twanttobedeadandjustwatchingeverybodywhileIchillrooms,flickerthelights,andpullthedrapesopenandshut.Idon’twanttobesimplyavoyeur.

No,it’snotfair,butwhatmakesearthfeellikeHellisourexpectationthatit should feel likeHeaven.Earth is earth.Dead isdead.You’ll findout foryourselfsoonenough.Itwon’thelpthesituationforyoutogetallupset.

IIAreyouthere,Satan?It’sme,Madison.Please

don’t get the impression that I dislike Hell. No,really, it’sway swell.Tonsbetter than I expected.Honestly,it’sobviousyou’veworkedveryhardfora very long timeon the roiling, surgingoceansofscalding-hotbarfandthestinkingsulfursmell,andthecloudsofbuzzingblackflies.

IfmyversionofHellfailstoimpressyou,pleaseconsiderthattobemyown shortcoming. Imean,what do I know?Probably any grown-upwouldpee herself silly, seeing the flying vampire bats and majestic, cascadingwaterfallsofsmellypoop.Nodoubtthefaultisentirelymyown,becauseifI’d ever imaginedHell it was as a fiery version of that classic HollywoodmasterpieceTheBreakfastClub,populated,let’sremember,byahypersocial,prettycheerleader, a rebel stoner type, adumb football jock, abrainygeek,and amisanthropic psycho, all locked together in their high school librarydoing detention on an otherwise ordinary Saturday exceptwith every bookandchairbeingblazingonfire.

Yes,youmightbealiveandGayorOldoraMexican,lordingthatoverme,butconsiderthatI’vehadtheactualexperienceofwakinguponmyfirstdayinHell,andyou’lljusthavetotakemywordforwhatallthisislike.No,it’s not fair, but you can forget about the fabled tunnel of bright, spectral-white light and being greeted by the open arms of your long-deceasedgrandmaandgrandpa;maybeotherpeoplehavereportedthatblissfulprocess,butconsiderthatthosepeoplearecurrentlyalive,ortheyremainedlivingforsufficient time to report on their encounter. My point is: Those peopleenjoyed what’s clearly labeled a “near-death experience.” I, on the otherhand,amdead,withmybloodlongagopumpedoutandwormsmunchingonme. In my book that makes me the higher authority. Other people, likefamous Italian poet Dante Alighieri, I’m sorry to say, simply hoisted ageneroushelpingofcampymake-believeonthereadingpublic.

Thus,disregardmyaccountofHellatyourownperil.

Firstoff,youwakeuplyingonthestonefloorinsideafairlydismalcellcomposedofironbars;andtakemysternadvice—don’ttouchanything.Theprisoncellbarsarefilthydirty.IfbyaccidentyouDOtouchthebars,whichlook a tad slimywithmold and someone else’s blood, doNOT touchyourface—oryourclothes—notifyouhaveanyaspirationtostaylookingnice

untilJudgmentDay.AnddoNOTeatthecandyyou’llseescatteredeverywhereontheground.

The exact means by which I arrived in the underworld remain a littleunclear.Irecallachauffeurstandingcurb-sidesomewhere,next toaparkedblackLincolnTownCar,holdingawhiteplacardwithmynamewrittenonit,MADISON SPENCER, in all-caps terrible handwriting. The chauffeur —thosepeopleneverspeakEnglish—hadonmirroredsunglassesandavisoredchauffeurcap,somostofhisfacewashidden.Irememberhimopeningtherear door so I could step inside; after that was a way-long drive with thewindowstintedsodarkIcouldn’tquiteseeout,butwhatI’vejustdescribedcould’vebeenanyoneoftenbazillionridesI’vetakenbetweenairportsandcities.Whether that TownCar deliveredme toHell, I can’t swear, but thenextthingisIwokeupinthisfilthycell.

ProbablyIwokeupbecausesomeonewasscreaming;inHell,someoneisalwaysscreaming.Anyonewho’severflownLondontoSydney,seatednexttooranywhereintheproximityofafussybaby,you’llnodoubtfallrightintothe swing of things in Hell. What with the strangers and crowding andseeminglyendlesshoursofwaitingfornothing tohappen,foryouHellwillfeellikeonelong,nostalgichitofdéjàvu.Especiallyifyourin-flightmoviewas The English Patient. In Hell, whenever the demons announce they’regoingtotreateveryonetoabig-nameHollywoodmovie,don’tgettooexcitedbecause it’s always The English Patient or, unfortunately, The Piano. It’sneverTheBreakfastClub.

Inregardtothesmell,HellcomesnowherenearasbadasNaplesinthesummertimeduringagarbagestrike.

Ifyouaskme,peopleinHelljustscreamtoheartheirownvoiceandtopassthetime.Still,complainingaboutHelloccurstomeasatadbitobviousandself-indulgent.Likesomanyexperiencesyouventure intoknowingfullwell that they’ll be terrible, in fact the core pleasure resides in their veryinnatebadness,likeeatingSwansonfrozenchickenpotpiesatboardingschooloraBanquetfrozenSalisburysteakonthecook’snightout.Oreatingreallyanything in Scotland. Allow me to venture that the sole reason we enjoycertain pastimes such as watching the film version of Valley of the Dollsarisesfromthecomfortandfamiliarityofitsveryinherentpoorquality.

Incontrast,TheEnglishPatienttriesdesperatelytobeprofoundandonlysucceedsinbeingpainfullyboring.

Ifyou’ll forgive the redundancy:Whatmakes theearth feel likeHell isourexpectationthatitoughttofeellikeHeaven.Earthisearth.HellisHell.Now,stopwiththewhiningandcaterwauling.

Onthatbasis,itdoesseemclichédandobvioustoarriveinHellandthenweepandgnashandrendyourgarmentsbecauseyoufindyourselfimmersedin raw sewage or plopped down atop a bed of white-hot razor blades. Toscream and thrash seems… hypocritical, as if you’ve bought a ticket andseatedyourselftowatchJeandeFloretteandthencomplainloudly,resentfulof the fact that all the actors are speaking French. Or like the peoplewhotraveltoLasVegasonlytoharpabouthowit’ssotacky.Ofcourse,eventhecasinosthattakeastabatelegancewithcrystalchandeliersandstainedglass,eventhosearecrowdedwiththedinandcacophonyofplasticslotmachinesflashing strobe lights to seize your attention. In such a situation the peoplewhowhineandmoanmightimaginethey’remakingacontributionbutreallythey’rejustbeinganotherpettyannoyance.

Theothermostimportantruleworthrepeatingis:Don’teatthecandy.Notthat you’ll be even remotely tempted, because it’s scattered on the dirtyground, AND it’s the candy even fat people and heroin junkies won’t eat:rockcandy, rock-hardBazookabubblegum,Sen-Sen, saltwater taffy,blackCrows,andpopcornballs.

Given the fact that you, yourself, are still alive and Black or a Jew orwhatever—bullyforyou,youjustkeepeatingthosebranmuffins—you’llhave to take my word for all of these details, so listen up and pay closeattention.

Flanking your cell, other cells stretch to the horizon in both directions,mostcontainingasingleperson,mostofthosepeoplescreaming.Evenasmyeyesflutteropen,Ihearagirl’svoicesay,“Don’ttouchthebars….”Standinginthenextcell,ateenagegirldisplaysbothherhands,spreadingthefingerswidetoshowherpalmssmearedwithsmut.Therereallyisthemostdreadfulmildew problem in Hell. It’s like an entire underworld with sick buildingsyndrome.

Myneighbor I’dwager is ahigh school junior, because shehas thehipdevelopmenttoholdupastraight-lineskirtandshehasbreastsinsteadofjustfrills or smocking to fill out the front of her blouse. Even with smokecloudingtheairandtheoccasionalvampirebatflutteringthroughmylineofvisionIcanseeherManoloBlahnikshoesarecounterfeit,thekindyoumightbuy sight unseenover the Internet froma pirate operation inSingapore forfive dollars. If you can stomach yet another piece of advice: DoNOT diewhile wearing cheap shoes. Hell is…well, hell on shoes; anything plasticmelts,andyoudon’twanttowalkbarefootoverbrokenglassfortherestofeternity.When it comes your time,when the proverbial bell tolls for thee,seriously considerwearing abasic low-heelBassWeejunpenny loafer in adarkcolorthatwon’tshowdirt.

Thisteenagegirlinthenextcellcallsover,asking,“Whatareyoudamnedfor?”

Getting tomy feet, stretchingmy arms, and dusting off the legs ofmyskort,Ireply,“Smokingmarijuana,Iguess.”

Outofcourtesyrather thangenuineinterestIaskthegirlaboutherowncardinalsin.

Thegirlshrugshershoulders;pointingonestained,smuttyfingertowardherfeet,shesays,“WhiteshoesafterLaborDay.”Hersadshoes—theersatzleather is white and already scuffed, and you can never actually polishcounterfeitManoloBlahniks.

“Beautiful shoes,” I lie, nodding my head toward her feet. “Are thoseManoloBlahniks?”

“Yes,”sheliesinreturn,“theyare.Theycostafortune.”

AnotherdetailtorememberaboutHell…wheneveryouaskwhyanyoneis damned for all eternity, she’ll tell you “jaywalking”or “carrying a blackpurse with brown shoes” or some such petty nonsense. In Hell you’d befoolish to count on people displaying high standards of honesty. The samegoesforearth.

Thegirl in thenext cell takesa stepcloserand, still lookingatme, shesays,“Youknow,you’rereallypretty.”

That statement exposes her as a super, all-out, major-league liar, but Idon’tsayanythinginresponse.

“No, I mean it,” she says. “All you need is more eyeliner and somemascara.” Already she’s digging in her shoulder bag — also white, fakeCoach, plastic— picking out tubes of mascara and compacts of turquoiseAvoneyeshadow.Withonedirtyhand,thegirlwavesformetoleanmyfacebetweenthebars.

It’smyexperience thatgirls tend tobe terrificallysmartuntil theygrowbreasts.Youmaydismissthisobservationasmypersonalprejudice,basedonmyowntenderage,butthirteenyearsseemstobewhenhumanbeingsreachtheirfullestflowerofintelligence,personality,andpluck.Bothgirlsandboys.Nottoboast,butIbelieveapersonishermosttrulyexceptionalattheageofthirteen—lookatPippiLongstocking,Pollyanna,TomSawyer,andDennistheMenace—before she findsherself conflicted and steeredbyhormonesand crushing gender expectations. Let girls get their menstruation or boyshavetheirfirstwetdream,andtheyinstantlyforget theirownbrillianceandtalent. Again, here’s a reference to my Influences of Western History

textbook— for a long time after puberty, it’s like the dark ages that fellbetween theAthenian Enlightenment and the ItalianRenaissance.Girls gettheir boobs and forget they were ever so gutsy and smart. Boys, too, candisplay their ownbrandof clever and funnybehavior, but let themget thatfirsterectionandtheygocompletemoron for thenextsixtyyears.Forbothgenders,adolescenceoccursasakindofIceAgeofDumbness.

And, yes, I know thewordgender.Ye gods! Imay be pudgy and flat-chestedandnearsightedanddead,butIamNOTamoron.

Yes, and Iknow thatwhena supersexyoldergirlwithhips andbreastsand nice hairwants to take off your glasses and to paint you a smoky eyeshe’smerelytryingtoenrollyouinabeautycontestshe’salreadywon.It’sakind of slummy, condescending gesture, like when rich people ask poorpeoplewheretheysummer.Tome, thissmacksofablatant, insensitive“letthemeatcake”typeofchauvinism.

Eitherthat,ortheattractiveoldergirlisalesbian.Eitherway,Idon’toffermyfaceevenasshestandsready,brandishingagloppymascarabrushlikeafairygodmother’smagicwand,toturnmeintosomefloozyCinderella.Tobehonest,whenever Iwatch theclassicJohnHughesfilmTheBreakfastClub,andMollyRingwald leads poorAlly Sheedy into the girl’s bathroom, thenbrings her out with those hideous 1980s smears of rouge under eachcheekbone and Ally’s hair tied back with that preppy ribbon and her lipspaintedthatdatedred-redlikeacheapChinadollversionofRingwald’sownselloutWhoreyVanderwhoreVoguemagazineconformity,poorAllyreducedtoakindofliving,breathingNagelprint,Ialwaysyellatthetelevision,“Run,Ally!”Really,Iscream,“Washyourface,Ally,andjustrun!”

Insteadofsubmittingmyface,Isay,“I’dbetternot,notuntilmyeczemaclearsupsome.”

Atthis,themagicmascarawandjerksback.TheAvoneyeshadowsandlipsticks all clatter back into the fake Coach bag even as her eyes squint,searchingmyfaceforsignsofinflamed,red,flakyskinandopensores.

It’s like my mom will tell you: “Every new maid wants to fold yourunderwear a different way.”Meaning: You have to stay smart and not letyourselfbepushedaround.

Othercellsclusteraroundourtwo,somecellsempty,othersoccupiedbylonepeople.Nodoubtthefootballjock,therebelstoner,thebrainygeek,thepsycho,allservingdetentionhere,forever.

No,it’snotfair,butchancesaregoodthatI’llbeinthiscellforcenturiesto come, pretending to suffer psoriasis evenwhile hypocrite people scream

and complain about the humidity and the smell, and my WhoreyVanderwhore neighbor squats down to try to spit-shine her cheapo, whiteplasticshoeswithacrumpledwadofKleenex.Evenagainstthestinkofpoopand smoke and sulfur, you can smell her dime-store perfume like amixed-fruit flavorof chewinggumor instantgrapedrink.Tobehonest, I’d rathersmellpoop,butwhocanholdtheirbreathforamillion-plusyears?So,simplyoutofcourtesyIsay,“Thanksanyway,aboutofferingthemakeover,Imean.”Outofsheerpoliteness,Iforcemyselftosmileandsay,“I’mMadison.”

Atthis,theteenagegirlalmostlungestowardthebarswhichseparateus.All breasts and hips and high-heeled shoes, now obviously, patheticallygrateful for my companionship, she grins to show me her every mass-produced, porcelain-veneered incisor. In her pierced earlobes, she’s evenwearingdiamondearrings—soveryClaireStandishofher—onlyvulgar,dime-size, dazzle-cut cubic zirconium. Saying, “I’mBabette,” dropping thewadoftissue,shethrustsasmutty,stainedhandbetweenthebarsformetoshake.

IIIAreyouthere,Satan?It’sme,Madison.Please

don’t feelhurt,Satan,hutmyparentsraisedmetobelieveyoudidn’texist.Mymomanddadsaidyouand God were invented in the superstitious,backward pea brains of hillbilly preachers andRepublicanhypocrites.

Accordingtomyparents,there’snosuchplaceasHell.Ifyouaskedthem,they’dprobablytellyouI’malreadyreincarnatedasabutterflyorastemcelloradove.Imean,myparentsbothsaidhowimportantitwasformetoseethemwalkingaroundnakedall the timeor I’dgrowup tobe totallyaMissPervyMcPervert.Theytoldmethatnothingwasasin,justapoorlifechoice.Poorimpulsecontrol.Thatnothingisevil.Anyconceptofrightversuswrong,accordingtothem,ismerelyaculturalconstructrelativetoonespecifictimeandplace.Theysaidthatifanythingshouldforceustomodifyourpersonalbehavior it should be our allegiance to a social contract, not some vague,externally imposed threat of flaming punishment. Nothing is wicked, theyinsisted, and even serial killers deserve cable television and counseling,becausemultiplemurderershavesuffered,too.

In the spirit of the classic John Hughes film The Breakfast Club, I’vebeguntowriteanessayinthesamemannerthestudentdetaineesatShermerHigh School were required to write one thousand words on the theme of“WhoDoYouThinkYouAre?”

Yeah,Iknowthewordconstruct.Putyourself inmypenny loafers: I’mlockedinabarredcell inHell, thirteenyearsoldanddoomedtobethirteenforever,butI’mnottotallyself-unaware.

What’s worse is how my mom even said all her Gaia Earth Motherbaloney in Vanity Fair magazine when she was promoting her last movierelease.ThemagazinetookherpicturearrivingattheOscarsredcarpetwithmydaddrivingthembothinadinkyelectriccar,butreally,whennobody’slookingtheygoeverywhereinaleasedGulfstreamjet,evenifit’sjusttopickup their dry cleaning,which they send tohave cleaned inFrance.Thatonefilm,shegotnominatedforplayinganunwhogetsboredandunfulfilled,sosheditcheshervows todoprostitutionandheroinandhavesomeabortionsbefore she gets her own top-rated daytime talk show and marries RichardGere.Atotalofnobodywenttothefilmintheatricalrelease,but thecriticscreamedalloverit.Criticsandmoviereviewersreally,reallycountonthere

beingnoactualHell.MyguessisIfeelaboutTheBreakfastClubthesamewaymymomfeels

aboutVirginiaWoolf.Imean,shehadtotakeXanaxjusttoreadTheHoursandstillcriedforalmostayear.

InVanityFairmymomsaidtheonlytrueevilwashowbigoilcompanieswere using global warming to push innocent baby polar bears closer toextinction. Even worse was she said, “My daughter, Madison, and I havestruggledforyearsoverhertragicchildhoodobesity.”So,yes,Icomprehendthetermpassive-aggressive.

OtherkidswenttoSundayschool.IwenttoEcologyCamp.InFiji.OthergirlslearnedtorecitetheTenCommandments.Ilearnedtoreducemycarbonfootprint. In our Aboriginal Skills workshop, in Fiji, we used certifiedorganically grown, sustainably harvested fair-trade palm fronds to weavethesecrappywalletsthateverybodythrewaway.EcologyCampcostaboutamilliondollars,butwestillallhadtosharethesamefilthybambootoiletsticktowipeourbutts.InsteadofChristmas,wehadEarthDay.IftherewasaHell,mymomsaidyou’dgo there forwearing furcoatsorbuyingacreamrinsetestedonbabyrabbitsbyescapedNaziscientistsinFrance.MydadsaidthatiftherewasadevilitwasAnnCoulter.Ifthere’samortalsin,mymomsaysit’s Styrofoam. Most times they’d spout this environmental dogma whilewalkingaroundnakedwith thecurtainsopenso that Iwouldn’tgrowup tobecomealittleMissWhoreyVanderwhore.

SometimesthedevilwasBigTobacco.Sometimes,Japanesedriftnets.

Evenworse,it’snotasifwetraveledtoEcologyCampaboardsampans,gentlypushedalongbythePacificcurrents.No,everysinglekidgotthereonaseparateprivatejet,burningthroughaboutagazillionfossil-fuelgallonsofdinosaurjuicethelikesofwhichthisplanetwillneverseeagain.Eachchildwasbornealoft;provisionedwithhisorherbodyweightinorganicfigbarsand free-trade yogurt snacks sealed within single-use Mylar packagingdesigned not to biodegrade before the future date of NEVER, all of thisburden of homesick children and between-meal calories and video gamingsystemswouldrockettowardFijiatfasterthanthespeedofSOUND.

Whatafatloadofgoodthatdid…nowlookatme:deadfromamarijuanaoverdose and damned to Hell, scratching my cheeks raw in an attempt toconvincemynext-door-cell neighbor I suffer fromcommunicable psoriasis.Surroundedbyamillion-millionstalepopcornballs.Ontheplusside,inHellyou’reno longer slave to a corporeal self, and this canbeablessing to thetrulyfastidious.Not toput toofineapointonit,butyou’venomoreof thetedious, endless stoking and scrubbing and evacuation of the various holes

requiredtokeepaphysicalbodyfunctional.ShouldyoufindyourselfinHellyourcellwillfeaturenotoiletnorwaternorbed,norwillyoumissthem.NoonesleepsinHellexceptasapossibledefensivepostureinretaliationduringyetanotherpunitivepresentationofTheEnglishPatient.

Nodoubtmymomanddadmeantwell,butit’sreallyhardtoarguewiththefactthatI’mtrappedwithinacorrodedironcageboastingascenicviewofa raging excrement waterfall— actual poop, I mean, not just The EnglishPatient—NOT that I’mcomplaining.Trustme, the last thingHell seems toneed,inacoals-to-Newcastleway,isonemorecomplainer.

Yes, I know the word excrement. I’m trapped and bored, not braindamaged.

And itwasmy parentswho toldme to act out, a little, and experimentwithrecreationaldrugs.

No,it’snotfair,butIguesstheworstthingtheytaughtmewastohope.Ifyoujustplantedtreesandcollectedlitter, theysaid,thenlifewouldturnoutokay.Allyouhadtodowascompostyourwetgarbageandcoveryourhouseroofwithsolarcellsandyou’dhavenothingtoworryabout.Renewablewindenergy.Biodiesel.Whales. That’swhatmy parents considered our spiritualsalvation.We’dseeapproximatelyaquatrillionCatholicsthrowingincenseatsomeplaster statue, or a billion-zillionMuslims all lined up on their kneesand facing New York City, and my dad would say, “Those poor ignorantbastards…”

It’sone thingformyparents tobehaveallsecularhumanistandgamblewith their own eternal souls; however, it’s altogethernot all right that theyalso gambled with mine: They placed their bets with such self-righteousbravado,butI’mtheonewholost.

We’d see Baptist people on television waving baby dolls impaled onwoodensticksanddrippingwithfakeketchupbloodinfrontofsomedoctor’sclinic,andIreallycouldbelievethatallreligionswereway-bat-shitloony.Incontrast, my dad always preached that if I ate enough dietary fiber andrecycled any plastic bottles that had a neck, I’d be fine. If I asked aboutHeavenorHell,mymomgavemeaXanax.

Now—gofigure—I’mwaitingtogetmytongueyankedoutandfriedinbacongreaseandgarlic.Probablydemonsplantostubouttheircigarsinmyarmpits.

Don’t get me wrong. Hell isn’t so dreadful, not compared to EcologyCamp,andespeciallynotcomparedtojuniorhighschool.Callmejaded,butnotmuchcomparestohavingyourlegswaxedorgettingyournavelpiercing

doneatamallkiosk.Orbulimia.NotthatI’matotallyeating-disorderedMissSluttyvonSlutski.

Mybiggestgripe is stillhope. Inhell,hope isa really, reallybadhabit,likesmokingcigarettesorfingernailbiting.

Hopeissomethingreallytoughandtenaciousyouhavetogiveup.It’sanaddictiontobreak.

Yes,Iknowthewordtenacious.I’mthirteenanddisillusionedandalittlelonely,butI’mnotsimpleminded.

NomatterhowhardItrytoresisttheimpulse,IkeephopingI’llstillhavemyfirstmenstruation.IkeephopingI’llgrowreallybigboobs,likeBabetteintheadjacentcell.OrreachahandintomyskortpocketandfindaXanax.Icrossmy fingers that if a demondunksme in a vat of boiling lava I’ll getthrowntogethernakedwithRiverPhoenix,andthathe’llsayI’mcuteandtrytokissme.

Theproblemis,inHellthereisnohope.

WhoDoIThinkIAm?Inathousandwords…Idon’thaveaclue,butI’llstart by abandoning hope. Please helpme, Satan. That wouldmakeme sohappy.Helpmegiveupmyaddictiontohope.Thankyou.

IVAre you there, Satan? It’s me, Madison. I

thought I saw you, today, and waved madly likesome fevered groupie to get your attention. Hellcontinuestounfoldasaninteresting,excitingplace,and I’ve begun to learn some rudimentarydemonology so I won’t feel like an idiot forever.Really,there’salmostnotimetofeelhomesick.

TodayIevenmadefriendswithaboywhohasdreamybrowneyes.

Tobecompletelytechnicalaboutthematter,timeinHelldoesn’tconsistof days and nights, only a constant low-light condition accented by theflickeringorangeglowofflames,billowingwhitecloudsofsteam,andblackcloudsofsmoke.Theseelementscombinetocreateaperpetualrusticaprès-skiatmosphere.

Recognizing that, thankGod Iworea self-windingcalendarwristwatch.Sorry,Satan,mymistake,IsaidtheG-word.

Toallofyoualivepeoplewalkingaround,takingyourmultivitaminsandbusybeingLutheranorgettingcolonoscopies,youneedtoinvestinagood-quality,long-lastingwristwatchwithdayanddatefunctions.Don’tcountongettinganycellphonereceptioninHell,anddon’tthinkforasecondyou’llhave the forethought to die with your charger cord in hand or even findyourself locked inside a rusted jail cell with a compatible electrical outlet.Thatdoesn’tmeangobuyaSwatch.Swatchesequalplastic,andplasticmeltsinHell.Doyourselfabigfavorandinvestinahigh-qualityleatherwristbandorthespringyexpandablemetalkind.

Intheeventyouneglecttoequipyourselfwithanadequatewristwatch,doNOTscopeoutsomebright,proactivethirteen-year-oldchubbygirlwearinglow-heeledBassWeejunsandhorn-rimmedeyeglassesandthenkeepaskingher,“Whatdayisit?”and“Whattimeisit?”Theaforementionedintelligent-albeit-beefy girlwill simply feign looking at herwatch, then tell you, “It’sfivethousandyearssincetheLASTtimeyouaskedmethat….”

Yes,Iknowthewordfeign.Imaybeatadannoyedanddefensive,but—nomatterhownicelyyouaskwiththatwheedlingtoneinyourvoice—IamNOTyourlittletimekeepingservantbitchslave.

And before you make the effort to give up smoking, take note that

smokingcigarettesandcigarsisexcellentpracticeforbeinginHell.AND before you make some snide remark, based on my general

temperament,thatImustbe“ridingthecottonpony”orsufferingfroma“red-letter day,” need I remind you that I am dead, deceased, and renderedeternally pre-pubescent and therefore immune to themindless reproductivebiological imperatives that,nodoubt, shapeevery living,breathingmomentofyourcrummyliving,breathinglife.

Even now I can hear my mom saying, “Madison, you’re dead, so justcalmdown.”

Increasingly,I’mnotsuretowhichIwasmoreaddicted:hopeorXanax.

In the cell next to mine, Babette exhausts her time by examining hercuticles and buffing her fingernails against the strap of her white shoulderbag.Anytimesheglances inmydirection, Imakeabig showof scratchingmyneckandaroundmyeyes.ItneverseemstooccurtoBabettethatwe’redead,soconditionslikepsoriasiswouldbefairlyunlikelytocontinueintotheafterlife; however, when you consider her choice of frosted-white nailvarnish,it’sclearthatBabetteisnoone’sideaofascholarshipgirl.ACoverGirl,maybe.

Catchingmyeye,Babettecallsover,“Whatdayisthis?”

Scratching myself, I callback, “Thursday.” Actually, I don’t allow myfingernails to make contact with my skin; what I execute is an air-guitarequivalentofscratching;otherwise,myfacewouldberawashamburger.ThelastproblemIneedisaninfectioninsuchdirty,filthysurroundings.

Squintingher eyes, peering at her fingernail beds,Babette says, “I loveThursdays….”ShefishesabottleofwhitenailvarnishoutofherfakeCoachbagandsays,“ThursdayfeelslikeFriday,butwithoutthepressuretogetoutand have fun. It’s like Christmas Eve Eve, you know, December twenty-third….”Shakingthelittlebottleofnailvarnish,Babettesays,“Thursdayislikeareally,reallygoodseconddate,whenyoustillthinkthatthesexmightbeokay….”

From another cell, fairly close by, someone begins to scream.Alone intheir cells, other people slump in the classic postures of catatonic stupor,wearingthesoiledcostumesofVenetiandoges,Napoleonicvivandiers,Maoriheadhunters.They’veclearlybeenable toabandonallhopeandclutch theirfilthy cage bars. They’ve flailed and thrashed in complete resignation, andnowliestained,staring,andmotionless.Theluckybastards.

Paintingherfingernails,Babetteasks,“Now…whatdayisit?”

MywristwatchsaysThursday.“It’sFriday,”Ilie.

“Yourskinlooksbettertoday,”Babetteliesinreturn.

Icounterlie,“Yourperfumesmellssogood.”

Babetteparriesmycounterliewith,“Ithinkyourbreastsgrewalittle.”

That’swhenI thinkIseeyou,Satan.A toweringfigurestepsoutof thedarkness,stridingdownalongsideadistantrowofcages.Atleastthreetimesastallasanyhumanbeingcoweringwithinthebars,thefiguredragsaforkedtailwhichgrowsfromthebaseofhisspine.Hisskinsparkleswithfishscales.Great black-leatherwings sprout from between his shoulder blades— realleather,notlikeBabette’sshabby,fakeManoloBlahniks—andthickhornsofboneburstthroughthescalysurfaceofhisbaldpate.

Forgivememypossiblebreachofhellishprotocol,but Ican’t resist theopportunity.Liftingonehand,wavingitabovemyheadasiftoflagapassingtaxi,Ishout,“Hello?MisterSatan?”Ishout,“It’sme,Madison!”

Thehornedfigurestopsbesideacagewhereinamortalmancowersandscreams wearing the frayed, sullied uniform of some football team. Withjaggedeagle talons insteadofhands, thehornedfigure flips the lockon theman’s cage, reaches in, and snatches about in the small space while thescreamingfootballmandodgesandevadesbeingcaught.

Stillwaving,Icall,“Overhere!”Ishout,“Lookoverhere!”Ijustwanttosayhello,tointroducemyself.Thisseemslikethepolitethingtodo.

Finally, one talon clutches the panting, breathless football man andwithdrawshimfromthe ironcage.Thecaptives inall thesurroundingcellsscream, pulling themselves as far away from the action as possible; eachhuddlesandshiversinsomefarcorner,bug-eyedandhyperventilating.Theircombined wails sound hoarse and broken from effort. In the samemanneryou’ddismemberasteamedcrab,thehornedfiguregraspsoneofthefootballman’s legs and twists it around and around, the hip socket popping andtendons snapping, until the leg pulls free from the torso. Repeating theprocess,thefigureremoveseachoftheman’slimbs,liftingeachtohisownmouthofjaggedshark’steethandbitingthemeaty,hypertrophiedfleshfromtheman’sbones.

All the while, I continue to call, “Hello? When you have a moment,MisterSatan…,”uncertainabouttheetiquetteofinterruptingsuchameal.

Afterconsumingeachlimb,thehornedfigurethrowstheremainingbonesbackintothefootballman’soriginalcage.Eventhescreamsaredrownedoutby the wet sounds of sucking and lip smacking and chewing. Then a

thunderousbelch.Whenfinallythefootballmanisreducedtoabonythorax,muchlikethepicked-overcarcassofaThanksgivingturkey,allwhiteribcageandhangingshredsofleftoverskin,onlythendoesthehornedfiguretossthefinalremainsintothecageandoncemorelockthedoor.

AtthislullI’mspasticallyleapinginplace,wavingbotharmsabovemyheadandshouting.Evermindful tonotcomeincontactwithmyowndirty,filthyironbars,Ishout,“Hello?!Madison,here!”Ipickupasoiledpopcornballandlobit,shouting,“I’vebeendyingtomeetyou!”

Already the loose, bloodied bones of the football man are assemblingthemselves, pulling back together to form a human being, once moresheathingthemselveswithmuscleandskin,comingbacktore-createthemanhimself,restoredinordertobetorturedagain,indefinitely,forever.

Hishungerseeminglysatiated,thehornedfigureturnsandbeginswalkingintothedistance.

Indesperation,Iscream.No,it’snotfair;IdidtellyouthattoscreaminHell was to exhibit very bad form. I consider screaming to be a completeimpropriety,butIscream,“MisterSatan!”

Thetowering,tailedfigureisgone.

Fromnextdoor,Babette’svoicesays,“Whatdayisitnow?”

If anything, life in Hell is like a vintage Warner Bros, cartoon wherecharactersareforevergettingdecapitatedbyguillotinesanddismemberedbydynamite explosions, then being completely restored in time for the nextassault.It’sasystemnotwithoutbothitscomfortanditsmonotony.

Avoicesays,“That’snotSatan.”Fromanearbycell,ateenageboycalls,“That was Ahriman, just a demon of the Iranian desert.” The teenage boywearsashort-sleeved,button-downshirttuckedintochinos.Hewearsathicksubmariner’swristwatchwithdeep-waterdiverchronographfunctionsandabuilt-in calculator.Onhis feet, hewears crepe-soledHushPuppies, andhischinosarehemmedso shortyoucanseehiswhite sweat socks.Rollinghiseyes,shakinghishead,theboysays,“Geez,don’tyouknowanythingaboutbasicancientcross-culturaltheologicalanthropology?”

Babette squats down and starts spit-shining her own bad shoes withanotherwadofKleenex.“Shutup,nerd,”shemutters.

“My mistake,” I tell the boy. I point a finger at myself, such a lamegesture—evenin theswelteringheatofHellIcanfeelmyselfblushing—andIsay,“I’mMadison.”

“Iknow,”theboysays.“I’vegotears.”

Just seeing the boy’s brown eyes… the terrible, horrible threat of hopeswellsinsidemytubbyself.

Ahriman, he explains, is nothing more than a deposed deity native toancientPersianculture.HewasthetwinofOhrmazd,bornofthegodZurvantheCreator.Ahriman is responsible for poison, drought, famine, scorpions,mostly stereotypical desert stuff. His own son is named Zohak and hasvenomous snakeswhichgrow from the skin of his shoulders.According tothis teenage boy, the only food these snakes will eat is human brains. Allthis… it’s somuch the gruesome trivia an adolescent boywould bother toknow.Soway-totallyD&D.

Babettebuffsherfingernailsagainstthestrapofherbag,ignoringus.

The teenageboy jerkshishead in thedirectionwhere thehorned figuredisappeared,saying,“UsuallyhehangsoutonthefarsideoftheVomitPond,justwest from theRiver ofHot Saliva, over on the opposite shore of ShitLake….”Theboyshrugsandsays,“Foraghoul,he’sprettyrad.”

Babette’s voice pipes up; interrupting, she says, ‘Ahriman ate me, onetime….”Seeingtheexpressionontheboy’sface,lookingatthetentedfrontofhischinos,Babettesays,“NOTinthatway,yougross,punylittletwerp.”

Yes,Imightbedeadandsufferingfromaworld-classinferioritycomplex,but IcanrecognizeanerectionwhenIseeone.Evenas thestinking,poop-scented air around us swarms with fat, black houseflies, I ask the boy,“What’syourname?”

“Leonard,”hesays.

Iask,“WhatareyoucondemnedtoHellfor?”

“Jerkingoff,”Babettesays.

Leonardsays,“Jaywalking.”

Iask,“DoyoulikeTheBreakfastClub?”Hesays,“What’sthat?”

Iask,“DoyouthinkI’mpretty?”

Theboy,Leonard,hisdreamybrowneyesflitalloverme,alightinglikewaspsonmystubbylegs,mypop-bottleeyeglasses,mycrookednoseandflatchest.Heglances atBabette.He looks atme, again, his eyebrows jumpuptoward his hairline, wrinkling his forehead into long accordion folds. Hesmiles,butshakeshishead,No.

“Justtesting,”Isay,andcovermyownsmilebypretendingtoscratchtheeczemaIdon’thaveonmycheek.

VAreyouthere,Satan?It’sme,Madison.Aftera

somewhat rocky start, I’m having simply the besttime.Icontinuetomeetnewpeople,andI’msorryaboutthemix-up…justimagine:memistakingjustsome regular ordinary, nobody-special demon foryou.I’mlearningsomethingnewandinterestingallthe time from Leonard. On top of that, I’veconcoctedaway-brilliantideaforhowtoovercomemyinsidiousaddictiontohope.

Whocouldimaginethatcross-culturalanthropologicaltheologycouldbeso absolutely fascinating! According to Leonard, who really does have theloveliest brown eyes, all the demons of Hell formerly reigned as gods inpreviouscultures.

No, it’s not fair, but one man’s god is another man’s devil. As eachsubsequentcivilizationbecameadominantpower,amongitsfirstactswastodeposeanddemonizewhoeverthepreviousculturehadworshiped.TheJewsattackedBelial,thegodoftheBabylonians.TheChristiansbanishedPanandLoki andMars, the respective deities of the ancient Greeks and Celts andRomans. The Anglican British banned belief in the Australian aboriginalspiritsknownastheMimi.SatanisdepictedwithclovenhoovesbecausePanhadthem,andhecarriesapitchforkbasedonthetridentcarriedbyNeptune.As each deity was deposed, it was relegated to Hell. For gods so longaccustomedtoreceivingtributeandlovingattention,ofcoursethisstatusshiftputthemintoafoulmood.

And,yegods,IknewthewordrelegatedbeforeitcameoutofLeonard’smouth.Imightbethirteenandanewbietotheunderworld,butdon’ttakemeforanidiot.

“OurfriendAhrimanwasoriginallycastoutofthepantheonbythepre-ZoroastrianIranians,”Leonardsays,shakinghisindexfingerinmydirectionandadding,“butdon’tbetemptedtoperceiveEssenismasaJudaicavatarofMazdaism.”

Shakinghishead,Leonardsays,“NothingrelatedtoNebuchadnezzartheSecondandCyaxaresiseverthatsimple.”

Babettegazesatthecompactsheholdsopeninonehand,retouchinghereye shadowwith a little brush. Looking up from her reflection in the tinymirror,BabettecallstoLeonard,“CouldyoupossiblyBEmoreboring?”

AmongtheearlyCatholics,hesays, theChurchfoundlhatmonotheismcouldn’t replace the long-beloved polytheism now outdated and consideredpagan. Celebrants were too used to petitioning individual deities, so theChurch created the various saints, each a counterpart to an earlier deity,representing love, success, recovery from illness, etc. As battles raged andkingdoms rose and fell the godAryamanwas replaced by Sraosha.Mithrasupplanted Vishnu. Zoroaster made Mithra obsolete, and with eachsucceedinggod,thepriorrulingdeitywascastintoobscurityandcontempt.

“Even the word demon,” Leonard says, “originates with Christiantheologians who misinterpreted ‘daimon’ in the writings of Socrates.Originally the word meant ‘muse’ or ‘inspiration,’ but its most commondefinitionwas‘god.’”Headds that ifcivilization lasts longenoughinto thefuture, one day even Jesus will be skulking around Hades, banished andtickedoff.

“Bullshit!”amanyells.Theyellingeruptsfromthejailcellofthefootballman,wherehisbarebonesfoamwithredcorpuscles,theredbubblesrunningtogethertoformmuscleswhichswellandstretchtoattachwiththeirtendons,the white ligaments braiding, a process both compelling and revolting towatch.Evenbeforealayerofskinhasfullyenvelopedtheskull,themandibledropsopentoshout,“That’sbullshit,geek!”Theflowofnewskinbreakslikea pinkwave to form lips around the teeth, the lips saying, “You just keeptalkingthatway,twerp!That’sexactlywhyyou’restuckhere.”

Without looking up from her own reflection in her compact mirror,Babetteasks,“Whatareyoudownherefor?”

“Offsides,”thefootballmancallsback.

Leonardshouts,“WhyamIhere?”

Iask,“What’s‘offsides’?”

Auburnhair sprouts from the footballman’s scalp.Curly, copperyhair.Grayeyes inflatewithineach socket.Evenhisuniformweaves itselfwholefromthescrapsandthreadsscatteredaroundhiscellfloor.Printedacrosstheback of his jersey is a big number 54 and the name Patterson. Tome, thefootballmansays,“Ihadapartofmyfootoverthescrimmagelinewhentherefblewhiswhistletosignalthestartofplay.That’s‘offsides.’”

Iask,‘Andthat’sintheBible?”Withallhishairandskinreplaced,youcantellthefootballmanisonlya

high schooler. Sixteen, maybe seventeen years old. Even as he talks, littlesilver wires weave themselves between his teeth, becoming a mouthful ofbraces.“Twominutesintothesecondquarter,”hesays,“Iinterceptedapass

andgotsackedbyadefensivetackle—pow!Now,I’mhere.”

Again,Leonardshouts,“ButwhyamIhere?”“Because you don’t believe in the one true God,” says Patterson, the

football player. Now that he’s covered in skin again, his new eyes keepglancingoveratBabette.

She doesn’t look up from her little mirror, but Babette makes faces,pursing her lips and tossing her hair, fluttering her eyelashes, fast. As mymomwouldtellyou,“Nobodystandsthatstraightwhenshe’snotoncamera.”Meaning:Babettelovestheattention.

No, it’s not fair. From within their respective cages, Patterson andLeonard both stare atBabette lockedwithin hers.No one looks atme. If IwantedtobeignoredI’dhavestayedonearthasaghost,watchingmymomanddadwalkaroundnaked,openingthedrapesandchillingroomsasIbullythemtoputonsomeclothes.Even thatAhrimandemonshowingup to tearmeapartanddevourmewouldbebetterthangettingnoattentionwhatsoever.

Thereitis,again—thatnaggingtendencytohope.Myaddiction.

While Patterson andLeonard ogleBabette, andBabette ogles herself, Ipretendtowatchthevampirebatsflitaround.Iwatchthesurfcrestandbreakin rollingbrownwavesonShitLake. I pretend to scratch themake-believepsoriasisonmyface.Intheneighboringcages,sinnershuddle,weepingoutofoldhabit.AdamnedsouldressedintheuniformofaNazisoldiersmasheshisface,againandagain,intothestonefloorofhiscell,crushingandcollapsinghisnoseandforeheadasifheweretappingahard-boiledeggagainstaplateinorder toshatter theshell. In thepausebetweeneach impacton thestone,his crushednoseand features inflate to theirnormal appearance. In anothercell,a teenagekidwearsablack leatherbiker jacket,anoversizesafetypinpiercinghischeek,hisheadshavedexceptforastripeofhair,dyedblueandgelledtostandinaspikyMohawkwhichrunsfromhisforeheadtothenapeofhisneck.AsIwatch, theleather-jacketpunkreachesuptohischeekandflicks open the safety pin.He draws it out from the holes in his skin, thenreachesthroughthebarsofhiscageandpokesthepointoftheopenpinintothelockofhiscelldoor,workingthepointaroundwithinthekeyhole.

Still gazing at herself in her compactmirror,Babette asks of no one inparticular,“Whatdayisit?”

Leonard’sarmcrooks,instantly,andhelooksathisdiver’schronographwatch,saying,“It’sThursday.Three-oh-ninep.m.”Abeatlater,hesays,“No,wait…nowit’sthreeten.”

In themiddle distance, a loominggiantwith the headof a lion, shaggy

withblackfur,withcatclawsinsteadofhands,reachesintoacageandplucksoutawailing, flailingsinner,danglinghimbyhishair. In thesamemanneryou might nibble grapes from a bunch, the demon’s lips close around theman’s leg. The demon’s furry lion cheeks sink inward, hollowed, and theman’sscreamsgrowlouderasthemeatissuckedfromthelivingbone.Withonelegreducedtohangingbone,thedemonbeginstosuckthemeatfromthesecondleg.

Despite all of this ruckus, Leonard and Patterson continue to watchBabette,whowatchesherself.TheIceAgeofDumbness.

Withamutedclank,thepunkwearingtheleatherjacketpriesthetipofhissafety pin, twisting it sidewayswithin the lock on his cell door to trip themechanism.Hepullsthepinfree,thenwipesitagainsthisbluejeansuntilthepointiscleanofrustandslimebeforethrustingitbackintoitspreviousplace,piercinghischeek.Atthatthepunkswingsthecelldooropenandstepsoutofhis cage. His Mohawk stands so tall the blue hair brushes the top of thedoorframe.

Swaggeringdowntherowofcells,theblue-MohawkpunkpeersintoeachcageInsideoneliesanEgyptianpharaohorsomebodywhowenttoHellforprayingtothewronggod,crumpledonthefloor,gibberinganddrooling,onearm sprawled so that thehand rests near the cagebars.A fat diamond ringglitters on one finger, the stone in the four-carat range,D-grade, not cubiczirconium like Babette’s cheapo earrings. Next to that cage, the punk kidstopsandstoops.Reachingthroughthebars,heslipstheringoffthewastedfinger. The kid pockets the diamond ring inside his motorcycle jacket.Standing,hecatchesmewatchinghimandsaunterstowardmycell.

Hewears blackmotorcycle boots—note: an excellent footwear choiceforHades— theankleofonebootwrappedwithabicyclechain,hisotheranklewrappedwith a knotted, soiled red bandanna. Pimples swell into redpointsdottinghispalechinandforehead,incontrasttohisbrightgreeneyes.AstheMohawkpunkstrutscloser,onehandslipsintohisjacketpocketandscoopsoutsomething.Fromalongtossaway,stillwalking,hesays,“Catch,”and his hand swings, tossing the object, which flashes in a long, high arc,flying between my cage bars, falling to the point where my hands claptogethertocatchit.

ActingthepartofacompleteMissSluttySlutovitch,Babettecontinuestoignore Patterson and Leonard but holds her compact angled to spy on thepunkkid,scrutinizinghimsocloselythatwhenthethrownobjectflashes,thebrightflashbouncesoffhermirror,reflectedintohereyes.

“What’sanicegirllikeyou,”theMohawkkidasksme,“doinginaplace

like this?”Whenhe talks the safety pin in his cheek jerks around, flashingorangeinthefirelight.Hestrutsuptothebarsofmycellandwinksonegreeneyeatme,but looksatBabettewithout lookingdirectlyather.He’sclearlytouched the dirty iron bars, then touched his face, his jeans, his boots,smearingthefilthalloverhimself.

No, it’s not fair, but dirt doesmanage tomake some people lookmoresexy.

“MynameisMadison,”Itellhim,“andI’mahope-aholic.”

Yes,Iknowthewordtool.Imaybedeadandjailbaitandboy-crazy,butIcanstillbeusedtomakeanothergirljealous.Warmfromthepunk’spocket,lyinginthepalmofmyhandisthestolendiamondring.Myfirstgiftfromaboy.

Drawing theoversize safetypin fromhis cheek, theMohawkkidpokesthesharppointintomykeyholeandbeginstopickthelock.

VIAre you there, Satan? It’s me, Madison. I

assumethatmembershipinHellgivesyouaccesstoazillion-millionA-listcelebrities….AbouttheonlypersonI’mnotexcitedtomeetismydeadgrandpa.My long-deadPapadaddyBen.LongStory.Pleasecredit the impulse to my youthful curiosity, but Ican’tresisttheopportunitytogetsprungandtakeaquick look-see ramble to check out the lay of mynewneighborhood.

Spareme, please, your dime-store psychology, but I really do hope thedevilwill likeme.Note,again,my lingeringattachment to theH-word.Mybeinghere,lockedinaslimycage,itwouldseemaforegoneconclusionthatGodisn’tmybiggestfan,andmyparents,itnowappears,arelargelyoutofthe picture, as are my favorite teachers, nutrition coaches, really all theauthorityfiguresI’vetriedtopleaseforthepastthirteenyears.Thereforeit’snot surprising that I’ve transferred allmy immatureneeds for attention andaffectiontotheonlyparentaladultavailable:Satan.

Theretheybothare: theH-wordandtheG-word,proofofmytenaciousaddictiontoallthingsupbeatandoptimistic.Tobehonest,allmyeffortthusfar to remain spotless, mindmy posture, present myself as perky, affect acheerful smile, is calculated to endear myself to Satan. In my best-casescenario I see myself assuming a kind of sidekick or comic-relief role,becomingaperky,chubby,sassygirlchildwhotagsalongwiththePrinceofLies,crackingwise-assjokesandproppinguphisflaggingego.SoingrainedismyspunkynaturethatIcan’tevenallowthePrinceofDarknesstoindulgeinthedoldrums.Itrulyamasortofflesh-and-bloodformofZoloft.Perhapsthat explainsSatan’sgeneral absence:He’s simplywaiting formyverve toexhaustitselfbeforehemakeshimselfknown.

Yes, I understand thatmuch about pop psychology. Imay be dead andvivacious,but I’mnot indenialconcerning themanic first impressionIcanmake.

Evenmyowndadwouldtellyou,“She’sadervish.”Meaning:I tendtowearpeopleout.

It’sforthatreasonthatwhentheblue-Mohawkpunkunlocksmycelldoorandswingsitopenoncreaky,rustedhingesIstepbackdeeperintothecageratherthanforwardtogainmyfreedom.Despitethediamondringthepunk’s

just tossedme,whichnowresideson themiddle fingerofmy righthand, Iresistmywanderlust.Iaskthekidhisname.

“Me?” he says, stabbing the oversize safety pin through his cheek. Hesays,“JustcallmeArcher.”

Stilllingeringinmycell,Iask,“Whatareyouinfor?”

“Me?” the kid, Archer, says. “I went and got my old man’s AK-47semi….”Droppingtooneknee,heshouldersaninvisiblerifle,saying,“AndIblewawaymyoldmanandoldlady.Islaughteredmykidbrotherandsister.After them, my granny. Then our collie dog, Lassie…” Punctuating eachsentence, Archer pulls an invisible trigger, sighting down the barrel of hisphantomrifle.Witheachtriggerpull,hisshoulderjerksbackasifpushedbyrecoil, his tall blue hair fluttering. Still sighting through an invisible scope,Archersays,“IflushedmyRitalindownthetoiletanddrovemyfolks’cartoschoolandtookoutthevarsityfootballteamandthreeteachers…allofthem,dead, dead, dead.” As he stands, he brings the bore of the imaginary riflebarreltohismouth,purseshislips,andblowsawayinvisiblegunsmoke.

“Bullshit,”shoutsavoice,Patterson,thefootballplayer,fullyrestoredtoateenage boy with red hair and gray eyes and the large number 54 on hisjersey.Inonehand,hecarriesahelmet.Hisfeetscratchthestonefloor, thesolesofhisshoestappingandskitteringwithsharpsteelcleats.“That’stotalbullshit,”Patersonsays,shakinghishead.“Isawyourpaperworkwhenyoufirstgothere.Itsaidyou’renothingbutalousyshoplifter.”

Leonard,thegeek,laughs.

Archer snatches a rock-hard popcorn ball off the ground and wings it,line-drivefast,againstthegeek’sear.

Explodedpopcornandthepensfromhispocketflyeverywhere.Leonardfallssilent.

“Get this,”Pattersonsays. ‘According tohis fileMr.SerialKiller,here,wastryingtostealaloafofbreadandabatchofdisposablediapers.”

AtthisBabettelooksupfromhermirrorandsays,“Diapers?”

Archer strides over to the bars of Patterson’s cell, thrusting his chinbetween the bars; snarling through clenched teeth, Archer says, “Shut up,jockstrap!”

Babettesays,“Youhaveababy?”

Turningtowardher,Archershouts,“Shutup!”

“Get back into your cell,” Leonard shouts, “before you get us all in

trouble.”

“What?”Archershouts.Heswaggersover,atthesametimeextractingthesafety pin from his cheek, then begins to pick the lock of Leonard’s cagedoor. “Youafraid thiswill goonyourpermanentrecord, twerp?”Trippingthe lock, Archer says, “You afraid you might not get into an Ivy Leaguecollege?”Onthatnoteheswingsthebarreddooropen.

Grabbingthedoor,yankingitshut,Leonardsays,“Don’t.”Unlocked,thedoorwon’tstayshutandswingsopen.Holdingitclosed,Leonardsays,“Lockit,quick,beforesomedemoncomesalong….”

Already,Archer’sbluehead isswaggeringover toBabette’scell;pin inhand,he’s saying,“Hey, sweet thang, Iknowascenic spotoverlooking thewest edge of the Sea of Insects that will take your breath away,” and hebeginspickingherlock.

Leonardcontinuestopullonthebarsofhiscelldoor,holdingitshut.

Mydoorhangsopen.Iclosemyhandintoafistaroundmynewdiamondring.

Pattersonshouts,“Youloser,youcouldn’tfindyourwayacrosstothefarsideofShitLake.”

As he swings open Babette’s door, Archer shouts, “Then join us,jockstrap.Showme.”

Dropping her cosmetics back into her fake Coach bag, Babette says,“Yeah…ifyou’rebraveenough.”Pointlessly,shepinchesheralreadyshortskirt and lifts thehemas if toprevent it fromdragging.Beinga totalMissHarlottyO’Harlot,herlegsshowingalmosttoherpanty-hosecrotch,Babettesteps throughheropendoor,pickingherwaydelicately inher fakeManuloBlauhniks.

Leonardstoopstocollecthisscatteredpens.Hebrushesthebitsofstickypopcornfromhishair.

Archer swaggersover toPatterson’scell.Holding the safetypinoutsidethebars,beyondPatterson’sreach.Baitinghim,Archersays,“Youupforalittlefieldtrip?”

To get Leonard’s attention I tell him my theory about behaviormodificationtherapiesversusplain,old-fashionedexorcisms.Hownowadaysif any of my friends, my alive girlfriends, sat in their bedrooms all daythrowingup, thediagnosiswouldbebulimia.Ratherthanengageapriest toconfrontthegirlaboutherbehavior,expressloveandconcern,andevicttheoccupyingdemon,contemporary familiesengageabehavioral therapist. It’s

weird to think that as recentlyas the1970s religious leaderswere throwingholywateronadolescentgirlswitheatingdisorders.

Myhopereallydoesspringeternal;but,darnit,Leonardisn’tlistening.

Bynow,ArcherhassprungPatterson.Babette joins themandthe trio isalreadystrollingtowardthefieryhorizonamidscreamsandswarmsofblackhouseflies. Patterson offers his hand to steady Babette on her high heels.Archersneers,butitmightjustbethepinlancedthroughhischeek.

Even as I continue to talk, expounding on my theory about Xanaxaddictionbeingcausedbydemonicpossession,Leonardofthelovelybrowneyes throwsopenhiscelldoorandboltsafter thevanishinghikers.My lastonly new friend in Hell, Leonard’s scrambling over the terrain of agedGummiBears and smoldering coal.His head swiveling, on the lookout forpossibledemons,he’scalling,“Wait!

Waitup!”RushingafterthefadingbluepointofArcher’sMohawkhair.

Whenallfourofthemarealmostgone,reducedbydistancetomererule-breakingdotsinthelandscapeofbubblingpoopanddiscardedJujubes,onlythendo Iopenmyowncell door and takemy first forbiddenBassWeejunstepsintheirpursuit.

VIIAreyouthere,Satan?It’sme,Madison.Likeso

many tourists, we’ve embarked on our littlewalkabout to explore Hell. We take note of thegeneral topography. We view a few interestinglandmarks. And I’m prompted to make a smallconfession.

Thegroupofusskirtedaroundthemarginoftheflaky,greasyDandruffDesert,wherescorchingwindsashotasabillionhairdryersblowthescabsofdead skin into drifts as tall as theMatterhorn.We traipsed past the GreatPlains of Broken Glass. After a fair trek, we stood on a bluff of volcaniccinders overlooking a vast pale ocean which stretched to the horizon. Nowaveorrippledisturbeditsopalescentsurface:ashadeofsoiledivorysimilartothescuffedfauxleatherofBabette’scounterfeitManoloBlahnikshoes.

Evenaswewatch,theviscoustidecomposedofthisoff-whiteoozeseemstoriseandconsumeafinger’swidthof theashy,cinderybeach.So thick isthecorrupt liquid that it appearsmore to rollup the shoreline than towashashore as this flood tide creeps in.Apparently, on thisparticularocean, thetideneverebbsandisalwaysflowing,alwaysarisingfloodtide.

“Checkitout,”Archersays,andwavesoneleather-jacketedarminawidearctoframetheview.“Ladiesandgentlemen,mayIpresenttheGreatOceanofWastedSperm….”

All ejaculate, according to Archer, expelled in masturbatory emissionsoverthecourseofhumanhistory,atleastsinceOnan—italltricklesdowntoaccumulatehere.Likewise,heexplains,allbloodshedonEarthtricklesdownand collects in Hell. All tears. Every spit gob spit on the ground ends uphereabouts.

“SincetheintroductionofVHStapesandtheInternet,”Archersays,“thisoceanhasbeenrisingatrecordrates.”

IthinkofmyPapadaddyBenandshudder.Torepeat,LongStory.

InHell,porniscreatinganeffectequivalenttothatofglobalwarmingonearth.

Thegroupofustakeastepbackward,awayfromtherising,shimmeringooze.

“Nowthatthistwerpisdead,”Pattersonsays,ashecuffsLeonardonthe

backofthehead,“maybetheol’spermseawon’tbefillingupsofast.”Leonard rubs his own scalp, wincing, and says, “Don’t look now,

Patterson,butIthinkIcanseesomeofyourballjuicefloatingoutthere.”

Looking at Babette, Archer licks his tongue around his lips and says,“Oneofthesedayswe’regoingtobeuptooureyeballs….”

Babettelooksatthediamondringonmyfinger.

Archer,stilloglingher,says,“Hey,Babs,youeverbeenuptoyourfoxyeyesinhotsperm?”

Andpivotingononescuffedheel,Babettesays,“Backoff,SidVicious.I’m not yourNancy Spungen.”Waving for us to follow her, fluttering herwhite-paintedfingernails,BabettelooksatPattersoninhisfootballjerseyandsays,“It’syourturn.Nowyoushowussomeplaceinteresting.”

Pattersonswallows,shrugshisshoulders,andsays,“YouguyswanttoseetheSwampofPartial-birthAbortions?”

We,therestofus,allshakeourheads,No.Slowly.Inunison,foralongtime,no,no,no.Definitelynot.

AsBabettestridesawayfromtheOceanofWastedSperm,Pattersontrotstocatchupwithher.Thepairofthemlinkarms,walkingtogether.Theteamcaptainand theheadcheerleader.Therestofus,LeonardandArcherandI,followafewstepsbehind.

Tobehonest,Ikeepwishingwecouldalltalk.Chewthefat.And,yes,Iknow thatwishing is another symptom of hope, but I can’t help it. Asweamblealong,trudgingoversteamingbrimstonebedsofsulfurandcoal,Iwanttoaskifanyoneelsefeelsanintensesenseofshame.Bydying,dotheyfeelasifthey’vedisappointedeveryonewhoeverbotheredtolovethem?Afteralltheeffortthatsomanypeoplemadetoraisethem,tofeedandteachthem,doArcher or Leonard or Babette feel a crushing sense of having failed theirlovedones?Do theyworry thatdyingconstitutes thebiggest sin theycouldpossiblycommit?Havetheyconsideredthepossibilitythat,bydying,eachofus has generated pain and sorrow which our survivors must suffer for theremainderoftheirlives?

Indying—worsethanflunkingagradeinschool,orgettingarrested,orknockingupsomepromdate—perhapswe’vemajorly, irreversiblyfuckedup.

Butnobodybringsupthesubject,soIdon’teither.

Ifyouaskedmymom,she’dtellyouthatI’vealwaysbeenalittlecoward.Asmymomwouldsay,“Madison,you’redead…now,stopbeingsoneedy.”

Probablyeveryoneintheworldlookslikeacowardwhencomparedtomymomanddad.Myparentswerealwaysleasingajettoflyround-triptoZaireand bring home an adopted brother or sister for Christmas— not that wecelebratedChristmas—butthesamewaymyfriendsmightfindapuppyorkitten under their holiday tree, I’d find a new sibling from some obscure,postcolonial, living-nightmareplace.Myparentsmeantwell,buttheroadtoHell ispavedwithpublicitystunts.Anyadoptionoccurredwithinthemediacycleofmymom’sfilmreleasesormydad’sIPOs,announcedwithagale-force flurryof press releases andphotoops.Following themediablitz,mynew adopted brother or sister would be warehoused in an appropriateboardingschool,nolongerstarving,nowofferedaneducationandabrighterfuture,butneveragainpresentatourdinnertable.

Walking along, now backtracking across the Great Plains of BrokenGlass, Leonard explains how ancient Greeks conceived of the afterlife asHades,aplacewhereboththecorruptandtheinnocentwenttoforgetthesinsand egos left over from their lives on earth. Jews believed inSheol,whichtranslated as “the place of waiting,” again, where all souls collected,regardless of their crimes and virtues, to rest and find peace throughdiscardingtheirpasttransgressionsandattachmentsonearth.KindofHellasgoing todetoxor rehab insteadofHellasburningpunishment.Formostofhuman history, Leonard says, people have perceived of Hell as a sort ofinpatientclinicwherewegotokickouraddictiontolife.

Without breaking stride, Leonard says, “John Scotus Eriugena wroteduringtheninthcenturythatHelliswhereyourowndesirestakeyou,stealingyouawayfromGodandtheoriginalplansGodhadforfulfillingyoursoul’sperfection.”

Isaymaybeweshouldswingbythatswampof terminatedpregnancies.There’sagoodpossibilitythatImightrunintoalong-lostsiblingortwo.

Yes, I may be flip and glib, but I know what constitutes a healthypsychologicaldefensemechanism.

Droningonwhilewewalk,LeonardlecturesaboutthepowerstructureofHades.Hedescribeshowmidwaythroughthefifteenthcentury,anAustrianJew named Alphonsus de Spina converted to Christianity, becoming aFranciscanmonk, thenabishop,andfinallycompilinga listof thedemonicentitieswhopopulateHell.Hisnumbersranintothemillions.

“Ifyouseeanyonewithagoat’shornedhead,awoman’sbreasts,andtheblack wings of a huge raven,” Leonard says, “that would be the demonBaphomet.”Counting in theair,wavingan index finger in themannerof aconductorcueing thesectionsofanorchestra,Leonardsays,“Youhave the

Hebrew Shedim, the Greek demon kings Abaddon and Apollyon. Abigorcommands sixty legions of devils. Alocer commands thirty-six legions.Furfur,aroyalcountofHell,commandstwenty-sixlegions….”

Justastheearthisruledbyahierarchyofleaders,Leonardsays,sotooisHell. Most theologians, including Alphonsus de Spina, describe Hell ashaving tenordersofdemons.Among those are66princes, eachoverseeing6,666 legions, and each legion comprises 6,666 demons. Among them isValafar, the grand duke of Hell; Rimmon, the chief physician of Hell;Ukobach, the leading engineer of Hell, and reputed to have inventedfireworks and presented them as a gift tomankind. Leonard rattles off thenames:Zaebos,whoboaststheheadofacrocodileonhisshoulders…Kobal,thepatrondemonofhumancomedians…Succorbenoth,thedemonofhate….

Leonardsays,“It’slikeDungeonsandDragons,onlytothetenthpower.”He says, “Seriously, the biggest brains of the Middle Ages devoted theirentirelivestothistypeoftheologicalbeancountingandnumbercrunching.”

Shakingmyhead,IsaythatIwishmyparentshad.

Periodicallyalongourjourney,Leonardstopstopointoutafigureinthedistance.One, flying across the orange sky, flappingpalewings ofmeltingdrippingwax,thisisTroian,thenightdemonofRussianculture.Flyingalongadifferenttrajectory,peeringdownwiththewideheadandluminouseyesofanowl,thisisTlacatecolototl,theMexicangodofevil.Wrappedincyclonewindsofrainanddust,thereareJapaneseOnidemons,whotraditionallyliveatthecenterofhurricanes.

WhattheHumanGenomeProjectwouldrepresentforfutureresearchers,Leonard explains, this great inventory represented for previous centuries ofworldleaders.

According to thebishopdeSpina, a thirdofHeaven s angelswere castintoHell,andthisdivinedownsizing,thiscelestialhousecleaning,tookninefulldays—twodayslongerthanittookGodtocreatetheEarth.Inall,atotalof 133,306,668 angels — including much-revered former cherubim,potentates, seraphim, and dominations — were forcibly relocated, amongthemAsbeelandGaap,OzaandMarutandUrakabarameel.

Ahead of us, where shewalks arm in armwith Patterson, Babette cutsloosewith apealof laughter, loudand shrillmidas fakeasher counterfeitshoes.

Archerglaresattheirbacks,thebigsafetypinbunchedinthemusclesofhisclenchedjaw.

Leonardname-dropsaboutthedifferentdemonswhomwemightstumble

across: Baal, Beelzebub, Belial, Liberace, Diabolos, Mara, Pazuzu — anAssyrianwith a bat’s head and scorpion’s tail—Lamashtu—aSumerianshe-devilwho suckles a pigwith one breast and a dogwith the other—orNamtaru—theMesopotamianversionofourmoderngrimreaper.WelookforSatanwiththesameintensitythatmymomanddadlookedforGod.

In retrospect my parents were always pushing me to expand myconsciousnessbyhuffingglueorgasolineorchewingpeyotebuttons.Simplybecausethey’ddonetheir time,wastedtheir teenyearslollinginthemuddyfieldsofVermontandthesaltflatsofNevada,nakedexceptforrainbowfacepaints and a thick coating of sweaty filth, their heads festooned with fiftypounds of fetid dreadlocks, teeming with crab lice and pretending to findenlightenment…thatdoesNOTmeanIhavetomakethatsamemistake.

Sorry,Satan,onceagainI’vesaidtheG-word.

Withoutbreakingstride,Leonardnodsandpoints to indicate the formerdeitiesofnow-defunctcultures,nowwarehousedintheunderworld.Amongthem:Benoth, a god of theBabylonians;Dagon, an idol of the Philistines;Astarte,goddessoftheSidonians;Tartak,thegodoftheHevites.

My suspicion is that my parents treasure their sordid recollections ofepisodesatWoodstockandBurningMannotbecause thosepastimes led towisdom,butbecausesuchfollywas inseparablefromaperiodof their liveswhen they were young and unburdened by obligation; they had free time,muscle tone, and their futures still looked like a great, grand adventure.Furthermore, bothmymother and father had been free of social status andtherefore had nothing to lose by cavorting nude, their swollen genitalssmearedwithmuck.

Thus,becausetheyhadingesteddrugsandflirtedwithbraindamage,theyinsistedIshoulddolikewise.Iwasforeveropeningmyboxedlunchatschoolto discover a cheese sandwich, a carton of apple juice, carrot sticks, and afive-hundred-milligram Percocet. Tucked within my Christmas stocking—notthatwecelebratedChristmas—wouldbethreeoranges,asugarmouse,aharmonica,andquaaludes.InmyEasterbasket—notthatwecalledtheeventEaster—insteadofjellybeans,I’dfindlumpsofhashish.WouldthatIcouldforget the scene at my twelfth birthday party where I flailed at a piñata,wieldingabroomstickinfrontofmypeersandtheirrespectiveformer-hippie,former-Rasta, former-anarchist throwbackparents.Themoment thecolorfulpapier-mâché burst, instead ofTootsieRolls orHershey’sKisses, everyonepresent was showered with Vicodins, Darvons, Percodans, amyl nitrateampoules, LSD stamps, and assorted barbiturates. The now-wealthy, now-middle-agedparentswereecstatic,whilemylittlefriendsandIcouldn’thelpbutfeelatadbitcheated.

That, and it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to understand that very fewtwelve-year-oldswouldactuallyenjoyattendingaclothing-optionalbirthdayparty.

Some of the most gruesome images in Hell seem downright laughablewhen compared to seeing an entire generation of adults stripped nude andwrestling on the floor, grasping and panting in frantic competition for ascatteredhandfulofcodeinespansules.

ThesewerethesamepeoplewhoworriedthatImightgrowuptobecomeaMissNymphyNymphoheimer.

At present, Archer, Leonard, and I trail after Babette and Patterson,navigating a switchback route through hummocks of discarded toe- andfingernail parings, between sloughing gray hillocks heapedwith every thincrescentofnailevertrimmed.Somenailfragmentsarepaintedpinkorredorblue.Aswetreadalongthenarrowcanyons,thinrivuletsofloosefingernailstrickle down. Trickling toenails threaten to become full-fledged avalancheswhichcouldburyusalive(alive?)intheirtalusofpricklykeratin.Overheadarchestheflamingorangesky,anddownbranchingcanyons,dwarfedinthedistance we can glimpse communities of cages where our fellow doomedsoulssitinpermanentsoileddesolation.

As we meander, Leonard continues to recite the names of demons wemight encounter: Mevet, the Judaic demon of death; Lilith, who stealschildren; Reshev, the plague demon;Azazel, demon of deserts;Astaroth…RobertMapplethorpe…Lucifer…Behemoth….

Aheadofus,PattersonandBabettestrollupagentleslope,toppingarisewhichblockstheviewbeyond.Reachingthecrest,thetwoofthemstop.EvenfrombehindwecanseeBabette’sbodystiffen.Inreactiontowhatshenowsees in the distance, both her hands comeup to cover her face, her fingerscupped over her eyes. Babette bends slightly from the waist, bracing herhandsagainstherthighs,andturnsawayfromtheview,stretchingherneckasifabouttoretch.Pattersonturnstoseeus,jerkinghisheadforustohurryandcatchup.Towitnesssomenewatrocityjustoverthisnexthorizon.

Archer and Leonard and I trudge along, mounting the slope of nailparings,softundereachlaboredstep,likesnoworloosesand,climbinguntilwestandalongsidePattersonandBabette,attheedgeofasteepcliff.Halfastep ahead of us, the land drops away, and below us boils a sea of insectswhichstretchestothehorizon…beetles,centipedes,fireants,earwigs,wasps,spiders, grubs, locusts, and what-all churning constantly, a shifting softquicksandcomposedofpincers,feelers,segmentedlegs,stingers,shells,andteeth, darkly iridescent, largely black but speckledwith hornet yellows and

brightgrasshoppergreens.Theirconstantclickingandrustlinggeneratesadinnotunlikethecrashingsurfofabrinyoceanonearth.

“Cool,huh?”saysPatterson,wavinghisfootballhelmetinonehandasifto direct our attention over thismorass of seething, undulating horrors.Hesays,“Checkitout…theSeaofInsects.”

Gazing down into the surging swells and rolling troughs of clamoringbugs,Leonardsneersinrighteousdisgust,saying,“Spidersarenotinsects.”

Not to belabor the point, but counterfeit luxury goods truly represent afalseeconomy.Towitness,Babette’splasticshoeslooktobefallingapart,thestrapsseveredandthesoleslooseandflapping—subjectingherlithefeettofingernailandbusted-glassabrasions—whilemyownsturdyBassWeejunloafersbarelyappeartobebrokeninbyourlengthyunderworldtrek.

As we gaze out across the vast squirming, humming pudding of insectlife,ascreamapproachesusfrombehind.There,sprintingbetweenthehillsofnail parings, panting and running, comes abearded figuredressed in thetoga of a Roman senator. Craning his neck to glance backward Over hisshoulder, the man races toward us, screaming the word Psezpolnica.Screaming,“Psezpolnica!”

At the cliff’s edge, teeteringnearwherewe stand, the lunatic togamanpoints a quaking finger in the direction he’s come.Beseeching uswith hiswide-open eyes, he screams, Psezpolnica!” and dives, plummeting, flailing,fallingtovanishbeneaththeseethingsurfaceofbuglife.Once, twice, threetimes the toga man comes up for air; his mouth is choked with beetles.Crickets and spiders sting and strip t he flesh from his twitching arms.Earwigs swarm, eating deep into his eye sockets, and millipedes weavethroughragged,bloodyholesnibbledbetweenhisnow-exposedribbones.

Aswewatch inhorror,wonderingwhatcoulddriveaperson tosuchanextremecourseofaction…Babette,Patterson,Leonard,Archer,andI…weturninunisontoseealumbering,toweringfigureapproach.

VIIIAreyouthere,Satan?It’sme,Madison.Itmight

amuse you to hear we were beset by a demon ofthrilling size. This precipitated the most amazingactofheroismandself-sacrifice—really,fromtheleastlikelypersonamongourcompany.InadditionI’ve includedmore ofmy own background, in theevent you’re interested in learningmoreaboutmeasaninteresting,fullyfacetedoverweightperson.

AsourlittlegroupstandsatoptheridgeoverlookingtheSeaofInsects,aloomingfigurestompstowardus.Eachofitsthunderingfootfallstremblesthesurrounding hillocks, bringing down dusty cascades of ancient finger-andtoenail clippings, and the figure stands so tall thatwe can discern only thesilhouetteofitasoutlinedagainsttheflamingorangesky.Soviolentlydoesthegiant’sweightshake thegroundthat thecliffonwhichwestandheavesand shimmers beneath us, the loose nail parings threatening to subside anddepositusintotheseething,devouringbugs.

It’s Leonard who speaks first, whispering only the single word,“Psezpolnica.”

Inourimmediatedistress,Babetteappearstobefartooself-absorbed,thepoorqualityofherfashionaccessoriestooblatantametaphor—impossibleto ignore — representing her choice of surface appeal over inner quality.Patterson,theathlete,seemsfrozeninhisconventional,traditionalattitudes,aperson for whom the rules of the universe were fixed very early and willalwaysremainunchanged.Incontrast,therebelliousArcherpresentshimselfas a knee-jerk rejection of… everything. Of my newfound companionsLeonard shows themost promise of evolving into somethingmore than anacquaintance.And,yes,oncemoreIrecognizepromiseasasymptomofmynagging,deeplyingrainedtendencytohope.

Prompted by this hope, made manifest by my instinct for self-preservation, when Patterson very slowly fits his foot-hall helmet over hishead and says, “Run,”my stout legs don’t hesitate.AsArcher andBabetteandPattersoneachfleeontheirowntangent,IrunbesideLeonard.

“Psezpolnica,”hepants,legsworkingagainstthesoft,malleablelayersofnails, his bent arms pumping the air for momentum, Leonard says, “TheSerbians call her ‘the tornado woman of midday.”’ Gasping for breath,running besideme, his shirt pocketful of pens bouncing against his skinny

chest,Leonardsays,“Herspecialtyisdrivingpeopleinsane,loppingofftheirheadsandrippingthemlimbfromlimb…”’

Inaglance,Ilookbacktoseeawomanwhotowersastallasatornado,herfacesodistantitseemstinyagainstthesky,asstraight-upandhighabovemeasthesunatnoon.Likeaflaringfunnelcloud,herlongblackhairwhipsandstreamsoutfromherhead,andshehesitatesasifdecidingwhichofustopursue.

Beyond the giantess, Babette staggers, both of her cheesy, way-shoddyshoesflappingaroundherfeet,hobblingandtrippingher.Pattersonhuncheshis shoulders,dodgingandweaving,hiscleats throwingupa rooster tailofnail filings as if he were running a football through some defensive line,headedforatouchdown.Archerripsoffhisleatherjacketandtossesitaside,sprintingfull-tilt,thechainsloopedaroundhisonebootclanking.

The tornado demon crouches, reaching lower with a hand, the fingersspread as wide as a parachute, steadily lowering toward the stumbling,screamingfigureofBabette.

Granted, there exists an element of play in all of this panic; havingwitnessedthedemonAhrimanrenderandconsumePatterson,andPatterson’ssubsequentregeneration toaredheaded,gray-eyedfootballer,onsomelevelI’maware thatmyabsolutedeath isnolongerpossible.Allof thatsaid, theprocess of beingplucked apart anddevoured still seems like itwould stinglikeallget-out.

As the towering tornado demon reaches to snatch a screamingBabette,Leonardshoutsforhertodive.Cuppingbothhishandstomakeamegaphonearoundhismouth,Leonardshouts,“Diveanddig!”

Sothatyoumightlearnfrommyignorance,it’satried-and-truestrategywhen escaping danger inHell to dig into the nearest available terrain.Helloffers scant cover, no flora to speak of — except for the inexplicableaccumulationsofBeemansgum,Walnettos,SugarDaddys,andpopcornballs— thus theonly consistent, readymanner inwhich to concealoneself is totunneluntilcompletelyburied,inthiscasebythevastaccumulationofcastofffingernailshards.

Distastefulasthismightsound,forthispieceofadvice,youoweme.

Not that you’re ever actually going to die.Perish the thought.Notwithyourhoursandhoursinvestedinaerobicexercise.

Ontheotherhand,ifyoudofindyourselfdeadandinHell,menacedbyPsezpolnica,doasLeonardwouldrecommend:Diveanddig.

My hands burrow into a hillside of loose, cascading parings, and withevery inch I dig a steady landslide of the same avalanches downuponme,pricklyand itchy,abrasivebutnotentirelyunpleasant,until I’mcompletelyinterred,Leonardinterredatmyside.

Aboutmyowndeath,mydeath-death,Irememberverylittle.Mymotherwaslaunchingafeaturefilm,andmyfatherhadgainedacontrollinginterestin something— Brazil, I think — so of course they’d brought home anadopted child from… someplace awful.My brother du jour, his namewasGoran.Heofthebrutish,hoodedeyesandbeetlingbrow,anorphansourcedfromsomewar-torn, former-socialisthamlet,Goranhadbeenstarvedof theearlyphysicalcontactandimprintingrequiredforahumanbeingtodevelopany sense of empathy. With his reptilian gaze and broad pit-bull jaw, hearrived forever and always as damaged goods, but this only added to hisappeal. Unlike any of my previous siblings, now apportioned to variousboardingschoolsandlongforgotten,IfoundmyselfquitesmittenwithGoran.

Forhispart,Goranhadmerely to casthis churlish, ravenouseyesuponmy parents’ wealth and lifestyle, and he was determined to curry myacceptance. Add to those factors one overly large baggy of marijuanasuppliedbymydad,plusmyimpulsetofinallysmokethenastyherb,ifonlyto bond with Goran, and that’s the sum total I’m able to recall about thecircumstancesofmyfataloverdose.

Currently, lying fully buried in a grave of fingernails, I listen to myheartbeat.Ihearmybreathrushinginmynostrils.Yes,withoutadoubt,it’shope thatmakesmyheartcontinue tobeat,my lungs tobreathe.Oldhabitsdie hard. Above me, the ground heaves and shifts with every step of thetornado demon. The parings trickle into my ears, stifling any sound ofBabette’s screams. Stifling the clicking din from the Sea of Insects. I lieburied here, counting my heartbeats, resisting an urge to dig one handsidewaysinsearchofLeonard’shand.

Inthenextinstantmyarmsarepinnedtomysides.Thefingernailspressin close, tightly around me, and I’m lifted into the stinking sulfurous air,risingintotheflamingorangesky.

Thefingersofahugehandareclaspedaroundmeastightasastraitjacket.Thisgianthandhasbeenthrustintotheloosesoilandhaspluckedmethewayonemightpullacarrotorradishfromitsburiedslumber.

Yegods, Imightbe theprivileged,wealthy, insulatedscionofcelebrityparents, but I still knowwhere babies and carrots come from… although IwasneverentirelycertainwhereGoranoriginated.

Soaringintotheair,Icansurveyitall:theSeaofInsects,theGreatPlains

ofBrokenGlass,theGreatOceanofWastedSperm,anendlessarrayofcagescontaining the damned. Below me spreads the whole geography of Hell,includingdemonswanderinghitherandyontogobblehaplessvictims.Atthehighestpointofmyascent,acanyonofwetteethawait.Awindofrank,wetbreath buffetsmewith a stinkworse than the communal toilets atEcologyClamp.Thereheavesamonstroustonguecarpetedwithtastebudsthesizeofredmushrooms.Allofthisringedbylipsasfatasgreasedtractortires.

Thehandbringsmetothemouth,wheremyarmsstretchtobraceagainsttheupper lip.Myfeetpushagainst the lower lip,and likeafishboneIholdmyself toowide and rigid to be swallowed. Undermy hands, the lips feelsurprisingly plush, leathery like a banquette in a good restaurant, but verywarm.Like touching theupholsteryofa Jaguar someone’s justdriven fromParistoRennes.

So vast is the demon’s face that all I can see is the mouth. In myperipheralvision,I’mvaguelyawareofeyesaboveme,broadandglassyasdepartment store windows, except curved outward, bulging. Those eyes,fencedby theblackpickets of huge eyelashes. I’mconsciousof a nose thesizeofamudhutwithtwoopendoorways,eachdoorhungwithacurtainoffinenostrilhairs.

The hand pushesme against the teeth. The tongue thrusts tomakewetcontactwiththebuttonedfrontofmycardigansweater.

InthemomentIamresignedtomyimmediatefate,tobemasticatedandswallowed,mybonescastasideliketheskeletonofeveryCornishgamehenI’veevereaten,atthatinstantthemouthscreams.Whatoccursseemslesslikeascreamthananair-raidsirenblastingpoint-blankintomyface.Myhair,mycheeksandclothing,theseareallblownandrippling,snappinglikeaflaginahurricane.

OneofmyBassWeejunsslipsfrommyfoot,falling,tumbling,droppingtolandonthegroundbesideatinyfiguresportingaboldblueMohawk.Evenatthisdistance,Icanseeit’sArcherstandingbesidethegiant’ssizablebarefoot. Having removed the oversize safety pin from his cheek, Archer isplunging thepoint, repeatedlyremoving itandplunging it,againandagain,intothearchofthedemon’sfoot.

In themeleewhichensues, I feelmyselfhalfdropped,halfheaved,halflowereduntilIlandinthesoft,scratchyfingernails.Thesamemomentasmyimpact, hands grasp me, human hands, Leonard’s hands, and pull me toshelter beneath the slurry of nail parings… but not before I see the sameparachutehandwhichcaughtmenowcatchArcherand lifthim—cursing,kickinghisboots,slashingwithhispin—towheretheteethsnapshut,andin

asinglebiteguillotineoffhisvividbluehead.

IXAreyouthere,Satan?It’sme,Madison.Before

I tell you the following you must promise, crossyour heart and hope to die, that youwon’t EVERshare this secret with another person. I mean it.You see, I’mwell aware that you’re thePrince ofLies, hut I need you to swear. You’ll have toguarantee your confidentiality if we’re to have arelationshipofanysignificantdepthandhonesty.

Lastwinter, ifyoumustknow, I foundmyself aloneatboarding schoolduringtheholidaybreak.ItgoeswithoutsayingthatI’mrecountinganeventfrommypastlife.Christmasoccurredtomyparentsasjustanotherordinaryday, and the rest ofmyclassmateswere leaving for ski vacationsorGreekislands, so, formypart, therewasnothing todoexceptputonagamefaceand assure them, girl by girl, that my own family would be along at anymoment to collect me. That final day of autumn term, the residence hallemptied out. The dining hall shut down.As did the lecture halls. Even thefaculty departed the campus with their packed bags, leaving me in almostcompletesolitude.

I say “almost” because a night watchman, possibly a team of them,continued to prowl the school grounds, checking locked doors and turningdownthermostats,theirflashlightbeamsoccasionallysweepingthelandscapeatnightlikesearchlightsinanoldprisonmovie.

Amonthprevious,myparentshadadoptedGoran,heofthehauntedeyesandheavyCountDraculaaccent.Althoughhewasonlyoneyearolder thanme, Goran’s forehead was already etched with wrinkles. His cheeks,hollowed.HiseyebrowsgrewaswildandtangledastheforestedslopesoftheCarpathianMountains,somattedandbristlingthatifyoulookedtoocloselyamong the hairs you’d expect to see marauding packs of wolves, ruinedcastles, and stoopedGypsywomen gathering firewood. Even at the age offourteen,Goran’s eyes, his voice pitched deep as a foghorn, it all gave theimpressionthathe’dwitnessedhisentireextendedfamilytorturedtodeathasslavelaborinthesaltminesofsomeremotegulag,bloodhoundsbayingafterthemacrossicefloes,andleatherwhipscrackingattheirbacks.

Ah… Goran. No Heathcliff nor Rhett Butler was ever so swarthy norrudely fashioned. He seemed to exist in his own permanent isolation,insulatedby some terriblehistoryofhardshipanddeprivation, and I envied

himthat.Ididso,solongtobetortured.NexttoGoran,evenadultmensoundedsillyandchattyandinsignificant.

Evenmyfather.Especiallymyfather.

Lyinginbed,aloneinaSwissresidencehallbuilttohousethreehundredgirls,intemperaturesbarelywarmenoughtopreventthepipesfromfreezing,IpicturedGoran, thewayblueveinsbranchedunder the transparentskinofhistemples.Howhishairgrewsothickitwouldn’tcombdown,thestand-upkindofhairyou’dcultivatewhilestudyingMarxistphilosophyovertinycupsof bitter espresso in smoke-filled coffeehouses, awaiting your perfectopportunitytolobaburningdynamitestickintotheopentouringcarofsomeAustrianarchdukeandigniteaworldwar.

My mom and dad were doubtless introducing poor Goran to theassembledmedia outlets represented at Park City, Utah; or Cannes; or theVeniceFilmFestival,while IwashidingoutbeneathsixblanketssurvivingonhoardedFigNewtonsandVichywater—avecgaz.

No, it’s not fair, but I was clearly getting the better part of thearrangement.

My family assumed I was aboard a yacht, among giggling friends.MymomanddadassumedIhadfriends.Theschoolassumedmetobewithmyparents and Goran. For two glorious weeks all I had to do was read theBrontes,evadetheoccasionalsecurityguards,andwanderabout—naked.

Inallmy thirteenyears I’dneverevenslept in thenude.Ofcourse,myparentsparadedunclothedconstantly,exposingthemselvesaroundthehouseandon themoreexclusivebeachesof theFrenchRivieraand theMaldives,but Iperennially felt too flat in someplaces, too fat in some, too skinny inothers, simultaneously gawky and plump, too old and too young. It wasclearlyinviolationoftheschool’srulesofdeportment,butaloneonenight,Ipulledoffmynightgownandslippedintobed,naked.

Mymother hadnever hesitated to suggest I attend this or thatweekendretreat focusing on genital awareness and mastering control of one’s ownpleasure centers, the usual assortment of celebrity mothers and daughtersidling in a remote grotto, squatting over handmirrors andmarveling at theinfinite pink moods of the cervix, but their sort of workshopped…empowermentseemedsoclinical.Itwasn’tafrank,honestworkshoppingofmy sexuality that I wanted. It was Goran I wanted, someone ruddy andmoody. Pirates and tightly laced bodices. Masked highwaymen andkidnappedwenches.

ThesecondnightIsleptalone,Iawokeneedingtopee.Thetoiletswere

downthehall,sharedbyallthegirlsoneachfloor,butIwasalmostcertainlyaloneintheresidencebuilding.So,despitethesacrosanctrules,Ipeeredoutofmyroom,nakedandbarefooted,checkingthedarkhallwayforapatrollingguard.Iranthecoldstepstothebathroomanddidmybusiness,allinthedimmoonlightfilteringthroughthewindows,mybreathsteaminginthecoldair.The third night, I visited the bathroom, again naked, but strolled en route,taking a detour on my return trip to visit the first-floor lounge and situnclothedonthechillyleathersofaswhichfacedtheblankdarkmirrorofthetelevisionscreen.Mynudereflectionintheglass,wanasapudgyghost.

Ah,thoseglorydayswhenIstillhadanearthlyreflection…

Really,Satan,please.Youhavetoswearthatyouwon’tbreatheawordofthis.

BymyfifthnightaloneI’dventurednakedtothechemistrylab,satnakedinmyusualdeskintheRomanceLanguagesclassroom,andstoodnakedonthedaisat theheadofthedininghall,wheretheseniorfacultynormallysatfortheirmeals.

And,yes,whileIadmittobeingdeadandhavingapoorbodyimageandasuppressed sense ofmy own personal value, I amwell aware ofmy risky,late-night exhibitionism and yen for Goran as symptoms of my buddingsexuality.Thenightairagainstmyskin…allofmyskinandnipples,andthetexture of so many ordinary objects: wooden desks, stairway carpets, tiledhallways—withouttheusualinterveninglayersofsilkornylon—itallfeltglorious.Around any corner seemed to lurk apossibleguard, some strangeman wearing a uniform, his boots polished. I imagined each guard with apolishedbadge,wearingagunstrappedtohisbelt.Most likely, itwouldbesomebody’s Swiss father or grandfather with a mustache, but I picturedGoran. Goran, carrying handcuffs. Goran, his brooding eyes behind darktotalitariansunglasses.Atanymoment,thebeamofaflashlightmightrevealme, the parts of myself I had always kept hidden. I’d be reported andexpelled.Everyonewouldfindout.

InmynuderamblingsIlingeredamongtheleather-smellingstacksinthelibrary,perusingthebooksasIwalkedbarefootoverthechillmarblefloors.Iswamunclothed in thepool complex.Withonly themoonlight to seeby, Isneakedintothestainless-steelkitchensandsatcross-leggedontheconcretefloor,eatingchocolateicecreamuntilmybodyshookwiththeaccumulatedcold.As litheasananimal…asprite…asavage…Istrode into thechapelandpresentedmyfleshyself tothealtar.There, thepaintingsandstatuesofthe Virgin Mary were always so heavily robed and veiled, crowned andburdened with jewelry. Depictions of the Christ seldomwore more than athornyhaloandaway-tinyloincloth.Sittingonthefrontpew,Ifeltthegentle

suctionofmybarethighsagainstthepolishedwood.

Bymysecondweekalone,Iwassleepingthroughthedaysandwanderingsansapparelallnight.I’dbeennakedinalmosteveryroom,wanderedallthehallways and steam tunnels, entered every space with an unlocked door;however, I had yet to venture outside. Beyond the windows, snow fell,layering over everything and bouncing the moonlight inside. Now, thebuildingsthemselvesfeltliketoomuchclothing.AtthispointIsleptnaked.Iwalkedandateandreadnakedsooften that the thrillhadevaporated.Evenwhile reading Forever Amber with my tits out… I’d lost that specialforbiddenfeeling.Theonlywaytorenewitwouldbetogoout-of-doorsandstandunclothedunder thestarsormaskedinthefallingsnowflakes, leavingmybarefootprintsinthedrifts.

Other girls I know, they shoplifted to generate this same prepubescenthigh.Othergirlstoldliesorcutthemselveswithrazors.

No,it’snotfair,butoneminuteyoucanbewadingthroughcleansnow,yourfeetsinkingankle-deepintotheperfectwastelandsofsnowdriftswhichsurroundaprivategirls’schoolnearLocarno,andmeredayslateryoucanbesloggingthroughthemorassofcountlessdiscardedfingernailclippings,castforeverintofieryHell.

That Christmas breakwhich I spent alone, as I first stepped out of theresidence hall, entering the snowy night, my skin felt the touch of everysnowflake.The cold airmademyhair standup from the roots thewaymynipples stood erect, every follicle on my arms and legs becoming a tinyclitoris, and every cell ofme awake and alert at rigid attention.Walking, Iheld my arms straight out in front of myself, mimicking the way ancientEgyptianmummieswalkwhen rising from their stony tombs in old horrorfilms. My hands turned palms-down, my fingers dangled the wayFrankenstein’s monster shambles when brought to life in black-and-whiteUniversalmovies.Thiswasmyfallbackexcuse:thatIwassleepwalking.Myparasomniacdefense.SoIwalked,stepbystep,fartherintothefallingsnow,intothedarknessascoldaschocolateicecream,myarmsoutstretchedinthemanner of sleepwalking cartoon characters, only naked. Pelted with icecrystals and pretending to be asleep, but more awake than I had ever felt.Everyhairandcellofmealert,aching,afraid.Alive.

Allofmefeltthethrillofbeingtouchedatthatsameinstant.Yousee,Iwanted to be discovered. I wanted to be seen at the very height of myprepubescent power, my tits-out, bare-fanny, legally off-limits kiddie-pornLolitapower.

Ifaguardfoundme,I’dmerelypretendtobeashamed.BythenIhada

long history of feeling mortified and embarrassed. Reverting back to suchfeelingswouldbelikesecondnature.Asaguardapproachedandgrabbedmywrist,orthrewablanketovermyshoulderstoprotectmychildhoodmodesty,I’dsimplypretendhystericsandinsistIhadnoideawhereIwasorhowI’dcometobethere.I’drejectall responsibilityformyownactions…playtheinnocentvictim.Over thepast twoweeksof solitude, somethingwithinmehadchanged,butIcouldstillfakebeingshockedandfragileanddemure.

No,thisisnothowIcametodie.AsI’vementionedbeforeIdiedfromsmokinganoverdoseofmarijuana.Ididnotfreezetodeath.

Nordidalustful,gropingsecurityguardcatchme.Darnit.

Arms extended like a somnambulist, I marched around the schoolgrounds,collectingsnowflakesinmyhairuntilmyfeetfeltquitenumb.Then,fearingfrostbiteandpermanentdisfigurement,Isprintedbacktothedoorofmy residence hall.As I grasped the steel handlewithmy damp hands,myfingersandpalmsfrozetothemetal.Ipulled,butthedoorshadautomaticallylockedthemomentthey’dfirstswungshut,leavingmenaked,myhandsfixed—frozen—tothehandlesofadoorwhichwouldn’topen,unabletorunforhelp,unabletoreturntomysafebed,thedeadlynightpilinguparoundme,icecrystalbyicecrystal.

And, yes, I might be a dreamy, romantic, preadolescent girl, but I canrecognizeametaphorwhenonebattersmeover thehead:ayoungbuddinglass perched frozen on the threshold between sheltering girlhood and thefrigidwastelandofher impendingsexualmaturation,onlyasacrificial layerofhertender,virginalskinholdinghercaptive,blah,blah,blah….

And no, the children of wealthy families, consigned to Swiss boardingschools,arenothingifnotwily.Itwascommonknowledgeamongmypeersandmyself that a crafty student some years before had stolen a key to theresidence hall, amaster key, and secreted said key beneath a specific rocknear thehall’smaindoor. In theeventawanton littleMissSluttySlutpantssneakedawayforaclandestinetrystortosmokeacigaretteandfoundherselflockedout,ratherthanfacereprimandshehadmerelytousethiskeyheldincommon for such sinful emergencies and later return it to the usual hidingplace.Asconvenientasthissharedkeywas,undertherockonlyafewstepsaway,withmybarehandsfrozentothedoorhandlesIhadnomeanstoreachit.

My mom would tell you, “This is one of those Hamlet moments.”Meaning:Youneedtomakeasignificantefforttodeterminewhetheryou’retobeornottobe.

If I scream and yell until a night watchman arrives, I’ll be mortified,

humiliated,butalive.AndifIfreezetodeathI’llsavemydignity,butbe…well, dead. Probably I’ll be a figure of pathos and mystery for futuregenerationsofgirlsat this school.My legacywillbea stringentnewsetofrulesaboutaccountingforeverygirl.Mylegacywillbeaghoststorywhichgirlsmyagewilltelltoscareeachotherafterlights-out.MaybeI’lllingerasanaked spirit they glimpse in mirrors, outside windows, at the far end ofmoonlitcorridors.Thosefutureprivilegedurchinswillsummonmyghostbyrepeating: “MaddySpencer…MaddySpencer…,” three timeswhile gazingintoamirror.

Again,that’saformofpower,albeitafairlyimpotentformofpower.

And,yes,Iknowtheworddisassociation.AsmuchasIfancythatspookygothicimmortality,Istartscreamingfora

guard. Shouting, “Help!” Shouting, “Au sec-ours!” Shouting, “Bitte, helfensie mir!” The falling rush of snow hushes every sound, dampening theacousticsoftheentiremidnightworld,blockinganyechothatmightcarrymyvoiceveryfarintothedark.

Bythistimemyhandswerethehandsofastranger.Icouldseemybare,bluefeet,buttheybelongedtosomeoneelse.AsblueasGoran’sveins.Inaglasspaneofthedoor,Icouldseemyownfacereflected,myimageframedbythefrostofmybreathcondensingandfreezingonthesmallwindow.Yes,weallappearsomewhatabsurdandmysterious toeachother,but thatgirl Isawwasnoonetome.

Her pain was not my pain. Here was Catherine Earnshaw’s dead facehauntingthewintrywindowsofWutheringHeights,blah,blah,blah….

That waifish me, reflected in moonlight or streetlight, I watched herpulling her fingers away from the steel handles, her skin peeling away stillclingingtothemetal,leavingthewhorlsandpalmprintslikepatternsoffrost.Abandoningthewrinkledroadmapofherlifeline,herlovelineandheartline,Iwatched thisstrangegirl,her facegrimandresolute,walkon frozensticklegstoretrievethekeyandsavemylife.ThisgirlIdidn’tknow,shepulledopentheheavydoor,herhandsstickingoncemore,tearingawayyetanotherthin layer of this stranger’s fragile skin. Her hands, so frozen they didn’tbleed.Themetalkeyfrozebetweenherfingerssoresolutelyshewasforcedtocarryittobed.

Only inbed, smotheredbetweenblankets,drifting to sleep,didher skinthawandthegirl’shandsbegantobleedquietlyintoherclean,starchedwhitesheets.

XAreyouthere,Satan?It’sme,Madison.Please

doNOTget the idea that I’m someMiss TrollopyVan Trollop. It’s true that I’ve read the KamaSutra,hutwhyanyonewouldbothertoattemptsuchrevolting gymnastics remains largely amystery tome. In regard to sex, mine is a kind of completeintellectual understanding with no real aestheticappreciation whatsoever. Forgive my uneducateddistaste.WhileIknowwhatorganstimulateswhat,the bizarre, sordid business of phallus and orificeinteraction,theexchangeofchromosomesrequiredfor procreation of the species, I have yet to grasptheappeal.Meaning:yuck.

It is no accident that I segue from a scene in which my group isconfrontedbyatoweringnudegiantesstoaflashbackinwhichI,myself,amundressed and exploring bothmy interior and exterior environswithout theusualprotectivelayersofclothingorshame.Intheenormous,exposedfigureof Psezpolnica, no doubt I feel an affinity, perhaps an admiration for anyfemalewhocanpresentherselfwithsuchapparentlackofself-consciousness,seeminglyincompletedisregardforhowshemightbejudgedandexploitedbyheraudience.HavingmasqueradedoneHalloweenasSimonedeBeauvoir,IguessI’llalwaysbeabitdeBeauvoir.

ThesatireofJonathanSwiftremainsastapleofEnglish-speakingprimaryeducation—includingmyown—butit’susuallylimitedtothefirstvolumeofGulliver’sTravels;or, inverydaringandprogressiveclassrooms,strictlyas an illustrative example of irony, studentsmight also readSwift’s classicessay“AModestProposal.”FewteacherswouldriskintroducingthesecondvolumeofLemuelGulliver’smemoirs,hismisadventuresintheislandnationofBrobdingnag,whereloominggiantscaptureandmakeofhimahouseholdpet. No, it’s far safer to present children, those powerless, diminutivechildren,withanarrativeinwhichagiantistakenprisonerandmanipulatedunderthecontrolof tinybeingswhosesolereasonfornotmurderinghimistheirfearthathisgargantuancorpsemightdecomposeandthreatentheoverallpublichealth.

It remains unknown to themajority of children that in the kingdom ofBrobdingnag,inthesecondvolume,Swift’spicaresquetraveloguedoesgetatadbittawdryanddicey.

These are the salacious tidbits one learns when bothering to do thesupplemental reading for extra credit. Especiallywhile spending Christmasvacation naked, alone in an otherwise empty residence hall. In the secondvolume of Swift’s masterpiece, once the giant residents of BrobdingnagcaptureGulliver, he’s presented at their royal court and ismade a kind ofmascot, forced to live in thequeen’sapartments, invery intimateproximityamong the very gigantic ladies-in-waiting. It’s these ladies who pleasurethemselvesbyremovingtheirclothingandlyingtogether,sharingabedwhileour hero is compelled to journey the peaks and valleys of theirway-nakedbodies.Writingintheguiseofhisnarrator,Swiftdescribesthesewomen—the most-lovely female aristocrats of their society, who would appear socharmingandappealingfromadistance—asinfactconstitutingaswampy,reeking Gehenna in actual up-close physical contact. Our minuscule herostumbles about their spongy, damp flesh, encountering monstrous pubicthickets of hairs, inflamed blemishes, vast cavernous scars, pits, knee-deepwrinkles, stretches of dead flaking skin, and shallow puddles of fetidperspiration.

Andyes, it’sdulynotedthatsucha landscapedepictedbySwiftbearsamarkedresemblancetotheactualterrainofHell.Thisspreadinglandscapeofnoblewomenrecline in theirafternoon languor,expecting, reallydemandingthat this teeny shrunken man bring them to pleasure. All the while, hestumblesandreelsindisbeliefandutterdisgustofthem.Overwhelmedwithsicknessandhorror,exhausted,ourenslavedGulliverisforcedtolaboruntilthegiantwomenare satisfied. In all ofEnglish literature, fewpassages canmatch this one of Swift’s for its descriptive bluntness and unwelcome,masculinecrudity.

Mymotherwouldtellyouthatmen—boys,men,malesingeneral—aretoostupid, tooeasilyfoundout,andtoolazytoeversucceedas trulygiftedliars.

Yes,Imightbedeadandratherimperiousandsteadfastlyopinionated,butIknowthebluntstinkofmisogynywhenIsmellit.Andthatit’sverylikelyJonathanSwiftfoundhimselfthevictimofchildhoodsexualabuse,andwasnowventinghisrageinthepassive-aggressiveavenueoffantasyfiction.

Inhisownunhelpfulway,my fatherwould tell you, “Awomeneats tofeedherpussy”Meaning:Anythingwedo toexcess is incompensation fornotgettingaminimumamountofsexualgratification.

Mymotherwouldsaythatmenoverimbibealcoholbecausetheirpenisesarethirsty.

Really,beingtheoffspringofformer-hippie,former-Rasta,former-punk,

former-anarchist parents means that I’m bombarded by no end of earthytruisms.

Andno, I’venever enjoyedanorgasmofmyown,but I have readTheBridgesofMadisonCountyandTheColorPurple, and if I learnednothingelsefromAliceWalkerI learnedthat ifyoucanhelpawomandiscoverthecurative power of manipulating her own clitoris she’ll serve as your loyaldevoteeandbestfriendforever.

That said, I standbefore theSerbiandemon, the toweringnude tornadowomanknownasPsezpolnica.

First,Ishuckoffmyremainingpennyloaferandplaceitatasafedistancefromthegiant.Ipulloffmyschoolcardigan,foldit,andsettleitneatlyontopof the shoe.Unbuttoning the cuffs ofmy blouse, I roll the sleeves back toeach elbow, all the while gazing up the length of the giant’s hairy legs,looking skyward to see her shins, the knees, the muscled naked thighs,craningmynecktoseetheBrobdingnagianmonspubisbeyond.

A shrill whistle splits the air, a whistle as loud as a fire siren. On theground,restingnearmystockingfeet,Archer’sseveredheadlooksupatme,thelipsstillpursed.“Hey,littlegirl,”theseveredheadsays,“whateveryou’replanning,don’tdoit….”

Reaching down, I grab Archer by the long hairs of his blue Mohawk.Carrying theheadas Iwouldapurse, I stepuponto thearchof thegiant’sfoot.

Danglingfrommyhand,Archersays,“Gettingeatenhurtslikehell.”Hesays,“Youdon’thavetodothis…”

Transferringthebluehairtomyteeth,Ibitedown,grippingtheMohawkasapiratewouldaknifeas saidpirateclimbs the riggingofa ship. In thatmanner,IclimbthecopiousleghairsofthegiantdemonPsezpolnica,scalingthefleshyridgeofhershin.LikeGulliver,Inavigatethewrinkledskinofthedemon’sknees, thencontinuegrasping thecoarsebodyhair,pullingmyselfever higher along the giant’s thighs. Glancing at the distant ground, I seeBabetteandPattersonandLeonard,allofthemwiththeirheadstippedback,watchingmyascensionwiththeirmouthsgapingopen.Lookingaround,fromthisheightIcanseethedistantmother-of-pearlshimmerofthespermocean,the steam rising offHot Saliva Lake, the perennial dark cloud of bats thathoveraboveBloodRiver.

Swinging from his blue hair, gripped between my clenched teeth,Archer’sheadsays,“You’recrazy,littlegirl,youknowthat?”

Still climbing, I skirt my way around the wrinkled folds of the labia

majora, hauling myself, like Jonathan Swift’s worse nightmare, throughpungentthicketsofcurling,densepubichair.

Above me hangs the foreboding cornice of two enormous breasts.BetweenthemIcandiscernachin,abovethatarollingpairofchewinglips,and one blue-jeaned leg of Archer’s, still shod with a motorcycle boot,danglingoutacornerofthegiant’smouth.

Even though my knowledge is largely theoretical, based on years ofwitnessing naked family friends on French beaches, I do know my wayaround the adult femalegenitalia.Clinging to the abundanceof lushhair, Ilocatetheclitoralhoodanddeftlymanipulatetheshelteringskin,thrustingmyarmwithin tofind theretractedorganofsuchfabledwomanlypleasure.Onthis scale,merely brailled blindlywithin thewarm enclosure of the clitoralhood,itfeelstoberoughlythesizeandshapeofaVirginiaham.

TheseveredheadofArcherwatchesmyactions.Lickinghislips,Archersays, “Littlegirl,youare sick.…”Smiling, he says, “Thebitchmonster atemeso,hey,theleastIcoulddoisreturnthefavor.”

Retrievingmy forearm from thewarmdepthsof the fleshyhood, I takethehankofbluehairfrommymouth.HoldingtheheadsothatIgazedirectlyinto Archer’s green eyes, I say, “Take a deep breath, and make yourselfuseful,”andIstuffthegrinning,salivatingheaddeepintothehoodeddepths.

For a beat, not much occurs. Above me the vast mouth continues tomasticatethecudofArcher’sbody,hisbluejeansandboots.Frombelow,thetrio of Babette, Patterson, and Leonard stare, slack-jawed. Something stirs,moaning and slurping like a ravenous beast,movingwithin the skin of theclitoral hood. Then gradually, the giant’s lips cease to chew. The giant’sbreathingdeepensandslows.Awarmpinkglowsuffusestheacresandacresofskin,agreatlandscapeofblushcoveringthegiant’sface,chest,andthighs.A shudder, tremulous as an earthquake, shakes the towering body, and I’mcompelledtogripthepubichairsmoretightlylestIplummettothefingernailfieldsfarbelow.

Piratesandmaskedhighwaymenandkidnappedwenches.The giant’s knees begin to tremble, to weaken and buckle a little. The

labiabecomemorepronouncedandhighlycolored,floodedwithfreshbloodflow.

At this point, I reach into the fleshy hood,where the hardening clitoristhreatens to ejectArcher’s slathering, slurping noggin.Grasping the hiddenhead,Ipullitfree.

In the open air, slick with the juices of female passion and drooling

wildly, Archer gasps a huge breath. His eyes dilated and crossed withpleasure,heshouts.Hislipswebbedwiththenoxiousfluidsinherentinadultsexualcongress,Archershouts,“IAMTHELIZARDKING…!”

Atthat,Istuffhisheadbacktodohiddenoralbattlewiththestiffening,engorgedclitoraltissues.

The giant looks down upon me, her eyes also glazed with orgasmicecstasy.Her head lolling loosely on her neck.Her nipples jut, the size andhardnessofsidewalkfirehydrants,thesamebrightredcolor.

In the blue-jeaned leg which remains dangling from betweenPsezpolnica’s lips, the severed leg of Archer, clearly outlined within onedenimpantlegappearsthesizablebulgeofamaleerection.

Lookingup,Imeetthegiant’sloose,sloppygrinwithmyowncheerful,competent smile. With one hand gripping the pubic hair to maintain myposition, my other hand holds Archer’s head within the confines of theslippery clitoral hood. That’s the hand I risk waving in a friendly gesturewhileIshout,“Hello,mynameisMadison.”Ishout,“Nowthatwe’vemet…wouldyoumindverymuchdoingmejustthesmallestfavor?”

It’satthatmomentthehoodretracts,thefullyerectclitorispoppingfreetomakeitsappearance,ejectingArcher’seageradvancessoquicklythathisslimy,deliriousheadplummets, trailed likeavividbluecometbyabrokenstreamofspittleorvaginalmucosa,tumbling,falling,rocketingtolandwithahushedsplashamidtheloosefingernailsfarbelow.

XIAre you there, Satan? It’sme,Madison.Don’t

take the following as a scolding. Please regardwhat I’m about to say as strictly constructivefeedback.Ontheplusside,you’vebeenrunningoneof the largest, most successful enterprises in thehistoryof…well,history.You’vemanagedtogrowyour market share despite overwhelmingcompetition from a direct, omnipotent competitor.You’re synonymous with torment and suffering.Nevertheless,ifImaybebluntlyhonest,yourlevelofcustomerserviceskillsreallysuck.

Mymomwouldalwayssay,“Youcantrust-Madisontotellyouanythingabout herself— except the truth.” Meaning: Don’t expect me to instantlydisassembleandleaveyousimplyawashinrevelationsconcerningmydeep,personal self. Go ahead and chalk up this reticence to some deep, secretshame on my part, but that’s not the case. I may not have been educatedbeyondtheseventhgrade,maybeinsufferablynaiveandlacksolidworkplaceexperience, but I’m not so desperate for attention that I feel compelled tosharemymostintimate,innerblah,blah,blah.

AllyouneedtoknowisthatI’veseenbeyondtheveil.I’mdead,andinmyownadmittedlylimitedlifeexperience,I’dwagerthatthebestpeopleare.Dead,Imean.Although,I’mnotsureifanythingsincemyoverdosecountsas“lifeexperience.”

I’mdead,andI’mriding in thecuppedpalmofa toweringgiant femaledemonasshestridesacrossthehellishlandscape, justburningupthemiles.Accompanying me are my newfound compatriots: Leonard, Patterson,Archer, and Babette. The brain, the jock, the rebel, and the prom queen.Ergonomically speaking, traveling nested within an enormous hand isinfinitely comfortable, combining the contour of a SingaporeAir first-classseat with the gently rolling feel of a drawing room berth on the OrientExpress.Fromthisheight,comparabletothecattleleveloftheEiffelToweror the topof theLondonEye,wepassvarious landmarks.Andnot a smallnumberofcondemnedA-listcelebrities.

The football jock, Patterson, points out the most important locales: theSteaming Dog Pile Mountains… the Swamp of Rancid Perspiration… ameadow of what could be heather but is actually a luxuriant growth of

uncheckedtoenailfungus.Riding along, Leonard explains that Psezpolnica stands exactly three

hundred cubits tall. Our hostess-slash-SUV is the offspring of angels whogazeddownfromHeavenandfellmadlyinlustwithmortalwomen.Allthishistory,Leonardsays,comesdownfromnolessasourcethanSaintThomasAquinas,whowrote in the thirteenth century that these angels appeared onearthasincubi—theserevved-up,way-hornydivinesuperbeings.TheangelsdidtheHotNastyThingwithmortalwomen,andgiantssuchasPsezpolnicawereconceived.ThehornyangelsthemselveswerecastintoHelltobecomedemons.Before you question the bullshittyway this scenario sounds, SaintThomas Aquinas is nowhere to be found in Hades, so he must’ve gottensomethingcorrect.

Likewise,whenearthlymenlustedafterangelsinthecitiesofSodomandGomorrah,Leonardsays,Godgavethemagoodthrashing.Thefullpillar-of-salttreatment.

No,it’snotfair,butitwouldseemthattheonlyimmortalbeingallowedtoindulgeinadalliancewithmortalsisGodHimself.

SorryabouthowIkeepusingtheG-word.Iguessoldhabitsdodiehard.

“Keep itup,”Pattersonsays.HecuffsLeonardon thebackof thehead,adding,“Youfuckingheretic!”

“Suchlanguage,”Babettesays.“Whydon’tyou just takeadumpinmyears!”

Riding along, Archer waves down at a couple demons. Shouting at ahulking blondmanwith deer antlers sprouting from his head,Archer says,“Yo!Cernunnos,myman!”

Whisperingtome,LeonardexplainsthatthisisthedethronedCelticgodofstags.HesaysourChristiandevilisdepictedwithhornsasasnidedigatCernunnos.

Archer flashes a thumbs-up at another demon, this one in the middledistance,alion-headedmanlistlesslyeatingadeadlawyer.Archercupsonehandaroundhismouthandshouts,“What’sup,Mastema?”

“Theprinceofspirits,”Leonardwhisperstome.

Thisentiretime,Babettekeepsasking,“Whattimeisit?”Sheasks,“IsitstillThursday?”Sittingofftoonesideoftheenormouspalm,herarmsfoldedacross her chest, impatiently tapping the toe of one dirtyManolo Blahnik,Babettesays,“Ican’tbelievethere’snowifiinHell….”

Our vessel, our hostess, Psezpolnica strides along, her features still lit

withasoftpostcoitalsmile.

HersmileismatchedonlybyArcher’s,hisentirebodyregenerated,fromhis blue Mohawk down to his black boots, his grin so wide it shoves hissafetypinalmosttooneear.

Far below, a withered old man shambles along, leaning on a cane,draggingaway-longbeard.IaskArcherifhe’sademon.

“Him?” says Archer, pointing at the old man. “That’s Charles fuckingDarwin!” Archer hawks a gob of spit, which falls, falls, falls to land nearenough tomake theoldman lookup.When theymakeeyecontact,Archershouts,“Hey,Chuck!YoustilldoingtheDevil’swork?”

Darwinliftsonewithered,veinedhandtoflipArcherthebird.

Asitturnsout,theway-fundamentalistChristiancreationistswerecorrect.HowIwishIcouldtellmyparents:EverybodyinKansaswasright.Yes,theinbredsnakehandlersandholyrollershadmoreontheballthanmysecularhumanist, billionairemomanddad.Thedark forcesof evil reallydid plantthosedinosaurbonesand fake fossil records tomisleadmankind.Evolutionwashokum,andwefellforithook,line,andsinker.

Onthehorizon,outlinedagainsttheflamingorangesky,abuildingtakesshape.

Craninghisheadtolookupintothevast,floating,full-moonfaceofoursatedgiant,Leonardshouts,“Glavnistab.Ugoditi.Zatim.”

Tome,Leonardsays,“Serbian.”Hesays,“Ipickedupafewwordsinmyadvanced-placementcourses.”

Thebuilding in thedistance isstillpartlyhiddenbelowthecurveof thehorizon, but as we draw closer and closer, it rises to reveal a sprawlingcomplexofwingsandcomplicatedrenovations.

As I started to boast earlier, really the best people are dead. Since I’vebeen in Hell I’ve sighted just oodles of notables from throughout history.Evennow,peeringovertheedgeofthegiant’spalm,Ipointoutatinyfigureandsay,“Everybody,look!”

Pattersonshieldshiseyeswithonehand,holdingittohisforeheadlikeasalute,tocutdownontheambientorangeglare.LookingtowhereIpoint,hesays,“Youmeanthatoldguy?”

That“oldguy,”Itellhim,justhappenstobeNormanMailer.

You can’t turn around in Hell without elbowing somebody important:MarilynMonroe orGenghisKhan, ClarenceDarrow or Cain. JamesDean.

SusanSontag.RiverPhoenix.KurtCobain.Honestly,theresidentpopulationreads like theguest listofaparty thatwouldmakebothmyparentscream.Rudolf Nureyev. John F. Kennedy. Frank Sinatra and Ava Gardner. JohnLennon and JimiHendrix and JimMorrison and Janis Joplin.ApermanentWoodstock. Probably, if he knew the networking opportunities hereabouts,my dad would immediately gulp down rat poison and throw himself on asamuraisword.

Just to schmooze with Isadora Duncan, my mom would pop open theemergency-exitdoorandbailoutofourLearjetmidflight.

Really, just lookingaround,youfeela twingeofpity for thepoorsoulswhosucceededingettingpastthePearlyGates.Onecan’thelpbutpicturethelackluster VIP lounge in Heaven, a kind of nonalcoholic ice-cream socialstarringHarrietBeecherStoweandMahatmaGandhi.Hardlyanyone’s ideaofa“with-it”socialregister.

And, yes, I am thirteen years old, fat, and dead — but I am notovercompensating in the same manner as insecure homosexuals whoconstantly trotoutMichelangeloandNoelCowardandAbrahamLincoln inordertobolstertheirownfragileself-esteem.True,beingdeadANDinHellseems to suggest that one has committed the double whammy of BigMistakes, but at least I findmyselfmingling in very, capital-V,Very goodcompany.

Trottingalong,stillbornealoftinourgiant’shand,wedrawclosertothecomplex of buildings which now appear to spread far beyond the horizon,covering acres, even square miles of Hellish real estate. Along the outeredges,thebuildings’perimeterconsistsofpostmodernpastiche,acollageofstyles borrowing heavily from Michael Graves and I. M. Pei, with anassortmentof laborers alreadyexcavating and laying the foundations for anever-spreadingseriesofadditions ribbed to suggest theundulating formsofFrank Gehry. Within this outer margin stand concentric circles of olderadditions,liketheringsofabisectedtree,eachinnerringidentifiablewiththefashionofanearlierera.Adjacent to thePoMosections rise theboxyglasstowersoftheInternationalstyle.WithinthoseliethecampyfuturisticspiresoftheArtDeco,thenthePeriodRevivalofVictoriantimes,theFederal,theGeorgian, the Tudor, Egyptian, Chinese, Tibetan palace architecture,Babylonian minarets, all of it comprising an ever-widening history ofbuilding.Even as the edges expand, covering land almost as rapidly as theGreatOceanofWastedSperm,atthesametimethebuildings’ancientcoreisrottingandcollapsing.

AsPsezpolnicastandsatthebuildings’outskirts,fromthisheightwecansee that the oldest, inner portions, predating the Etruscan and Incan and

Mesopotamian, those lowers and chambers at the center have crumbled todecayedwoodandclaydust.

Here,thisplaceisthenervecenter,theheadquartersofHell.

Leonardshoutsupward,“Ovdje.”Atthis,thegiantstopswalking.

Snakingawayfromtheoutermostwallsofthebuilding,way-longqueuesof people stand waiting in line. Literally, no exaggeration, miles of thedamned. Each queue leads to a different doorway, and every so often thepeopleinalinestepforwardassomeoneenters.

Leonardshouts,“Prekid.”Heshouts,“Ovdje,please.”Hearing this strange Slavic babble, Iwonder how close it comes to the

languageofGoran’s thoughts.Thecryptic,mysterious lingoofmybelovedGoran’smemoriesanddreams.Goran’snativetongue.Tobeentirelyhonest,I’mnotcertainfromwhichwar-tornhomelandmyGoranevenharkened.

Andyes,I’veswornoffhoping,butagirlcanstillcarryatorch.

Asweapproachthetailendofonelongqueue,Leonardsays,“Spustati.Sledeic.”

Babettesays,“Isthiseventhesameyear?”OnlyinHelldoyouwishawristwatchincludedtheday,date,andcentury

functions.

Atthis,Psezpolnicasinkstooneknee,leaningforwardtocarefully,gentlylowerusbacktotheground.

XIIAreyou there,Satan? It’sme,Madison. Ifyou

cantolerateyetanotheradmissiononmypart,I’veneverbeenveryadeptattakingtests.Trustme,I’mnot trying to lay theblameelsewhere,but I loathethekindofgame-showcontextinwhichsomuchofour lives is determined: proving my memory andmental skills in a sedentary situation under thepressure of limited time. While death has itsobviousdrawbacks,itisablessingthatInowhaveanunassailablyvalidexcuse tonot take theSATs.However,itseemsthatI’venotentirelydodgedthatdreadedbullet.

At the present I’m sitting in a small room, seated in a straight-backedchair next to a desk. Picture the archetypal all-white room, featuring nowindows,which Jungian analysts say best represents death. A demonwithcat’sclawsand folded leatherywings leansclose toadjustablood-pressurecuffwhichiswrappedaroundmyupperarm,inflatingthecuffuntilIcanfeelmypulsethrobbingalongtheinsideofmyelbow.Stickypadsholdthewiresofaheart-ratemonitortotheskinofmychest,snakingbetweenthebuttonsonmyblouse.Adhesivetapeholdsanotherwirewhichmonitorsthepulseatmywrist.Othersensorsarewiredtothefrontandbackofmyneck.

“Tomonitorthetremorsinyourspeechpatterns,”Leonardexplained.Onesensor sticks to the cricothyroidmuscle on the front of your neck, he says.Another sensor, the cricoarytenoid muscle on the back of your neck, nearyourspine.Asyouspeak,alow-voltagecurrentrunsbetweenthetwosensors,registering anymicrotremors in themuscleswhich control your voice box,indicatingwhenyou’retellinganuntruth.

The demon with the leathery wings and cat’s claws, his breath smellsputrid.

This comes after Babette escorted us into the headquarters building,sidestepping the endless lines of waiting people to usher our little partythrough a crumbled portion of the building’s simultaneously unfinished yetdecayedfacade.Babetteshepherdedusintoacavernouswaitinghallaslargeasanystadium,whereincountless souls stoodaround,constitutinga sortofDepartmentofMotorVehiclesmélange:peoplewearing soiled ragsnext topeoplewearingChanelcoutureandcarryingbriefcases.Alltheplasticscoop-

seatedchairswerebooby-trappedwithwadsoffreshchewinggum,so,really,onlythepeoplewho’vesucceededinabandoningallhoperisksittingdown.An enormous reader board signmounted at the front of the hall said,NowServingNumber5.Thedistant stonewalls andceiling looked tobebrown.Everythingearth-toned,sepia,thecolorofgrime,thecolorofnosepickings.Almosteveryonestood, theirheadssaggingataslightangle,dispirited, liketheheadsofbrokennecks.

The stone floor teemed, almost carpeted by legions of fat cockroachesfeastingontheever-presentpopcornballsandnonpareils.HellisverymuchlikeFloridainthattheresidentbuglifeneverdies.Asaresultofthesteamyheat and immortality, the roaches achieve fat, meaty proportions moreassociatedwithmiceorsquirrels.Babettewatchedmehopping,one-legged,alwaysholdingtheoppositelegaloft,storklike,toavoidtreadingonroaches,andshesaid,“Weneedtostealyousomehighheels.”

EvenPatterson,wearinghisfootballshoulderpadsandjersey,practicallydanced,skeweringanever-thickeninglayerofcockroachessmashedunderhissteel cleats.World-wearyArcher also pranced, the chrome chains clankingaround his boots, his feet skidding and skating on the crushed beetles. Incontrast,evenfallingtopieces,Babette’sfakehigh-heeledshoesallowedhertostilt-walk,impervious,abovetheroachydebris.

Outstriding the rest of us, elbowing aside the aeons of people alreadywaiting,Babettearrivedatacounterorlongdeskthatrantheentirelengthofthefarwall.There,arowofdemonsappearedtoworkasclerks,standingonthe opposite side of the desk. Babette plopped her fake Coach bag on thecountertop, addressing the demon who stood closest, saying, “Hey,Astraloth.” She produced aBigHunk candy bar from her bag and slid thecandyacrossthecounter,leaningintothedemon’sface,andsaid,“GiveusanA137-B17.Theshortform.Foranappealandrecordssearch.”Babettejerkedherheadinmydirection,adding,“It’sforthenewkid,here.”

ItwasclearBabettemeantbusiness.

Theairintheassemblyhallwassohumidthateveryexhalationhunglikeawhitecloudinfrontofmyface,foggingmyglasses.Cockroachescrunchedbeneathmyeveryfootstep.

No,it’snotfair,butmymomanddadwerealwayshappytotellmethesordiddetailsofeverysexactor fetish thatexisted.Othergirlsmightgetatrainingbraat thirteen,butmymomofferedtohavemefittedforatrainingdiaphragm.Beyondthebirdsandthebees—andtea-bagging,rimming,andscissoring—myparentsnevertaughtmeasinglethingaboutdeath.Atmostmydadpesteredmetousemoisturizerwithsunblockandtoflossmyteeth.If

theyperceiveddeathatall, itwasonlyon themost superficial level, as thewrinkles and gray hairs of very old people fated soon to expire. Thereforethey seemed heavily invested in the belief that if one could constantlymaintain one’s personal appearance and mitigate the signs of aging, thendeathwouldneverbeapressingissue.Tomyparents,deathexistedasmerelythe logical, albeit extreme, resultofnot adequatelyexfoliatingyour skin.Aslippery slope. If one simply failed to practicemeticulous grooming, one’slifewouldgrindtoanend.

And please, if you’re still in denial, eating low-sodium, heart-healthyskinless chicken breasts and feeling all self-righteous as you jog on atreadmill,don’tpretendyou’reanymorerealisticthanmyloopyparents.

And doNOTget the impression that Imiss being alive.AS IF I reallyregretnotgettingtogrowupandhavebloodgushoutofmywoo-wooeverymonth and learn to drive a fossil-fueled internal-combustion vehicle andwatch crappyR-ratedmovieswithout a parent or guardian, then drink beeroutofakeg,fritteringawayfouryearstosnagasoft-balldegreeinarthistorybefore someboy squirtsme full of spermand Ihave to lug somebigbabyaroundinsidemeforalmostawholeyear.Bummer—sarcasmfullyintended—IamreallymissingoutontheGoodTimes.And,no, this isn’t justSourGrapes.WhenIlookatallthebullshitI’mskipping,sometimesIthankGodIoverdosed.

There,IsaidtheG-wordagain.Yegods!Sokillme.

Asitturnsout,mydamnationrecordshavebeenlost.Ortheyhaveyettoarrive. Ormy recordswere accidentally destroyed.Whatever the case, I’mforced to start from scratch, assigned to take a basic lie-detector test andsubmitfordrugtesting.

Babette, it seems, is not quite as useless as I’d first imagined. She’ssidesteppednosmallamountofredtapeandbureaucraticredundancy,leadingour little team through themaze of corridors and offices, bribing low-levelbureaucrats with Hershey bars and Sweet Tarts. Hell is aeons away fromestablishingapaperlessculture,andmostofthefloorislayeredknee-deepinmisplaced records, disemboweled manila folders, the discarded polygraphreadouts,ButterRumLifeSavers,andcockroaches.

Enroutetomytesting,Archertoldmenottocrossmyarms,nottolooktotherightorupward.Bothofthose:physicalgesturesthatbetrayaliar.

Afterwesubmitthefilled-outappealformandsliptheattendantdemonaKitKatbar,Babettewishesmegoodluck.Shegivesmealittlehug,nodoubtleaving dirty handprints all over the back ofmy cardigan sweater.Babette,Leonard,Patterson,andArcherwaitinanouterhallwaywhileIgothrougha

door into the all-white testing room. The polygraph machine. The demoninflatingtheblood-pressurecuffaroundmyarm.

You might recall this same demon from the classic Hollywoodmasterpiece The Exorcist, where he possessed a little girl who was thespoiled, precocious child of amiddle-agedmovie star. Talk about déjà vu.Hereheisnow,watchingmyeyesforchangesinpupildilationwhichmightbetraydishonesty.Thedemon’swiringmyskintotestwhetherIsweat.WhatLeonardcalls“skinconductivity.”

IsaythatIlovedthescenewherehemadethelittlegirl,Regan,crab-walkbackwarddown the stairswithgore spillingout of hermouth.Moreout ofnerves,Iaskwhetherthedemonhashadanypersonalexperiencepossessingpeople.Didhemakeanyothermovies?Doeshegetanyresiduals?Who’shisagent?

Without looking away from his scrolling readout, those wavering littleneedlesthatsquigglelinesontherollingbeltofwhitepaper,thedemonsays,“IsyournameMadisonSpencer?”

Thecontrolquestions.Toestablishabaselineofhonestanswers.

Isay,“Yes.”

Tweaking a knob on his machine, the demon asks, “Are you, in fact,thirteenyearsold?”

Again,yes.

Thedemonasks,“DoyourejectSatanandallhisworks?”

Easyenough.Ishrugandsay,“Sure,whynot?”

“Please,”thedemonsays,“it’sveryimportantthatyouansweronlyeitherryes’or‘no.’”

Isay,“Sorry.”

Thedemonsays,“DoyouaccepttheLordGodastheonetrueGod?”

Way-easy,nosweat,again,Isay,“Yes.”

The demon says, “Do you recognize Jesus Christ as your personalsavior?”

Idontknow,notforcertain,butIsay,“Yes?”

Theneedlessquiggleon thereadoutpaper,notmuchbuta little. Ican’tfeelforsure,butmaybetheirisesofmyeyessuddenlycontract.Thedogmaseemsprettyfamiliar,butthisisn’tanysortofcatechismmyparentstrainedmetorecite.Thedemon’sowneyesnever leavingtheinky,waveringlines,

he says, ‘Are you now or have you ever been a practicingmember of theBuddhistreligion?”

Isay,“What?”

“Yesorno,”thedemonsays.

“What?”Isay,“Buddhistsdon’tgettoHeaven?”

Whilemy parents fell far short of being perfect, none of theirmistakeswereintentionallymalicious,soitfeelsdownrighttraitoroustodisavoweveryideal theydid their best to instill inme.Mine is the age-old conundrumofbetrayingone’sparentsversusbetrayingone’sdeity.Me,Ijustwanttowearahaloandrideonacloud.Ijustwanttoplayaharp.

Withoutmissingabeat,thedemonsays,“DoyoubelievetheBibletobetheoneandonlytruewordofGod?”

Isay,“Doesthatincludetheway-crazy,loonypartsofLeviticus?”

Plunging forward, the demon says, “In your honest opinion, does lifebeginatconception?”

Yes, I know I’m supposed to be dead, with no corporeal body andphysicalneedsorphysiology,butIstartsweatinglikeapig.Myfacefeelshotwith blushing. My teeth sit on edge, softly grinding together. My fistsclenching, tight, thebonesandmuscles takeshapeunder thewhiteningskinofmyknuckles.

Iventure,“Yes?”“Doyousanctionmandatoryprayerinpublicschools?”thedemonasks.

Yes,IdowanttogotoHeaven—whodoesn’t?—butnotifitmeansIhavetobeatotalasshole.

WhetherIansweryesorno,thoselittleneedlesaregoingtowigglelikecrazy,respondingtoeithermydishonestyormyguilt.

The demon says, “Do you view sexual acts between individuals of thesamegendertobeanabomination?”

Iaskifwecancomebacktothatquestionlater.

Thedemonsays,“I’lltakethatasa‘no.’”

Throughout the history of theology, Leonard tried to explain, religionshavearguedoverthenatureofsalvation,whetherpeopleareprovedholybytheir good works or by their deep, inner faith. Do people go to Heavenbecausetheyactedgood?OrdotheygotoHeavenbecauseit’spredestined…becausetheyaregood?That’sancienthistory,accordingtoLeonard;nowthe

entiresystemreliesonforensicscience.Polygraphtests.Psychophysiologicaldetectionsofdeception.Voicestressanalysis.Youevenhavetosubmithairandurinesamplesduetothenewzero-tolerancepolicyfordrugandalcoholabuseinHeaven.

Insecret,puttingmyhandsintothesidepocketsofmyskort,Icrossmyfingers.

Thedemonasks,“Doesmankindholdultimatedominionoverallearthlyplantsandanimals?”

Fingerscrossed,Isay,“Yes?”

“Doyouapprove,”thedemonsays,“ofmarriagebetweenindividualsofdifferingracialbackgrounds?”

Thedemoncontinueswithouthesitation,asking,“ShouldtheZioniststateofIsraelbeallowedtoexist?”

Questionafterquestion,I’mstumped.Evenfingerscrossed.Theparadox:IsGoda racist,homophobic, anti-Semitic ass?Or isGod testing to see if Iam?

The demon asks, “Shouldwomen be allowed to hold public office?Toownrealproperty?Tooperatemotorvehicles?”

Nowand then,he leansover thepolygraphmachine,usinga felt-tippedpentoscribblenotesnexttothereadoutsontherollingbannerofpaper.

We’ve journeyedhere to theheadquartersofHellbecauseIaskedaboutfilinganappeal.Myreasoningis…ifconvictedmurdererscanlingerondeathrow for decades, demanding access to law libraries and gratis publicdefenders, while scribbling briefs and arguments with blunt crayons andpencilstubs,itseemsonlyfairthatIoughttoappealmyowneternalsentence.

Inthesametonethatasupermarketcashierwouldask,“Paperorplastic?”or a fast-food serverwould ask, “Doyouwant frieswith that?” the demonasks,‘Areyou,yourself,avirgin?”

SincelastChristmas,whenIfrozemyhandstothedoorofmyresidencehallandwasforcedtoripofftheoutermostlayersofskin,myhandshaveyettototallyheal.Thelinescrisscrossingmypalms,thelifelineandloveline,arealmost erased.My fingerprints look faint, and the new skin feels tight andsensitive. Inmypockets,now, ithurts tokeepmy fingerscrossed,butall Icandoisjustsithere,betrayingmyparents,betrayingmygenderandpolitics,betrayingmyselftotellsomeboreddemonwhatIhopeistheperfectmixofblah,blah,blah.IfanybodyshouldspendeternityinHell,it’sme.

The demon asks, “Do you support the profoundly evil research which

utilizesembryonicstemcells?”

Icorrecthisgrammar,tellinghim,“That…researchthatutilizes…”Thedemonasks,“Doesphysician-assistedsuicideflyinthefaceofGod’s

beautifulwill?”

The demon asks, “Do you espouse the obvious truth of intelligentdesign?”

With theneedles scribblingmyeveryheartbeat,my respiration rate,mybloodpressure,thedemonwaits,watchingformybodytoturntraitoronmewhenheasks,“AreyoufamiliarwiththeWilliamMorrisAgency?”

Despitemyself,myhands relax a little and letmy fingers slip and stoplying.Isay,“Why…yes.”

Andthedemonlooksupfromhismachine,smiles,andsays,“That’swhorepresentsme….”

XIIIAre you there, Satan? It’sme,Madison.Don’t

get the ideathatI’mwayhomesick;but lately,butI’ve been thinking about my family. This is noreflection on you or the fabulousness ofHell. I’vejustbeenfeelingatadnostalgic.

For my last birthday, my parents announced we were headed for LosAngelesinorderformymomtopresentsomeawards-showtrophy.Mymomhad her personal assistant buy no fewer than a thousand-million gildedenvelopeswithblankpiecesofcardstocktuckedinside.Forthepastweek,allmy mom’s done is practice tearing open these envelopes, pulling out thecards,andsaying,“TheAcademyAwardforBestMotionPicturegoesto.Totrainherselfnottolaugh,mymomaskedmetowritemovietitlesonthecardslikeSmokeyandtheBanditIIandSawIVandTheEnglishPatientIII.

We’resittinginthebackofatowncar,beingdrivenfromsomeairporttosomehotelinBeverlyHills.I’msittinginthejumpseatfacingmymothersoshe can’t seewhat Iwrite.After that, I hand the card to her assistant,whotucks it into an envelope, affixes a gold-foil seal, and hands the finishedproducttomymomtoripopen.

We’renotgoing to theBeverlyWilshirebecause that’swhere I tried toflush the dead body ofmy kitten, poor Tiger Stripe, and a plumber had tocome and unclog half the toilets in the hotel.We’re also not going to thehouseinBrentwood,becausethistripisonlyfor,like,seventy-twohours,andmymomdoesn’ttrustGoranandmenottomessupthewholeplace.

On one blank card, I’m writing Porky’s Revenge. On another I writeEveryWhichWaybutLoose.AsIwriteNightmareonElmStreet:Freddy’sDead,Iaskmymomwheresheputmypinkblousewiththesmockingonthefront.

Tearingopenanenvelope,mymomsays,“DidyoucheckyourclosetinPalmSprings?”

Mydadisn’thereinthecar.Hestayedbacktosuperviseworkonourjet.Whether this is a joke, I won’t even venture a guess, but my dad isredesigning our Learjet to feature an interior crafted of organic brick andhand-hewnpeggedbeams,withknottypinefloors.AllofitsustainablygrownbytheAmish.Yeah—installedinajet.Tocoverthefloors,hehoistedallmymom’slast-seasonVersaceandDolceonsomeTibetanrag-rugbraidersandhe’scalledthis“recycling.”We’llhaveajetoutfittedwithfauxwood-burning

fireplacesandantler chandeliers.Macraméplanthangers.Ofcourse, all thebrick and wood is just veneer; but trying to take off, the plane will stillconsumesomewherearoundtheentiredailyoutputofdinosaurjuicepumpedbyKuwait.

Welcometo thestartofanothergloriousmediacycle.All thismussandfussistojustifytheirgettingthecoverofArchitecturalDigest.

Sittingoppositeme,mymomtearsopenanenvelope,saying,“Thisyear’sAcademyAwardforBestPicturegoes to…”Sheplucks thecardoutof theenvelope and starts to laugh, saying, “Maddy, shame on you!” My momshows thecard toEmilyorAmandaorEllieorDaphneorWHOEVERherPAisthisweek.Thecardreads,ThePianoII:AttackoftheFinger.EmilyorAudreyorwhoever,shedoesn’tgetthejoke.

The good news is the Prius is way too dinky for Goran and me toaccompanymyfolks to theawardsceremony.So,whilemymom’sonstagetrying not to get a paper cut or crack up laughing from having to give anOscar tosomebodyshehates,Goran issupposed tobabysitmeat thehotel.Bestill,mywildlybeatingheart.Technically,becauseGorandoesn’t speakenoughEnglishtoorderpay-per-viewcableporn,I’llbebabysittinghim,butwe’rerequiredtowatchtheawardsontelevisionsowecantellmomwhethersheoughttobotherdoingthemagainnextseason.

That’showcomeIneedmypinkblouse—tolookhotforGoran.Bootingmymom’snotebookcomputer,IpresstheControl,Alt,andSkeys,usingthesecurity cams to scanmy bedroom closet in Palm Springs. I toggle to thecamerasinBerlinandcheckmybedroomthere.

“CheckinGeneva,”saysmymom.“TelltheSomalimaidtoFedExittoyou.”

I hit Ctrl+Alt+G. I hit Ctrl+Alt+B.CheckingGeneva.CheckingBerlin.Athens.Singapore.

Tobehonest,GoranisthemostlikelyreasonheandIaren’tgoingtothisyear’sOscars.It’stoobigagamblethat,whenthecameraszoominonusinourseats,theSpencerchildren,Goranwouldbeyawningorpickinghisnoseorsnoring,slumpedinhisredvelvet theaterseat,asleep,withdrool trailingoutonecornerofhissensuouslyfulllips.Thisisallwaterunderthebridge,butwhatever flunkydoes the screening to identifypotential adoptees,heorshe definitely lost his or her job for putting Goran’s name forward. Myparents funda charity foundationwhichprimarily employsapproximately abillionpublicistswhoissuepressreleases toutingmydad’sgenerosity.Yes,they might donate a thousand dollars to build a cinder-block school inPakistan,butthenthey’llpayahalfmilliontofilmadocumentaryaboutthe

school,holdpressconferencesandmediajunkets,andmakecertaintheentireworldknowswhatthey’veaccomplished.FromhisveryfirstphotoopGoranwas a letdown. He wouldn’t weep tears of happiness for the cameras, norwould he refer to his new guardians as anythingmore endearing than “theMisterandMissusSpencer.”

We’reall familiarwith those televisioncommercialswhereacatordogdivesnose-firstintoitsbowlofdriedkibbletodemonstratehowdelicious,butreallybecause thepooranimalhasbeenstarvedbeforehand.Well, thesameprinciple should prompt Goran to beam proudly in his new Ralph Laurentogs, or Calvin Klein or whomever my parents are shilling for. Goran isexpectedtoscarfdownwhatevercage-free,bean-curddelicacywhilegulpingfromabottle ofwhatever sponsoring sports beverage, holding thebottle sothe label is prominently displayed. It’s a lot ofwork for one battle-scarredorphan, but I’ve seen kidsmy folks adopted, as young as four years, fromNepalandHaitiandBangladesh,simultaneouslymodelmyparents’largesseand baby Gap and heat-and-serve figs stuffed with pain-free haggis andcumin-infused aioli— plus continually mention whatever film project mymomhadgoingintotheatricalrelease.

Ihad thisonesister forabout fiveminutes—myfolkshadrescuedherfrom a brothel in Calcutta— but the moment she sensed a camera in theroom, she could hug her new Nike shoes and Barbie dolls, weeping suchrealistic, photogenic tears of joy that she made Julia Roberts look like aslacker.

In contrast,Goranwould sip the requisite corn syrup-flavored, vitamin-enhancedenergydrinkandgrimaceasifinpain.Goranjustflat-outrefusestoplay this game. All Goran does is scowl at me, but that’s all he does toanyone.Whenhishateful,broodinggazeboresintome,Iswear,IfeelexactlylikeJaneEyrebeingstaredatbyMr.Rochester.I’mRebeccadeWinterunderthe cold scrutiny of her new husband, Maxim. After a lifetime of beingcoddledandcourted,byservants,byunderlingsandmediasycophants,IfindGoran’shatefuldistaintobeutterlyirresistible.

Theotherreasonwe’renotgoingtotheAcademyAwardsisbecauseI’ma great, huge, roly-poly pig.Mymomwould never fess up to that, exceptmaybetoVanityFair.

Evenasourdriverbearsmymomandmehotel-ward,Goranremainsonthetarmac,wheremydadwilltryhisbesttoexplainthesurrealwitinherentin decorating the interior of a space-age, multimillion-dollar aircraft toresemblethewattleyurtofaStoneAgecavemanfamily.Mydadwilldroneaboutthemultivalentwayinwhichourersatzmudhutwillresonateassmartand ironic with the well-educated literati, yet read as sincere and

environmentallyforwardwiththeerstwhileyoungerfanbaseofmymother’sfilms.

And,yes,Imightbedreamyandpreadolescent,butIknowthemeaningofmultivalent.Kindof.Ithink.Prettymuch.

Onthenotebookcomputer,IkeyCtrl+Alt+Jtospyontheinteriorofourjet.There,mydadistryingtotellGoranallaboutMarshallMcLuhanwhileGoran simply glares at the security camera, scowling out of the computerscreendirectlyatme.

Strictlybyaccident,mindyou,onetime—Iswear,I’mnoMissWantonMcSlutski—butItoggledCtrl+Alt+TandcaughtaganderofGorantakingashower, naked. Not that I was peeking on purpose, but I did see that healready had some hair… down there. To understandmy panting pursuit ofGoran,heoftheplushlipsandfrigidglare,youneedtoknowmyfirstbabypicture appeared on the cover of People magazine. Personally, I’ve neverservedasasatisfactorymirrorformyparents’successbecauseluxurieswereagiven.Frommybirth,theworldwasalreadyrendereddeferential.AtbestIservedasasouvenir—likedrugsorgrungemusic—ofmyparents’ long-goneyoungerselves.Theadoptedchildrenweresupposedtoaffirmmymomand dad’s hard work and resulting rewards. You pluck some famishedskeletonoutof anEthiopiandirt hole,hustlehimaboardaGulfstream, andservehimaselectionoffree-rangeHavartibakedingluten-free,whole-graintart shells, and it’s waymore likely that kid will bother to say thank-you.Here’s somekidwhohad a life expectancyof around zero— thedroolingvultures already circling overhead — and, no duh, he’s going to get allexcited about a dumb weekend house party with Babs Streisand in EastHampton.

ButwhatdoIknow;I’mdead.I’madeadbrat.IfIwerewaybrilliantI’dbealive,likeyou.Nevertheless,ifyouaskme,mostpeoplehavechildrenjustastheirownenthusiasmaboutlifebeginstowane.Achildallowsustorevisittheexcitementweoncefeltabout,well…everything.Agenerationlater,ourgrandkids bump up our enthusiasm yet again. Reproducing is a kind ofboostershottokeepuslovinglife.Formyparents,firsthavingblaséme,thenadoptingastringofbrats,endingwithbored,hostileGoran,ittrulyillustratestheLawofDiminishingMarginofReturns.

Mydadwouldtellyou,“Everyaudiencegetstheperformanceitexpects.”Meaning: If I’dbeenamoreappreciative child,maybe they’dhave seemedlikebetterparents.Onalargerscale,maybeifI’dshownmoregratitudeandappreciation for the precious miracle of my life, then maybe life itselfwould’veseemedmorewonderful.

Maybethat’swhypoorpeoplegivethanksBEFOREtheyeattheirnastytunacasseroledinner.

If the livingarehauntedbythedead, thenthedeadarehauntedbytheirownmistakes.Maybe if I hadn’t been so flip and glib, maybemy parentswouldn’thavelookedtogettheiremotionalneedsmetbycorrallingtogethersomanyotherdestitutekids.

As the chauffeur arrives at the hotel, and the doorman steps forward toopenthecardoor,IhitCtrl+Alt+BtosearchmybedroomclosetinBarcelona,andthere’smymissingpinkblouse.InaninstantmessagetotheSomalimaid,I tell herwhere to overnight the blouse in time formy trystwithGoran. Ialmost tell her, “Thanks,” except I don’t know the exact word in herlanguage.

Andyes,Iknowthewordtryst.Iknowanawfullotofthings,especiallyfor a thirteen-year-old, dead fat girl.Butmaybe I don’t knowasmuchas Ithink.

At that,mymomripsopenanotherenvelopeandsays,“Andthewinneris…”

XIVAreyouthere,Satan?It’sme,Madison.Iknow

what you’re thinking… to you I’m just somespoiled,richbratwho’sneverhadtoworkadayinher life. Inmydefense, I’mproud to say that I’veobtainedfull-timeemployment.Agenuinejob.AsofnowI’maregularworkingstiff—ifyou’llpardonthe terriblepun.What followsmight seemragged,but please consider it an impressionistic slice o’death.Aglimpseintoadayinthedeathofme.

As far as I can tell, you have a choice between two types of careers inHell. Your first option is you can work for one of thoseWeb sites whicheveryoneassumesareruninRussiaorBurma,wherenakedmenandwomenstareunflinchinglyintothewebcams,adazedlookintheirglassyeyes,whilethey lick their fingers and insert greasy plasticmodel airplanes or plantainbananashalfwayintotheirshavedwoo-woosorhoo-hoos.Eitherthat,ortheyfake-smilewhile sipping theirownurineoutofchampagne flutes.Yousee,Hell is responsible forabout85percentof the Internet’s total smutcontent.Thedemons just tackupsomeold,soiledbedsheet toserveasabackdrop,theythrowafoam-rubbermattressontheground,andyou’reexpectedtofloparound,puttingjunkinsideyourselfandrespondingtothereal-timeWebchatofaliveperverts,worldwide.

Frankly,I’veneverbeenthatdesperateforattention.Donotmistakemeforoneofthosetroubledpreteenswhowalkaround,practicallywearingaT-shirt which says: Ask Me About My Rape. Or, Ask Me About MyAlcoholism.

The dirty little secret aboutHell is that the demons are always runningtabs on you. If you breathe their air, if you loiter, the powers that be areconstantlydingingyoufor thecost.No, it’snot fair,but thedemonschargeyouforyourupkeep.Themeterisalwaysrunning,andyou’repilingupyearsofadditional torture,according toBabette,who it turnsoutused tomanagepeople’s paperwork until she had to take a stress-related disability leave ofabsenceandreturntohercageforalittlenonclericalR&R.Babettesaysmostpeoplearecondemnedforonlyafewaeons,buttheyaccrueadditionaltimesimply by occupying space in Hell. It’s like being over the limit on yourcharge cards, or accidentally flyingyour jet intoFrench airspace; the clockstartstickingthemomentyou’vegonetoofar.Thebeancountersarekeepingtrack,andsomedayyou’llbesockedwithamassivebill.

Jewels and cash are worthless here. The currency is candy, andmarshmallowpeanutsareacceptedaspaymentforallbribesanddebts.RootBeerBarrelsareasvaluableasrubies.Thehellishequivalentofpenniesarepopcorn balls… black licorice… wax lips… and these are cast aside indisdain.

ProbablyIshouldn’teventellyouthis—thejobmarketistightenoughasitis—butifyouhaveanyaspirationstoearnyourdailyJuniorMints,youneedtofindacareerandgetworking.

Notthatyou’lleveractuallydie—notyou—notafteralltheantioxidantsyou’vechokeddownandallthoselapsaroundthereservoir.Ha!

But just in case you don’t want to spend eternity giving yourself highcolonics on some sleazyWeb site, ogled bymil-lions ofmenwith seriousintimacyproblems,theothertypeofworkwhichmostpeopledoinHellis—telemarketing.Yes,thismeanssittingatadesk,elbow-to-elbowwithfellowdoomed telemarketing associates who stretch to the horizon in eitherdirection,allofyouyakkingonheadsets.

Myjobis:Thedarkforcesareconstantlycalculatingwhenit’sdinnertimeanywhereonearth,andacomputerautodials thosephonenumbers so Icaninterrupteveryone’smeal.Mygoalisn’tactuallytosellyouanything;I justask if you have a few seconds to take part in a market research studyidentifyingconsumertrendsinchewinggum.Inmouthwash.Indryerfabric-softenersheets.Igettowearmyheadsettelephoneandworkfromaflowchartof possible responses. Best of all, I get to talk to real-live people— likeyourself—whoarestilllivingandbreathingandhavenoideathatI’mdeadand phoning them from the Afterlife. Trust me, the vast majority oftelemarketingpeoplewhoringyouup, they’redead.AsareprettymuchallInternetpornmodels.

Okay, it’s not as if I’mpracticing brain surgery or tax law, but it beatssticking crayons inside my hoo-hoo on aWeb site called “Crazy NymphoGirlyPleasuresSelfUsingSchoolSupply[sic].”

Theautodialerconnectsmetosomebodyalive,andIsay,“I’mconductingamarketstudytobetterservethechewinggumconsumersinyourarea…Doyouhaveamomenttoanswerafewquestions?”Ifthealivepersonhangsup,the computer connects me to a new phone number. If the living personanswersmyquestions, the flowchart instructsme to askmore.Eachpersonseatedat thephonebankhasalaminatedsheetofquestions,morequestionsthan you could count. The point is to impose on the respondent, alwaysentreating to ask just onemore question, please…until thewould-be dinerlosestheircomposure,andtheirmoodandeveningmealarebothruined.

Once you’re dead and in Hell your options are either to do somethingtrivial, but in a very self-important manner, for instance, market researchabout paper-clip usage. Or you can do something serious in a very trivialmanner,forinstance,lookingboredanddisengagedwhiletakingapoopintoa crystal dish andeating itwith a silver spoon— thepoop, Imean,not thedish.

Ifyouaskedmydadaboutselectinganykindofprofessionalcareer,he’dtell you, “Don’tmake a datewith a heart attack.”Meaning:You’ve got topaceyourself andnot forget to slowdown.No job is forever.So relaxandhavesomefun.

With that goal in mind, I let my attention wander.While hungry alivepeople wheedle to end our conversation, begging that their pot roast isgrowing cold, I’m actually thinking, musing whether mymother would’veacteddifferentlyhadsheknownIhadfewerthanforty-eighthourstolive.Inhindsight,Iwonder,ifshe’dknownaboutmyimpendingdemise,wouldshestill have cheaped out and planned to give me her swag bag of AcademyAwardluxurycrapinlieuofarealbirthdaypresent.Ifshe’dknowntheclockwas ticking, I mean, and most of the sand had already run out from myhourglass.

Asking hungry people about their dental floss preferences, I rememberhow,when Iwas reallyyoung, I thought theUnitedStateswould justkeepadding states, sewingmore andmore stars to our flag until we owned theentireworld. Imean,why stop at fifty?Why stopwithHawaii? It seemednatural that Japan andAfrica would eventually be absorbed into the starrypartofournationalflag.Inthepastwe’dpushedasidethepeskyNavajosandIroquoistocreateCaliforniansandTexans.WecoulddothesamewithIsraelandBelgiumandfinallyachieveworldpeace.Whenyou’rea littlekid,youreallydothinkthatgettingbigger—growingtall,sproutingbigmusclesandbreasts—willbe theanswer toallofyourproblems.That’showmymomstillis:alwaysacquiringnewhousesinothercities.Dittoformydad:alwaystrying to collect appreciative kids from awful places likeDarfur andBatonRouge.

Theproblem is, troubledkidsnever stay saved.TheRwandanbrother Ihadforabout twohours,heranoffwithmydebitcard.MyBhutaneselittlesister of about a day, she kept downing theXanaxmymomwas happy tooffer…andspiraledintodrugabuse.Nothingstayssafe.EvenourhomesinHamburgandLondonandManilasitempty,temptingburglarsandhurricanesandcollectingdust.

AndGoran,well,thewaythatadoptionultimatelyturnedout,it’sdifficulttocallhisrescueaBigSuccess.

Yes,Icanrecognizemyparents’faultylogic,butifI’msotalented-and-gifted,why is it that the only authors I’ve ever read are EmilyBronte andDaphneduMaurierandJudyBlume?WhyhaveIreadForeverAmber, like,twohundredtimes?Seriously,ifIweretruly-trulybrilliant,I’dbealiveandskinny,andthestructureofthisstorywouldbeoneepicallylonghomagetoMarcelProust.

Instead, onmy telephone headset, I’m asking some stupid alive personwhat colors of cotton swab would best complement her primary bathroomdecoratingscheme.Onascaleofonetoten,I’maskinghowshewouldratethe following flavors of lip gloss: warm honey… saffron breeze… oceanmint… lemon glow… blue sapphire… creamy rose… tangy ember… anddouche-berry.

In regard to my polygraph test, Babette says not to hold my breath.Collatingtheresultscantakeforever.Untilwehearsomethingback,shesaysIshouldjusthangtightanddomytelephonejob.Afewchairsawayfromme,Leonard asks someone about toilet paper. Beside him, Patterson sits in hisfootball uniform, asking someone their opinion concerning mosquitorepellent.Near them,Archer holds his headset to the side of his face, so itdoesn’t smash his blue Mohawk, while he seeks public opinions about acandidateforpoliticaloffice.

According toBabette,98.3percentof lawyersendup inHell.That’s incontrast to the 23 percent of farmers who are eternally damned. Some 45percentofretailbusinessownersareHellhound,and85percentofcomputersoftwarewriters.PerhapsatracenumberofpoliticiansascendtoHeaven,butstatisticallyspeaking,100percentof themarecast into the fierypit.Asareessentially 100 percent of journalists and redheads. For whatever reason,peoplestandingshorterthanfive-foot-onearemorelikelytobecondemned.Also, people with a body mass index greater than 0.0012. Babette beginsspoutingthesestatsandyou’dswearshewasautistic.Justbecausesheonceworked processing paperwork for incoming souls, she can tell you thatblondes outnumber brunettes three to one inHell. Peoplewith at least twoyearsofcontinuingeducationbeyondhighschoolarealmostsixtimesmorelikelytobedamned.Asarepeopleearningmorethanaseven-figureannualincome.

Bearingallofthisinmind,Ifiguremyparentshaveroughlya165percentlikelihoodofjoiningmeforever.

Andno,Ihavenoideahow“douche-berry”issupposedtotaste.

Overmyownheadset, someold-ladyvoicecrackles,droningonandonabouttheflavorofsomethingcalled“Beech-Nut”chewinggum,andoverthe

telephoneIswearIcansmellthepeestinkofherninehundredcats.Herold-ladybreathingsoundswetandfullofstatic,poppingandraspingfromheroldthroat, the lisping effect of ill-fitted dentures, the shouted volume of age-relatedhearingloss,andsheallowsmetogodeeper into theflowchart thananyone I’ve ever called. Already we’re at the twelfth level, topic four,questionseventeen:flavoredtoothpicks,forGod’ssake.

I’masking,Wouldsheconsiderpurchasingtoothpicksartificiallytreatedto taste like chocolate? Like beef? Like apples? Then I realize howdesperatelylonelyandisolatedthisoldladymustfeel.ProbablyI’mtheonlyhumancontact she’senjoyedallday,andhermeat loafor ricepuddingsitsrotting on the plate in front of her because she’s more starved forcommunicationwithanotherperson.

Even as a telemarketer, it’s best not to enjoyyourself toomuch. If youdon’t look miserable, the demons will reseat you next to someone whowhistles.Thennexttosomeonewhofarts.

From the survey questions I’ve already asked, I know the old lady iseighty-sevenyearsold.Shelivesaloneinafreestandinghome.Shehasthreegrownchildrenwholivemorethanfivehundredmilesdistantfromher.Shewatchessevenhoursoftelevisioneachday;andinthepastmonth,she’sreadfourteenromancenovels.

Just so you know, before you decide to do telemarketing over doingInternet porn, the sleazy Pervy Vanderpervs who text you with one handwhiletheyabusethemselveswiththeirother—atleastthey’renotgoingtobreakyourheart.Notlikethepathologicallylonelyoldstersandcripplesyouquizaboutnonstreakglasscleaner.

Listening to thissadold lady, Iwantsomuchtoreassureher thatdeathisn’t so bad. Even if the Bible is correct, and it’s easier to push caramelsthrough the eye of a needle than get to Heaven, well, Hell doesn’t totallysuck.Sure,you’remenacedbydemonsandthelandscapeisratherappalling,butshe’llmeetnewpeople.Icantellfromher410areacodethatshelivesinBaltimore,soevenifshediesandgoesstraighttoHellandgetsimmediatelydismemberedandgobbledbyPsezpolnicaorYumCimil,itwon’tbeahugecultureshock.Shemightnotevennoticethedifference.Notatfirst.

Too,Iyearntotellherthat—ifshelovesreadingbooks—she’sgoingtoadorebeingdead.Readingmostbooksfeelsexactlylikeyou’readeadbody.It’sallso…finished.True,JaneEyreisaneternal,agelesscharacter,butnomatterhowmanytimesyoureadthatdarnedbook,shealwaysgetsmarriedtogross,burn-victimMr.Rochester.Sheneverenrollsat theSorbonnetoearnhermaster’sdegreeinFrenchceramics,nordoessheopenaswankybistroin

NewYork’sGreenwichVillage.Reread thatBrontebookall youwant, butJane Eyre’s never going to get gender-reassignment surgery or train tobecome a kick-ass ninja assassin. And it’s pathetic that she believes she’sreal. Jane’s just ink stamped on a page, but she really, truly thinks she’s aliving-aliveperson.She’sconvincedshehasfreewill.

Listening to this eighty-seven-year-old voiceweep about her aches andpains, I yearn to encourage her to just give up and die. Kick the bucket.Forgettoothpicks.Forgetchewinggum.Itwon’thurt,Iswear.Infact,deathwillmakeherfeelwaybetter.Lookatme, Iwant tosay, I’monly thirteen,andbeingdeceased constitutes about thebest thing that’s everhappened tome.

As a word to the wise, I’d advise her just tomake sure she’s wearingsomedurable,low-heeled,dark-coloredshoesbeforeshecroaks.

Avoicesays,“Here.”AndstandingatmyelbowisBabettewithherfakeCoachbagandstraightskirtandbreasts.Inonehand,Babetteholdsastrappypairofhighheels.Shesays,“IgotthesefromDianaVreeland.Ihopetheyfit.Andshedropsthemintomylap.

Onthephone,theoldladyinBaltimorecontinuestosob.

The high heels are silver-colored patent leather, with ankle straps andrhinestone buckles across the toe, stilettos so tall I’ll never have to wadethrough cockroaches. These are shoes like I’ve never worn before becausethey’dmakemelooktooold,andtherebymakemymomREALLYlooktooold. Ridiculous shoes. These silly shoes are uncomfortable and impracticalandtooformal,andwaytoogrown-up.

Withtheoldladystillyammeringthroughmyheadset,IkickoffmyBassWeejunsandslipmyfeetintothestrappyhighheels.

Andyes,I’mwellawareofallthevalidreasonswhyIshouldpolitelybutfirmlyrefusetheseshoes…Butinstead,ILOVETHEM.Andtheyfit.

XVAreyouthere,Satan?It’sme,Madison.Ihope

thiswon’tsoundtooconfusing,butIdoherebyandforever abandon abandoning all hope.Honestly, Igiveupongivingup.I’mjustnotcutouttobesomehopeless, disillusioned wretch with no aspirationsfor the rest of eternity, sprawled catatonic in myown fecesona cold stone floor. Inall probabilitytheHumanGenomeProjectwill,someday,findthatIcarrysomerecessivegene foroptimism,becausedespite all my best efforts I still can’t scrapetogetherevenacoupledaysofhopelessness.FuturescientistswillcallitthePollyannaSyndrome,andifforcedtoguess’,I’dsaythatminehasbeenaway-longcasehistoryofchasingrainbows.

HowcomeIclicksowellwithGoranisthathe’sneverbeenallowedtobeachild,andI’mstrictlyforbiddentogrowanyolder.ThedaybeforemymomwassupposedtoappearattheOscars,shetookmetoadayspaonWilshirefor a little industrial-strength pampering, mother-daughter style.While sheand I got our hair highlighted, belted in identical fluffy white terry-clothbathrobes,ourfacescakedwithmasksofSonoranmud,mymomexplainedhowGoran grew up as a refugee in one of those Iron Curtain orphanageswhere the babies all lie ignored and untouched in cavernous wards untilthey’reoldenoughtovoteforthecurrentregime.Ortobeconscripted.

There in the day spa, even asLaotianmasseuses knelt to buff the deadskinfromourfeet,mymomtoldmethatinfantsrequireaminimumamountofphysical touch inorder todevelopany senseof empathyandconnectionwithotherhumanbeings.Withoutsuchhandling,ababyWouldgrowuptobeasociopath,lackinganyconscienceorabilitytolove.Moreasapoliticalgesture—notmerelyforpublicity’ssake—we’rehavingallofouracrylicfinger- and toenail overlays replaced. One of my mom’s deepest politicalconvictionsisthat,ifpeoplewantsodesperatelytocometotheUnitedStates,wadingacrosstheRioGrandeatgreatrisktotheirlifeandlimbsimplyfortheopportunitytopickourlettuceandironourhair,well,weshouldallowthem.Entire nationswould enjoy nothingmore than the opportunity to scrub ourkitchen floors, she says, and to prevent them from doing so would be aviolationoftheirmostbasichumanrights.

Mymomisadamanton thesubject.At themoment,“We’resurrounded

byvariouspoliticalandeconomicrefugeesas theycrowdforward toscrapeandwaxandpluckat°Urimperfections.

After all the herbal high colonics I’ve endured, not to Mention theelectrolysis,thetorturesofHellholdlittleterror.Itneverfailstoimpressmehowsomanyofthehuddledmassesandwretchedrefusecanfleethepoliticaloppressionandtortureofaforeigngovernment,thenarriveinAmericareadyandeagertoinflictlargelythesametorturesontherulingclasseshere.

Asmymomsees it, her dry, flaky skin is some immigrant’s vocationalopportunity.Plus,hurtingheroffers immigrantsaniftycathartic therapyforventingtheirrage.Herchappedlipsandsplitendsconstitutesomeone’srungsup the socioeconomic ladder toescapepoverty.Sliding intohermiddleagecomplete with cellulite and scaly elbows, my mother has become aneconomicengine,generatingmillionsofdollarswhichwillbewiredtofeedfamiliesandpurchasecholeramedicineinEcuador.Shouldsheeverdecideto“letherselfgo,”nodoubttensofthousandswouldperish.

And no, I haven’t overlooked the steadfast way in which my parentsblameGoran’sfailuretoadorethemoneveryoneexceptthemselves.Tothem,ifGorandoesn’tlovethem,thatclearlyindicatesthatGoranisdamagedandincapableoflovinganyone.

Inthespa,thestylistsandartistshoveraroundus,thoseminionsasdenseastheworstHarpiesofHell,circlingandofferingtheinformation—alwayscreditedtoaway-insidesource—thatwhileDakotamakesalovelygirl,shewas in fact born with superfluous male genitalia. My mom’s personalassistant:CherryorNadineorUlrikeorwhoever,shebraysthatCameronisso dense that she bought the morning-after abortion pill and, instead ofswallowing,stuckoneupinsideherwoo-woo.

According tomymom, national boundariesmust be adequately porous,andincomesmustberedistributedtoallowallpeople,regardlessofraceandreligion and circumstances of birth, to be able to purchase her films. Hernobleegalitarianphilosophyholdsthatallhumanbeingsshouldbeallowedtobuy tickets to her movies AND to vacuum her pores. She insists neitherAfrica nor the Indian subcontinent will ever achieve technological andcultural parity with theWestern world until their density of DVD playersmakesthemamajorconsumerofherbodyoffilmicwork.Andbythat,shemeansherREALwork,marketedinitsactualstudio-designedpackaging,notmerely some crappy pirated, black-market unit which pays royalties tonobodyexceptdruglordsandchildsexslaves.

Lecturingtheassembledpublicistsandstylists,mymomsaysthatifanyaboriginalpeoplesorprimitivetribestilldoesnotcelebrateheracting,that’s

onlybecause those subjugatednativecultures find themselvesoppressedbyan evil, fundamentalist form of religion. Their budding appreciation of herfilms is obviously being quashed by some devilish imam or patriarchalayatollahorwitchdoctor.

Rallying the pedicurists and aestheticians around the white terry-clothhem of her robe, mymother speechifies that they’re not just grooming anactorinordertopimpamotionpicture.Inactuality,theteamofus,mymomand her stylists and masseuses and manicurists, we’re engaged in raisingawareness around bold, cinematic narrativeswhichmodel the possibility oftruly equal standardsof blah, blah, blah…Insteadof spending their lives aspregnant, dirt-eating, genitally mutilated victims of some crushingtheocracy… now, third-world ladies can aspire to become cosmo-swilling,JimmyChoo-wearingsexualpredators.Byourdeftuseofacrylicfingernailsandbleached-blondhairextensions—hereshefluttersheroutflungarmsinan all-inclusive gesture — we’re empowering the downtrodden, exploitedpeoplesoftheworld.

Yes,mymom lacks even the remotest sense of irony, but she’s certainthatinaperfectworld,anymiserablelittleboyorgirlshouldbeabletogrowupandbecomenothinglessthan…her.Bestleftunsaidwasthefactthatsheandmydadwere alreadybrandishingglossy, gate-foldedbrochures for all-boys boarding schools in Nova Scotia. Military schools in Iceland. It wasclear:Goranwasn’tasuccess,andsomeimpendingdawnI’dfindhimpackedupandgone,replacedbyafour-year-oldBhutaneseleper.

IfIwantedtopracticemyfemininewilesonGoran,mytimewasrunningout.

Asmymotherwouldsay,“You’vegottostrikewhiletheflatironishot.”Meaning:Ineededtogetprettyandmakemymovesoon.Ideally,tomorrownight.Ideally,whilemyfolkswereonstage,dolingouttheOscars.

Thefinalstrawthatbrokethecamel’sbackwas,thisweek,whenGoransoldfiveofmymom’sEmmysovertheInternetfortendollarsapiece.Beforethat,apparently,he’dcollectedabunchofherPalmed’Orawards fromourhouseinCannesandsoldthemallforfivebucksapop.Afteradecadeofmyparentsinsistingthatmovie-industryawardsmeantnothing,andamountedtolittlemore than a crass gold-plated embarrassment,mymom and dadwentapeshit.

The way my mom saw it, Goran’s every transgression, his everymisanthropicmisbehaviorwas simply a result ofhisnot receiving adequateloveandcuddling.

“Youmustpromiseme,Maddy,”mymomsaid, “thatyou’ll showyour

poorbrotheranextra-specialamountofpatienceandaffection.”

His deprived infancy is how come, when my parents rented out a SixFlags amusementpark for his birthday, and trottedout a purebredShetlandponyashisgift,Goranassumedtheanimalwaslunch.ForHalloween,they’ddressedhimupasJean-PaulSartre,withmeasSimonedeBeauvoir,trick-or-treating up and down the hallways of the Ritz in Paris with copies of LaNauseeand TheSecondSex,andGoran didn’t get the joke.More recently,Goranhadhackedintomymother’sbathroomsecuritycameraandsoldWebsubscriptions.

Of course, my dad wanted to introduce the concept of discipline andconsequencesintoGoranslife,butaboywho’snodoubtbeentorturedwithelectroshocks and waterboarding and intravenous injections of liquid draincleaner,he’snotgoingtobeeasilycowedbythethreatofaspankingandaone-hourtime-out.

BynowmypinkblousehadarrivedfromBarcelona.Iplannedtowearitwith a skort and my cardigan sweater embroidered with the crest whichrepresentedmyboarding school in Switzerland.That, and basic low-heeledBassWeejunpennyloafers.SoonenoughGoranandIwouldsettleourselvesin front of the television in our hotel suite. Alone, just him andme, we’dwatch my parents arrive at the red carpet in the Prius arranged by thepublicist. Frigid, reclusive Goran would bemine alone as we watchedmymomanddadpreenforthepaparazzi.Oncetheyweresafelyaway,Iplannedtophoneroomserviceandrequestdinnerpourdeux,lobsterandoystersandonionrings.Fordessert,I’dprocuredfiveouncesofmyparents’geneticallyenhanced Mexican sinsemilla. No, it’s not especially logical: My parentsconstantly railed in opposition to irradiated, genetically spliced andengineered corn, but wheremarijuanawas concerned plant scientists couldnever monkey with it too much. No matter how hybrid a Frankensteinskunkweed,theywouldpackthestickyresinousmessintoapipeandtorchit.

Incaseyouhaveyettonotice,myparentsdonothinginmoderation.Onone hand, they mourn the fact that Goran spent his babyhood alone anduntouched.Whileon theotherhand theynevercease touchingme,huggingandkissingme,especiallywhenthepaparazziarearound.Mymotherlimitsmywardrobetopinkandyellow.MyshoesareeithercuteCapezioballetflatsor Mary Janes. The only makeup I own is forty different shades of pinklipstick.You see, neither ofmyparentswantsme to appear anyolder thansevenoreight.Officially,I’vebeeninthesecondgradeforyears.

Whenmybaby teeth began to fall out, theywent so far as to suggest Iwearasetof thepainfulprimary-teethdentures thatTwentiethCenturyFoxforced into little Shirley Temple’s adolescent mouth. In times like these,

beingkneaded,probed,andpolishedbyateamofbeautyexperts,IwishedIhadalsobeenraised,untouched,inanIronCurtainorphanage.

Thisyear,theAcademyAwardsfellsmack-dabonmythirteenthbirthday.With stylists swarmingaroundher,dressingandundressingher likeagiantdoll,makeupartistsexperimentingtodecidewhicheyeshadowworkedbestwithwhatdesignergown,hairdresserscurlingandstraighteningherhair,mymothersuggestsIgetasmalltattootomarktheoccasion.AlittleHelloKittyorHollyHobbie,shesays,orapiercinginmynavel.

Mydadhasapenchantforbuyingmestuffedanimals.And,yes,Iknowtheword penchant, although I’m still not certain what constitutes French-kissing.

God only knewwhat a cute Holly Hobbie or Hello Kitty tramp stampwouldstretchandfadetobecomeoverthenextsixtyyears.Inthesamewaymyparentsimaginedallthelittleboysandgirlsofthethirdworldwantedtobecome them… my folks thought my childhood should be the childhoodthey’dwantedtohave,resplendentwithmeaninglesssex,recreationaldrugs,androckmusic.Tattoosandbodyjewelry.Alltheirpeersfeelprettymuchthesame,anditleadstochildrenwhomthepublicbelievestobenineyearsoldbecomingpregnant.Thustheparadoxofteachingnurseryrhymesalongwithcontraception skills. Birthday presents such as Hello Kitty diaphragms andHollyHobbiespermicidalfoamandPeterRabbitcrotchlesspanties.

Please don’t imagine it’s fun being me. My mom tells the stylist,“Maddy’snot ready for bangs.”She tells thewardrobeperson, “Maddy’s alittlesensitiveaboutherbigbottom.”

Don’timagineIevengettospeak.Ontopofthat,mymomcomplainsthatInevertalk.Myfatherwouldtellyouthatlifeisagame,andyouneedtorollupyoursleevesandbuildsomething:Writeabook.Danceadance.Tobothmy parents, the world is a battle for attention, a war to be heard. Perhapsthat’swhatIadmireaboutGoran:hisdistinctlackofhustle.Goran’stheonlypersonIknowwho’snotnegotiatingasix-picturedealwithParamount.He’snotstagingashowofhispaintingsattheMuseed’Orsay.Norishehavinghisteethchemicallybleached.Goransimplyis.He’snotsecretlylobbyingforthestupidAcademy of stupidMotion PictureArts and Sciences to give him ashinystatuewhileazillionpeoplestandandapplaud.He’snotcampaigningto build hismarket share.Wherever Goran is at thismoment— sitting orstanding,laughingorcrying—he’sdoingitwiththeclarityofaninfantwhoknowsthatnoonewillevercometohisrescue.

Whiletechniciansblastherupperlipwithlasers,mymomsays,“Isn’tthisfun,Maddy?Justus two, together…”Wheneverfewer thanfourteenpeople

areclutchingatus,mymotherconsiders that tobeprivatemother-daughter“alonetime.”

No,whether he’s alone or observed bymillions,whether he’s loved orloathed, Goran would be the same person.Maybe that’s what I love mostabouthim—thathe’ssomuchNOTlikemyparents.OrlikeanyoneIknow.

Goranabsolutely,positivelydoesNOTneedlove.

AmanicuristwithaGypsyaccent,somethingleftoverfromsomecountrywhere brokers analyze the stock market by reading pigeon entrails, thiswomanbuffsmynails,holdingmyhandcradledinherown.Afteramoment,sheturnsmyhandpalmupandlooksatthenew,redskinwhereI’dleftmyfrozenskinstucktothedoorhandleinSwitzerland.Shedoesn’tsayanything,this bug-eyed Gypsy manicurist, but she’s clearly marveling at how mywrinkles have been erased. How both my lifeline and love line have notmerelystopped—butvanished.Stillcuppingmyredhandinherowncoarse,rough fingers, themanicurist looks frommypalm tomy face, andwith thefingersofherotherhand,shetouchesherforehead,herchest,hershoulders,makingafastsignofthecross.

XVIAre you there, Satan? It’s me,Madison. Over

the phone today, I made a new friend. She’s notdead,notyet,butIcantellwe’regoingtobeway-totalbestfriends.

AccordingtomywristwatchI’vebeendeadforthreemonths,twoweeks,fivedays,andseventeenhours.Subtractthatfrominfinityandyougetsomeideawhyloadsofdoomedsoulsabandonalltheirhope.Nottoboast,butI’vemanaged to stay reasonably presentable despite the overall grimy localconditions.Lately I’ve taken to scrubbingmy telephoneheadset andgivingmychairagooddustingbeforeImakeanycalls.AtthemomentI’mtalkingwith an elderly shut-in who lives, alone, in theMemphis, Tennessee, areacode. The unfortunate lady is trapped at home for days at a time, debatingwhether to suffer through yet another round of chemotherapy despite thelesseningqualityofherlife.

ThepoorinfirmwomanhasanswerednearlyeveryquestionI’vethrownatheraboutchewinggumpreferences,aboutpaper-clipbuyinghabits,aboutherconsumptionofcottonswabs.I’velongagocomeouttoheraboutbeingthirteenyearsoldanddeadandrelegated toHell.Formypart, I’mpitchingherthatdeathisabreeze,andifshehasanyquestionaboutwhethershe’dgotoHeavenorHell,thisladyneedstorunoutimmediatelyandcommitsomeheinouscrime.Hell,Itellher,isthehappeningplace.

“JackieKennedyOnassisishere,”Itellheroverthephone.”Youknowyouwanttomeether…“

Really,alltheKennedysarehereabouts,butthatlargerfactmightnotbesuchagreatsellingtool.

Still,despitethepainfromhercancerandthesickeningsideeffectsofhertreatments,theMemphisladyhasherreservationsaboutabandoningherlife.

Iwarn her that in noway do people simply arrive inHell and achievesome instantaneous typeofenlightenment.Nobody finds themselves lockedwithinagrimycell, thenslapsapalm to their foreheadandsays, “Noduh!I’vebeenatotalasshole”

No one’s histrionics are magically resolved. If anything, people’scharacter flaws spin out of control. In Hell, bullies remain bullies. Angrypeople are still angry. People inHell prettymuch keep doing the negativebehaviorwhichearnedthemaone-wayticket.

And,Iwarnthecancerlady,don’texpectanyguidanceormentoringfromthedemons.Notunlessyou’repalmingthemaconstantsupplyofChick-O-Sticks and Heath bars. The demonic bureaucracy, they might pretend toshufflesomepapersinanofficiousmanner,thenpromisetoreviewyourfile,buttheirattitudeis:Well,you’reinHell,soyoumust’vedonesomething. Inthatway,Hellisawfullypassive-aggressive.Asisearth.Asismymother.

If you believe Leonard, this is how Hell breaks people down — bypermittingthemtoactouttogreaterandgreaterextremes,becomingviciouscaricaturesofthemselves,earningfewerandfewerrewards,untiltheyfinallyrealizetheirfolly.Perhaps,Imuseoverthetelephone,thatistheoneeffectivelessonwhichonelearnsinHell.

Dependingonhermood,JudyGarlandcanstillbemorefrighteningthananydemonordevilyoumightrunacross.

Sorry.IhavenotactuallyseenJudyGarland.OrJackieO.Forgivememysmalllie.Afterall,IaminHell.

Inaworst-casescenario,Itellthewoman,iftheBigCdoeskillherandsheendsupinthePit,sheneedstolookmeup.I’mMaddySpencer,phonebanknumber3,717,021,positiontwelve.I’mfour-foot-nine,weareyeglasses,andsporttheway-coolestnewsilver,ankle-straphighheelsanyonehaseverseen.

Thephonebankwhere Iwork is locatedatHellheadquarters, I instructthedyingwoman.YoujustgopasttheGreatOceanofWastedSperm.HangaleftatthegushingRiverofSteaming-hotVomit.

Outofthecornerofmyeye,IseeBabetteheadedmyway.Inclosing,Iwishthecancer ladygoodluckwithherchemo,andwarnhernot tosmoketoomuchspliffforthenausea,sincereeferisnodoubtwhatgotmeexpress-mailed tomypersonal forever in the fierypit.Beforeending thecall I say,“Now remember, ask forMadisonSpencer.Everybody knowsme and viceversa.I’llshowyoutheropes.”

JustasBabettestepsupbesideme,Isay,“Bye,”andendthephonecall.

Already theautodialerhasanother telephone ringingwithinmyheadset.OnthefilthylittlescreenreadsanumberwithaSiouxFallsareacode,wherethewindowofdinnertimemustjustnowbeopening.Inthisfashion,webeginourshiftbyannoyingpeopleinGreatBritain,thentheEasternUnitedStates,thentheMidwest,theWestCoast,etc.

Standingbesideme,Babettesays,“Hey.”

Coveringthemouthpieceofmyheadset,cuppingonehandoverit,Isay,

“Hey,”inreturn.Imouththewords,Thanksfortheshoes…Babettewinks,saying,“Nobiggie.”Shefoldsherarmsacrossherchest,

leans back a smidgen, peering at me, and says, “I’m thinking maybe weshouldchangeyourhair.”Squinting,Babettesays,“I’mthinking,maybe—bangs.”

Atmerelytheidea—bangs!—mybutt’salreadybouncinglittlebouncesintheseatofmychair.Withinmyearpiece,avoiceanswersthecall,“Hello?”Thevoicesoundsmuffledandgarbledwithamouthfulofpartiallymasticateddinnerfood.

ToBabette,Inodmyheadenthusiastically.Intothephone,Isay,“We’reconducting a consumer survey to track purchase patterns for commonhouseholditems…“

Babetteliftsherhand,tapsthewristwiththeindexfingerofheroppositehand,andmouths,What’sthetime?

Inresponse,Imouth,August.AndBabetteshrugsandwalksaway.

Over the next few hours, I run across an elderly man dying of kidneyfailure.Amiddle-agedwomanapparentlylosingherbattleagainstlupus.Wetalk for anhour, easy. Imeet anothermanwho’s alone, trapped in a cheapapartment,dyingofcongestiveheartfailure.Imeetagirlaboutmysameage,thirteen,who’sdyingfromAIDS.Thislastone,hernameisEmily.ShelivesinVictoria,BritishColumbia,Canada.

Allofthesedyingfolks,Ipitchthemonrelaxing,notbeingtooattachedtotheirlives,andnotrulingoutthepossibilityofrelocatingtoHell.No,it’snotfair,butonlythelate-stagefolkswillallowmetoharassthemwiththirtyor forty questions, they’re so strung-out from their treatments or they’re soaloneandfrightened.

TheAIDSgirl,Emily,won’t believemeat first.Either aboutbeinghersame age or about being dead. Emily’s been kept out of school since herimmune system crashed, and she’s so far gone that she’s no longer evenworriedabout flunkingseventhgrade. In response, I tellher that I’mdatingRiverPhoenix.And, ifshecanhurryup,quick,anddie,word is thatHeathLedgerisn’tdatinganybodyatthemoment.

Ofcourse,I’mnotdatinganybody,butwhat’smypunishmentfortellingalittlefib?AmIgoingtoHell?Ha!It’sstunninghowhavingnothingtolosewillbuildyourself-confidence.

And,yes,itoughttobreakmyheart,talkingtoagirlmysameagewho’s

stuckalone,dyingofAIDS inCanadawithbothherparentsatwork,whileshewatches televisionand feelsweakereveryday,butat leastEmily’sstillalive.Thataloneputsherheadandshouldersabovemeinthepeckingorder.Ifanything,itseemstobrightenherspirits,meetingsomeonealreadydead.

Over thephone,all self-righteous,Emilyannounces thatnotonly is shestillalive,butshehasnointentionofendingupinHell.

Iaskifshe’severbutteredherbreadbeforebreakingit?Hassheeverusedthewordain’t?Hassheeverfixedafallen-downhemwitheitherasafetypinor adhesive tape? Well, I’ve met mobs of people condemned to eternalhellfireforjustthoseveryslipups,soEmilyhadbestnotcountherchickensbefore they’re hatched. According to Babette’s statistics, 100 percent ofpeoplewhodieofAIDSareconsignedtoHell.Asareallabortedbabies.Andallpeoplekilledbydrunkdrivers.

And all the peoplewho drowned on the Titanic, rich and poor, they’rehere roastingawayalso.Everysinglesoul.Torepeat:This isHell—don’taskfortoomuchlogic.

Onthephone,Emilycoughs.Shecoughsandcoughs.Atlast,shecatchesenoughbreathtosaytheAIDSisn’therfault.Besidesthat,she’snotgoingtodie,notforalong,longtime.Shecoughsoncemore,andhercoughingendsinsobs,sniffing,andweeping,realway-genuinelittle-girlboo-hooing.

No, it’snot fair, I reply. In reality,withinmyhead, I’mstill soexcited.Oh,Satan,justimagineit:MewithBangs!

On the phone it’s silent except for the sound of crying. Then, Emilyshrieks,“You’relying!”

Intomy headset, I say, “You’ll see.” I tell her to lookme up once shearrives.By then I’llprobablybeMrs.RiverPhoenix,butwe’llmakeabet.Ten Milky Way bars says she’s down here with me faster than she canimagine. “Ask anybody for directions,” I tell her. “The name’s MaddySpencer,”Isay,andsheneedstomakesureanddiewithtencandybarsinherpocketsowecansettleourbet.Ten!Notsnack-size!

And, yes, I know the word masticated. It’s not as dirty a word as itsounds.Butno,I’mnotway-totallysurprisedwhenthisCanadianEmilygirlhangsup.

XVIIAre you there, Satan? It’s me, Madison. I

suspect that my parents had an inkling about mycovert plan to seduce Goran. This night, whilethey’rebothout,I’llprofessmyloveasvehementlyas Scarlett O’Hara throwing herself at AshleyWilkesinthelibraryofhisTwelveOaksplantationhouse.

Mere hours prior to theAcademyAwards,my parents are fussing overwhichcolorofpoliticalaction ribbon topinon themselves.Pink, forbreastcancer.Yellow, for Bring the SoldiersHome.Green, for climate change—exceptformymom’sgownarrivedlookingmoreorangethancrimson,soanysymbolicprotestagainstclimatechangewouldclash.Mymomfoldsascrapofredribbon,holdingitagainstthebodiceofhergown.Studyingtheeffectinamirror,shesays,“DopeoplestillgetAIDS?”Shesays,“Don’tlaugh,butitjustseemsso…1989.”

Thethreeofus,her,me,andmydad,areinthehotelsuite,waitinginthelullbetweenthesiegeofthestylistarmyandthelaunchofthePrius.Mydadsays,“Maddy?”Inonehand,heholdsoutapairofgoldcufflinks.

Istepclosertohim,myownhandextended,palmup.

Myfatherdropshiscuff links intomycuppedpalm.Thenheshootshisshirt cuffs, French cuffs, extending both hands, turned wrist-up, for me toinsertandfastenthecufflinks.Thesearetheteeny-tinymalachitecufflinkssome producer gave everyone as a wrap gift after shooting ended on mymom’slastfilm.

Mydadasks,“Maddy,doyouknowwherebabiescomefrom?”

Theoretically, yes. I understand the messy ordeal of the egg and thesperm, plus all the ancient tropes about finding infants beneath cabbageleaves or storks bringing them, but just to force what’s obviously anuncomfortablesituation,Isay,“Babies?”Isay,“Mommy,Daddy…”Cantingmyheadinanot-unappealingmanner,Iwidenmyeyesandsay,“Doesn’tthecastingdirectorbringthem?”

My father bends one elbow, pulls back the shirt cuff on that hand, andlooksathiswristwatch.Helooksatmymother.Hesmileswanly.

Mymom drops her evening bag into a hotel chair and heaves a deep,heavysigh.Shesettlesherself into thechairandpatsherknees inagesture

formetomovecloser.My father steps to stand immediately beside her chair, then bends his

knees tositon thechair’sarm.The twoof themcreatea tableauofelegantgood looks.Someticulouslyoutfitted in their tuxedo andgown.Everyhairassigneditsperfectplace.Thepairofthem,sobeautifullyblockedforatwo-shot,Ican’tresistmessingwiththeirZen.

Dutifully, I cross the hotel room and sit on the Oriental carpet at mymother’s feet. Already, I’mwearing the tweedy skort, the pink blouse andcardigan sweater formy long-planned rendezvouswithGoran. I gaze up atmyparentswithguilelessterriereyes.Wide-openJapanese-animationeyes.

“Now,whenamanlovesawomanvery,verymuch…”mydadsays.

Mymotherretrievestheeveningpursefromtheseatbesideher.Snappingopentheclasp,shereachesoutapillbottle,saying,“WouldyoulikeaXanax,Maddy?”

Ishakemyhead,No.Withherperfectlymanicuredhands,mymomexecutesthestagebusiness

of twisting open the pill bottle, then shaking two of the pills into her ownhand.Myfatherreachesdownfromhisperchonthearmofherchair.Insteadofgivinghimoneofthetwopillssheholds,sheshakestwomorepillsoutofthe bottle into his hand.Bothmy parents toss back the pills they hold andswallowthemdry.

“Now,”mydadsays,“whenamanlovesawomanvery,verymuch…”

“Or,”mymomadds,shootinghimalook,“whenamanlovesamanorawoman loves awoman.” In the fingers of one hand, she still toyswith thescrapofredgrosgrainribbon.

Myfathernods.“Yourmotherisright.”Headds,“Orwhenamanlovestwowomen,orthreewomen,backstageafterabigrockconcert…”

“Or,”mymomsays,“whenawholecellblockofmaleprisonersloveonenewinmatevery,verymuch…”

“Or,” my dad interjects, “when a motorcycle gang making a meth runacross the SouthwesternUnited States loves one drunken biker chick very,verymuch…”

Yes, I know their car iswaiting.ThePrius.At the awardsvenue, somepoortalentwranglerisnodoubtreshufflingtheirarrival time.Despiteallofthese stress factors, I merely furrowmy preadolescent brow in a confusedexpressionmyBotoxedparentscanonlyenvy.Ishiftmygazebackandforthbetweenmymom’seyesandmydad’sevenastheXanaxturnsthemglazed

andglassy.

Mymotherlooksup,castinghergazeoverhershouldersothathereyesmeetmyfather’s.

Finally,mydadsays,“Oh,tohellwithit.”Reachingahandintohistuxjacket,heextractsapersonaldigitalassistant,orPDA,fromtheinsidepocket.Hecrouchesnexttothechair,bringingthetinycomputerlevelwithmyface.Flippingthescreenopen,hekeyboardsCtrl+Alt+P,andthescreenfillswithaviewofourmediaroominPrague.Hetogglesuntilthewide-screentelevisionfills the entire computer screen, then keys Ctrl+Alt+L and scrolls downthrough a list of movie titles. Tabbing down the list, my father selects amovie,andakeystroke later thecomputerscreenfillswitha tangleofarmsandlegs,danglinghairlesstesticles,andquiveringsilicone-enhancedbreasts.

Yes, I may be a virgin, a dead virgin, with no knowledge of carnalitybeyond the soft-focusmetaphorsofBarbaraCartlandnovels,but I canwellrecognizeafakeboobywhenIseeone.

The camerawork is atrocious. Anywhere from two to twenty men andwomen grapple, frantically involved in violating every orifice present withevery digit, phallus, and tongue available to them. Whole human bodiesappeartobedisappearingintootherbodies.Thelightingisabysmal,andthesound has obviously been looped by nonunion amateursworkingwithout adecentfinaldraft.Whatappearsbeforemebears lessresemblance tosexualcongress than itdoes to thewrithing,squirming,not-quite-dead-yet-already-partially-decomposedoccupantsofamassgrave.

My mom smiles. Nodding at the PDA screen, she says, “Do youunderstand,Maddy?”Shesays,“Thisiswherebabiescomefrom.”

Mydadadds,‘Andherpes.”

“Antonio,”mymother says, “let’s not go down that road.” Tome, shesays,“Younglady,areyouabsolutelysureyoudon’twantaXanax?”

In the center of the tiny pornographic movie, the hideous little orgy isinterrupted. The words Incoming Call superimpose themselves over thegrapplingbodies.Ared lightblinksat the topof thePDAcase,andashrillbellrings.Mydadsays,“Wait,”andheholdsthePDAtohisear,wherethegruesome assemblage of entwined limbs and genitals squirm against hischeek; videotaped penises erupt their vile sputum dangerously near his eyeandmouth.Answeringthecallthus,hesays,“Hello?”Hesays,“Fine.We’llbedownstairsinamoment.”

Ishakemyheadagain,No.No,thankyou,totheXanax.

Already,mymom starts poking around inside her evening purse. “Thisisn’t your real birthday present,” she says, “but just in case…”What shehandsme is round,a rolledbatchof shinyplasticorvinyl,printedwith therepeatingpatternofacartooncatface.Theplasticorfoilfeelssoslickthatitcouldbewet,tooslicktoeasilyholdonto;thuswhenIreachtotakeitfromherhand, the rolldrops to the floor,unspooling itself to revealaseeminglyendlessseriesofthesamecartooncatface.Thelongplasticstrip,quiltedintolittlesquares,thistrailsfrommyhandtothefloor.Thelengthofitgivesoffapowdery,hospitalsmelloflatex.

Bythen,myparentsaregone;they’vesweptoutthedoorofthehotelsuitebefore I realize I’m holding a fifteen-foot-long supply of Hello Kittycondoms.

XVIIIAre you there, Satan? It’sme,Madison. Little

bylittle,I forgetmylifeonearth,howit felt tobealive and living, but today something happenedwhich shockedmeback to remembering—maybenoteverything—butatleastIrealizehowmuchImightbeforgetting.Orsuppressing.

ThecomputerizedautodialerinHellmakesitatopprioritytocallmostlynumbersonthefederalgovernment’sNoCallList.Icanpracticallysmellthemercury-enhanced tuna casserole on the breath of people whose dinner Iinterrupt,evenoverthefiber-opticorwhateverphonelinesthatconnectearthand Hell, when they yell at me. Their dinner napkins still tucked into thecollarsof theirT-shirts, flappingdowntheir fronts,spottedwithHamburgerHelper and Green Goddess salad dressing, these angry people in Detroit,Biloxi,andAllentown,theyyellformeto,“GotoHell…”

Andyes,Imightbeathoughtless,uncouthinterloperintothesavoryritualoftheireveningrepast,butI’mwayaheadoftheirhostilerequest.

Thiscurrentdayormonthorcentury, I’mplugged intomyworkstation,getting shouted at, asking people their consumer preferences regardingballpointpens,whensomethingnewoccurs.Atelephonecallcomesthroughthesystem.Anincomingcall.Evenassomemeatloaf-eatingmoronshoutsatme,abeepsoundstartswithinmyheadset.Somekindofcall-waitingsound.Whetherthiscall’scomingfromearthorHell,Ican’tbegintoguess,andthecaller identification isblocked.The instant themeat-loafmoronhangsup, IpressCtrl+Alt+Deltoclearmyline,andsay,“Hello?”

Agirl’svoicesays,“IsthisMaddy?AreyouMadisonSpencer?”

Iask,Who’scalling?

“I’mEmily,” the girl says, “fromBritishColumbia.”The thirteen-year-old. The girl with the really bad case of AIDS. She’s *69’dme. Over thetelephone,shesays,“Areyoureallyandtrulydead?”

Asadoornail,Itellher.

ThisEmilygirlsays,“ThecallerIDsaysyourareacodeisforMissoula,Montana…“

Itellher,Samedeal.

Shesays,“IfIcalledyouback,collect,wouldyouacceptthecharges?”

Sure,Itellher.I’lltry.

And—click—shehangsuponherend.

Granted it’s not entirely ethical to make personal calls from Hell, buteverybody does it. To one side of me, the punk kid, Archer, sits with hisleather-jacketedelbowalmosttouchingmycardigan-sweateredelbow.Archertoys with the big safety pin which hangs from his cheek, while into hisheadset he’s saying, “… No, seriously, you sound gnarly-hot.” He says,‘Afteryourskin-cancer thingmetastasizes,youandmeneedtototallyhookup…“

At my opposite elbow, the brainiac Leonard stares forward, his eyesunfocused,tellinghisheadset,“Queen’srooktoG-five…”

Evenas I sithere,myheadclamped inaheadset, theearpiececoveringoneearandthemicrophoneloopedaroundtohanginfrontofmymouth,atthesametime,Babettehoversoverme,circlingandsnippingatmyhairwiththecuticlescissorsfromherpurse,shapingmethemostway-perfectpageboyhaircutwithstraight-acrossbangs.Evenshedoesn’tcarethatI’msocializingonHell’sdime.

My line rings again, and amechanical voice says, “You have a collectphonecallfrom…”

AndtheCanadianAIDSgirladds,“Emily.”

Thecomputersays,“Willyouacceptthecharges?”

AndIsay,Yes.

Overthephone,Emilysays,“Ionlycalledbecausethisconstitutesaway-terribleemergency.”Shesays,“Myparentswantmetoseeanewshrink.DoyouthinkIshouldgo?”

Shakingmyhead,Itellher,“Noway.”

Babette’shandgrips thebackofmyneck,herwhite-painted fingernailsdigginginuntilIholdstill.

“Anddon’tletthemfeedyoufullofXanax,either,”Isayintothephone.Frommypersonal experience, nothing feels as awful as pouringyourheartouttosometalktherapist,thenrealizingthisso-calledprofessionalisactuallyvastlystupidandyou’vejustprofessedyourmostsecretsecretstosomegoonwho’swearingonebrownsockandonebluesock.OryouseeanEarthFirst!bumperstickerontherearofhisdieselHummerH3Tintheparkinglot.Oryoucatchhimpickinghisnose.Yourpreciousconfidantyouexpectedwouldsort out your entire twisted psyche, who now harbors all your darkestconfessions, he’s just some jerk with a master’s degree. To change the

subject,IaskEmilyhowitwasthatshecontractedAIDS.

“Howelse?”Emilysays.“Frommylasttherapist,ofcourse.”Iask,Washecute?

Emilyshrugsaudibly,saying,“Cuteenough,forasliding-scaletherapist.”

Toyingwithastrandofmyhair,loopingitaroundmyfinger,thenpullingit towheremy teeth cannibble the tips, I askEmilywhat it’s like to haveAIDS.

Evenover thephone,hereyeroll isaudible.“It’s likebeingCanadian,”shesays.“Yougetusedtoit.”

Tryingtosoundimpressed,Isay,“Wow.”Isay,“Iguesspeoplecangetusedtoprettymuchanything.”

Justtomakeconversation,IaskifEmilyhasgottenherfirstperiodyet.

“Sure,” Emily says, “but when your viral loads are this sky-high,menstruationislesslikeabigcelebrationofattainingwomanhood,andmorelikeaway-biologicallyhazardoustoxicspillinyourpants.”

Withoutrealizingit,Imuststillbebitingmyhair,becauseBabetteslapsmyhandaway.Shewavesthelittlescissorsinmyfaceandgivesmeasternlook.

Over the phone, Emily says, “I figure that once I’m dead I can startdating.”Shesays,“IsCoreyHaimseeinganybody?”

Idon’tanswer,notrightaway,notthatinstant,becauseaherdofnewHellinducteesiscrowdingpastmyworkstation.Aregularfloodofpeoplehasjustarrived,stillnotentirelycertainthey’redead.Mostofthemwearleismadeofsilkflowersloopedaroundtheirnecks.Theonesnotwearingsunglasseshaveastunned,worried look in theireyes.Amob thatcouldeasilybe theentirepopulationofsomecountry,it’susuallyproofthatsomethingterriblehasjustbefallenfolksonearth.

Over thephone, I askEmily if something awful just occurred.Amajorearthquake?Atidalwave?Anuclearbomb?Didadamburst?Ofthemilling,stunnednewcomers,most appear tobewearingvividHawaiian-print shirts,with cameras slung on cords hanging around their necks. These people allboast roasted-red sunburns, somewith white stripes of zinc oxide smearedacrossthebridgeoftheirnose.

In response, Emily says, “Some big cruise-ship disaster, like, a jilliontouristsdiedoffoodpoisoningfromeatingbadlobsters.”Shesays,“Whydoyouask?”

Isay,“Noreason.”

Deep in this crowd, a familiar face floats. A boy’s face, his eyesgloweringbeneaththeoverhangofaheavybrow.Hishair,toothicktocombflat.

Inmyear,Emilyasks,“Howdidyoudie?”

“Marijuana,” I tell her. Still watching the boy’s face in the middledistance,Isay,“I’mnotaltogethercertain.”Isay,“Iwassowaystoned.”

Aroundme, Archer flirts with dying cheerleaders. Leonard checkmatessome alive dweeb. Patterson asks somebody on earth how the Raiders arerankedthisseason.

Emilysays,“Nobodydiesfrommarijuana.”Pressingthesubject,shesays,“What’sthelastdetailyourememberaboutyourlife?”

Isay,Idon’tknow.

Beyondthisnewfloodofthedamned,theboy’sfaceturns.Hiseyesmeetmine.Heofthemoody,wrinkledforehead.HeofthesnarlingHeathclifflips.

Emilysays,“Butwhatkilledyou?”

Isay,Idon’tknow.

Theboyin thedistance,he turnsandbegins towalkaway,dodgingandweavingtoescapethroughthecrowdofpoisonedtourists.

Byreflex,Istand,myheadsetstill tetheringmetomyworkstation.Andwith a sharp shove againstmy shoulder,Babette sitsme back down inmychairandcontinuestosnipatmyhair.

“Butwhatdoyouremember?”Emilyasks.

Goran,Itellher.Irememberwatchingthetelevision,lyingonthecarpetonmystomach,proppedonmyelbows,nexttoGoran.Arrayedonthecarpetaround us, I recall half-eaten room-service trays containing onion rings,cheeseburgers.Mymomappearedonthetelevisionscreen.She’dpinnedthepinkbreastcancerribbontohergown,and—astheapplausedieddown—shesaid,“Tonightisaveryspecialnight,inmorewaysthanone.Foritwasonthisnight,eightyearsago,thatmypreciousdaughterwasborn…“

Sprawled on the hotel carpet amid cold food and Goran, I rememberseething.

Itwasmythirteenthbirthday.Irememberthetelevisioncamerascuttingtoshowmydad,seatedinthe

audience,beamingwithaproudsmiletoshowoffhisnewdentalimplants.

Evennow,deadandinHell,way-totallyreadytogetbustedforacceptingacollectcall fromCanada, IaskEmily,“Insecondor thirdgrade…”Iask,“didyouplaytheFrench-kissingGame?”

Emilysays,“Isthathowyoudied?”

No,Itellher,butthatgameisallIremember.

And, yes, Imight be forgetful or in denial or five years older thanmymotherwouldlikemetobe,butasIstareacrossthelandscapeofHawaiianshirts and fake-flower leis, some of those loud shirts and silk flowers stillsplashedwithfood-poisoningvomit,thefaceIseerecedingintothedistanceofHell is thatofmybrother,Goran.Incontrast tothegarishtropicalcruiseapparel, Goran wears a pink jumpsuit, bright pink, with some sort ofmultidigitnumberstitchedacrossonesideofhischest.

On the phone, her voice still in my earpiece, Emily says, “What’s theFrench-kissingGame?”

And thenGoran, he of the kissable, lusciously full lips and bright pinkjumpsuit,he’svanishedinthecrowd.

XIXAreyouthere,Satan?It’sme,Madison.Please

don’tgettheimpressionthatI’vealwaysboastedabrilliantintellect.Onthecontrary,I’vemademorethanmy share of mistakes, not the least of whichwas my misconceived idea of what constitutedFrench-kissing.

ItwassomeMissWhoreyVonWhoreskigirlsatmyschoolwhotaughtmetheFrench-kissingGame.AtmyboardingschoolinSwitzerland,whereIalmostfrozetodeathbutonlylostalltheskinoff”myhandsinstead,abunchofthesesamesnottygirlsalwaysspenttimetogether,threeofthem,buttheywere allway-total TrollopyMcTrollops and SluttyVandersluts andHarleyO’HarlotswhospokeEnglishandFrenchinthesameflataccentastheGlobalPositioningSystemofmydad’sJaguar.Theywalkedontheoutsideedgeoftheirfeet,eachstepslightlycrossinginfrontofthelast,toprovethey’dtakentoo many years of ballet. These three girls were always together, usuallycuttingthemselvesorhelpingoneanothervomit;withintheinsularsphereoftheboardingschool,theywereinfamous.

I was in my room one day, reading Jane Austen, when these threeknockedonthedoorandaskedtoenter.

Andno,Imaydisplayoccasionalantisocialtendenciesbroughtaboutbyyearsofwitnessingmyparentspandertothefilm-goingpublic,butI’mnotsorude that I would tell three classmates to beat it. No, I politely set asidePersuasionand invited these threeMiss Tarty Tartnicks to enter, and badethemsitamomentonmyaustere-yet-comfortablesinglebed.

Uponentering,thefirstofthemasked,“DoyouknowtheFrench-kissingGame?”

Thesecondasked,“Where’syourbathrobe?”

Thethirdsaid,“Doyoupromisenottotell?”

Of course I feigned curiosity. In all honesty Iwas not intrigued, but attheirrequestIpresentedsaidbathrobeandwatchedasoneoftheMissSluttyO’Slutskis withdrew the white terry-cloth belt from the robe’s belt loops.AnotheroftheWhoreyVanderwhoresrequestedIliebackuntilIwasproneonthebed,gazingupatthedistantceiling.ThethirdMissHarlotMacHarlotthreadedtheterry-clothbeltbehindmyneckandtiedthetwoendsacrossmytenderthroat.

Moreoutofpolitenessandan innatecourtesy thananyactual interest, Iaskedifthesepreparationswerepartofthegame.TheFrench-kissingGame.We were, all of us present in my small room, wearing the same schooluniform of dark skorts and long-sleeved cardigan sweaters, kiltie tasselloafers,andwhiteanklesocks.Wewerealleitherelevenortwelveyearsofage.Theparticulardaywas,Ibelieve,aTuesday.

“Justwait,”saidoneSkankyVonSkankenberg.

“Itfeels…sibon,”saidanotherMissVixeyVandervixen.Thethirdsaid,“Wewon’thurtyou;wepromise.”

Minehasalwaysbeenanopen,vulnerablenature.Wherethemotivesandagendasofotherscomeintoplay,Iamperhapstootrusting.Tosuspectthreeofmyownschoolmatesstruckmeasatadunseemly,soImerelyconsignedmyselftotheirinstructionasthesegirlsarrayedthemselvesaroundmeonthebed. A girl sat at each of my shoulders. The third girl gently lifted theeyeglasses from my face, folded them shut, and held them as she seatedherselfonthebednearmyfeet.Thetwoflankingmeeachtookoneendofthecloth belt which was knotted loosely about my neck. The third instructedthemtopull.

Maythisepisodedemonstratethehazardsinherentinbeingtheoffspringof former-hippie, former-Rasta, former-punk rock parents. Even as the beltconstrictedmoresnugly,restrictingmybreathing,collapsingnotonlymyairsupplybutalsotheflowofbloodtomypreciousbrain,asallofthisoccurredImadenovehementprotest.Evenasshootingstarsfloodedmyviewof theceiling,andIfeltmyfaceflushingdeeperanddeeperred,andthepulseofmyheartbeatthrobbedbeneathmycollarbones,Iofferednoresistance.Afterall,whatwas transpiringwasnothingmore thanagame,being taught tomebymembersofmypeergroupinanenormouslyexclusivegirls’boardingschoollocateddeepinthesafebosomoftheSwissAlps.Despitetheircurrentstatusas Miss Whorey Whorebergs and Miss Trampy Vandertramps, these girlswouldonedaygraduatetotakepositionsasthechiefeditorofBritishVogueor, failing that, first ladyofArgentina.Etiquette andprotocol anddecorumweredrummedintousdaily.Suchgenteelyoungladieswouldneverattemptanythinguntoward.

Under their assault, I imagined myself the innocent governess inFrankenstein, hung from the gallows, the noose tightening unjustly aroundmyneck for themurder ofmy chargeby the reanimatedmonster of amadscientist.Suffocating,Iimaginedtightlylacedwhalebonecorsets.Alingeringdeathbyconsumption.Opiumdens.Ienvisionedfaintingandswooningandmassive overdoses of laudanum. I became Scarlett O’Hara, feeling Rhett

Butler’spowerfulhandsastheytriedtochokeawaymyloveforthedashing,chivalrous AshleyWilkes, and in that moment, even as my own red, rawfingersclutchedatthebedclothes,myvoicehoarsewitheffort,IcriedoutasKatieScarlettO’Hara,“Unhandme,youvilecad!”

Even as the shooting stars filled my vision, stars and comets of everycolor,redandblueandgold,theceilingofmyroomseemedtodriftmoreandmore near.Withinmoments,my heartbeat seemed to have ceased, andmynosewasalmosttouchingthis,thebedroomceilingwhichhadonlymomentsbefore soared so high above me. My awareness seemed to be hovering,floating,gazingdownupontheoccupantsofthebed.

Agirl’svoicesaid,“Hurryandgiveherthekiss.”Thevoice,comingfromsomewhere behindme.Turning, I sawmyself still laid out onmy bed, theclothbeltstillknottedtightlyaroundmyneck.Myfacelookedpastyandpalewhite,andthetwogirlsseatedbesidemyshouldersstillpulledattheendsoftheclothbelt.

Thegirlseatednearmyfeetsaid,“Stoppulling,andgiveherthekiss.”

Anothergirl said,“Yuck.”Theirvoicessoundedmuffledand foggyandmilesaway.

The third girl, seated near my feet, she unfolded my eyeglasses andslippedthemontoherownsmugface.Battinghereyelashesandcockingherhead fromside to sidecoquettishly, shesaid,“Lookatme,everyone…I’mthe fat, ugly daughter of a stupid-assmovie star…My picture was on thecoverofPeoplestupidmagazine….”AndallthreeMissBimboVonBimbos,theygiggled.

Ifyou’llpermitmeamomentofself-indulgentembarrassment,Ididlookterrible.Theskinofmycheekshadswollenslightly,becomingpuffy,similartoasouffléd’apricot.Myeyes,openonlyasslits,appearedasglazedastheglassy surface of an overly caramelized crème brulee. Worse yet, my lipsweregaping,andmytonguepushedforward—greenasarawoyster—asifattempting to escape. My face, from forehead to chin, varied in hue fromalabaster white to light blue. The put-aside copy of Persuasion lay on thebedspreadbesidemybluehand.

AsIhoveredthere,observing,asdetachedasmymotherkeyboardingtospy on themaids and adjust the lighting via her notebook computer, I feltneitherpainnoranxiety. I feltnothing.Belowme, the threegirlsuntied theclothbeltfrommyneck.Onegirlslidahandbehindmyheadandtiltedmyfacebackslightly,andanotherdrewadeepbreathandleanedover.Herlipscoveredmyownbluelips.

Andyes,Iknowwhatconstitutesanear-deathexperience;however,Iwasmore concerned aboutmyprescription eyewear.Thegirl seated atmy feet,stillwearingmyreadingglasses,shesaid,“Blow.Hard.”

Thegirlleaningoverme…evenassheblewairintomymouth,Iseemedtofallfromtheceilingandlandintomybody.Evenasthegirl’slipspressedmylips,Ifoundmyself,oncemore,occupyingthebodywhichlayuponmybed.Icoughed.Mythroatached.Thethreegirlslaughed.Mytinybedroom,mytatteredcopiesofWutheringHeightsandNorthangerAbbeyandRebeccasparkled and glowed. All of my body felt so electric, as thrumming andvibrantasI’dfeltnakedinthesnowatnight.Myeverycellswelledsofullofnewfoundvitality.

Oneof theHusseyVanderhusseys, theonewho’dblownherbreath intomymouth, said, “That’s called ‘the kiss of life/”Her breath tasted like thewintergreenofherchewinggum.

Anothergirlsaid,“It’stheFrench-kissingGame.”

Thethirdsaid,“Youwanttogoagain?”

And raisingmyweakhands, liftingmycold, trembling fingers to touchmythroatwheretheterry-clothbeltstilllayacrossthethrobbingofmybrand-newheartbeat, I noddedmyhead, faintly but repeating,whispering, “Yes.”As if to Mr. Rochester himself, I whispered, “Ye gods!” Whispering,“Edward,please.Oh,yes.”

XXAreyouthere,Satan?It’sme,Madison.People

say theworld is a small place…well, inHell thismustbeOldHomeWeek.Really,everyoneseemstoknowmeandviceversa.It’slikealumniweekatmyboardingschool,whenalltheoldmossbackswouldtotter around campus all misty-eyed. Everywherethat you look, it seems as if a familiar face islookingback.

Mydadwouldtellyou,“Whenyou’reshootingonlocation,bereadyforrain.”Meaning:Youneverknowwhatfatewillthrowyourway.Oneminute,I’m luringsomeCanadianAIDSgirl tocome joinme inHell, and thenextminute I’m staring down my beloved Goran, now wearing a hot-pinkjumpsuitwithwhat looks likeaSocialSecuritynumberembroideredonhischest. My telephone headset still clamped around my smart new pageboyhaircut,Ijumptomyfeetandbeginswimming,strokingmyarmsthroughaveritable ocean of chubby, newly deceased holiday cruisers, all of thembespeckled with their own noxious lobster vomitus. Within moments, myhands tangle in camera straps and sunglasses bun-gee cords and artificialfloral leis. Drowning and slimy in the coconut-smelling miasma of budgetsuntan lotions, I’m calling out, screaming, “Goran!” Gasping, I’m bobbingandflailingamidthetideoffood-poisonedtourists,shouting,“Wait,Goran!Pleasewait!”Unfamiliarwithwalking inmy new high heels, netted in thewiresofmytelephonesetup,Istumbleandbegintosinkbeneaththesurfaceoftheteemingmob.

Suddenly,anarmwrapsaroundmefrombehind.Anarmencasedinthesleeveofablack-leatherjacket.AndArcherrescuesme,towingmefromthesluggishriptideofwanderingbovinedead.

WithBabette lookingon,Leonardwatching, I say, “Myboyfriend…hewasjusthere.”

Pattersonuntanglestheheadsetfromme.

“Calm down,” says Babette. She explains that we need to slip TootsiePopsorOhHenry!bars to the rightdemons. IfGoran’sonly recentlybeendamned,his filesought tobe easy to find.Already she’s leadingme in theother direction, exiting the telephone marketing hall, her hand wrappedaround mine. Babette’s dragging me along corridors, up and down stonestairways,navigatinghallwayspastdoorwaysandskeletons,underarchways

withblackfringesofsleepingbatshangingoverhead,acrossloftybridgesandvia dripping, dank tunnels, but always staying within the vast hive of thenetherworldheadquarters.Finally,arrivingatabloodstainedcounter,Babetteelbowsaside thesoulsalreadywaiting in line.ShedigsanAbba-Zabafromherpurseanddanglesittowardsomedemonwhositsatadesk,somesortofhalf-man, half-falcon monster with a lizard’s tail, engrossed in doing acrossword puzzle. Addressing him, Babette says, “Hey, Akibel.” She says,“Whatdoyouhaveonanewarrivalnamed…”AndBabettelooksatme.

“Goran,”Isay.“GoranSpencer.”

The falcon-lizard-monster-man looks up from the folded page of hisnewspaper;wetting the tip of his pencil against thewet point of his forkedtongue,thedemonsays,“What’sasix-letterwordforpowerfailure’?”

Babettelooksatme.Shebrushesherfingernailstostrokemynewbangsso they fall straight across my forehead, and says, “What’s he look like,honey?”

GoranofthedreamyvampireeyesandjuttingcavemanbrowGoranofthesurly,fleshylipsandunrulyhair,heofthesneeringdisdainandabandoned-orphan demeanor. My wordless, hostile, walking skeleton. My beloved.Wordsfailme.Withahelplesssigh,Isay,“He’s…swarthy.”Quickly,Isay,“Andbrutish.”

Babetteadds,“He’sMaddy’slong-lostboyfriend.”

Blushing, I protest, saying, “He’s only kind ofmy boyfriend. I’m onlythirteen.”

The demon, Akibel, swivels in his desk chair. Turning to face a dustycomputer screen, the demon keyboards Ctrl+Alt+F with the talons of hisfalconclaws.Whenablinkinggreencursorappearsonthescreen,thedemonkeysin“Spencer,Goran.”Withastabofhisindextalon,hehitsEnter.

At that same instant, a finger taps me on the back of my shoulder. Ahuman finger. And a frail voice says, “Are you little Maddy?” Standingbehind me, a stooped old lady asks, “Would you happen to be MadisonSpencer?”

Thedemonsits,hisfaceproppedinhishands,bothhiselbowsleanedonhis desk, watching his computer screen and waiting. Tapping a talon,impatiently,ontheedgeofhiskeyboard,thedemonsays,“Ihatethisfuckingdial-up…”He says, “Talk about glacial.”A beat later, the demonicAkibelpicksuphiscrosswordoncemore.Studyingit,hesays,“What’safour-letterwordfor‘cribbageprops’?”

Theoldwomanwhotappedmyshoulder,shecontinuestolookatme,hereyesshiningbright.Herhairfluffyandbunchedintowadsaswhiteastuftsofcotton,hervoiceflickeringshesays,“Thetelephonepeoplesaidyoumightbehere.”Shesmilesamouthfulofpearly,brightdenturesandsays,“I’mTrudy.Mrs.AlbertMarenetti…?”herintonationliftingintoaquestion.

The demon whacks a falcon claw against the side of his computermonitor,swearingunderhisbreath.

And yes, I am wildly invested in tracking down my adored Goran,denizenofmymostromanticdreams,butIamNOTtotallyoblivioustotheemotional needs of others. Especially those recently dead after prolongedterminal illness.Throwingmyarmsaround thisstooped,stunted littleshrubof an old lady, I squeal, “Mrs. Trudy! FromColumbus, Ohio!Of course Iremember you.” Giving her powdery, wrinkled cheek a little peck, I say,“How’s that little pancreatic cancer thing?”Realizing our present situation,bothofusdeadanddoomedtothestraitsofHellforalleternity,Iadd,“Notgood,Iguess.”

Withatwinkleinhersky-blueeyes,theoldladysays,“Youweresokindand generous, talking to me.” Her old-lady fingers pinch both my cheeks.Cuppingmyfacebetweenherhands,gazingatme,shesays,“So,justbeforemylasttripintothehospiceIburneddownachurch.”

We both laugh. Uproariously. I introduce Mrs. Trudy to Babette. Thedemon,Akibel,hitshisEnterkey,againandagainandagain.

Whilewewait,IcomplimentMrs.Trudyonherchoiceoffootwear:blacklow-heeledmules.Otherwise, shewears an iron-gray tweed suit andaverysmartTyroleanhatofgrayfelt,witha redfeather tucked into thebandatajauntyangle.Now,there’sanensemblewhichwillstayfresh-lookingdespiteaeonsofhellishpunishment.

Babette waves a Pearson Salted Nut Roll, baiting the demon to workfaster.Badgeringhim,shecalls,“Hey,stepitup!Wedon’thaveforever!”

Thepeoplealreadyhere,alreadywaiting,theygiveupaweaklaugh.

“ThishereisMadison,”Babettesays,introducingmetoeveryonepresent.Throwing an arm aroundmy shoulders and steeringme to the counter, sheadds,“Just inthepast threeweeks,Maddy,here, isresponsibleforaseven-percentincreaseindamnations!”

Amurmurpassesthroughthecrowd.

Inthenextmoment,anelderlymanapproachesourtinygroup.Claspinghis hat in both hands andwearing a striped silk bowtie, the oldman says,

“WouldyouhappentobeMadisonSpencer?”

SaysMrs.Trudy,“Sheis.”Beaming,Mrs.Trudyslipsherwrinkledhandaroundmyhandandgivesmyfingersabonysqueeze.

Lookingatthisman,withhiscloudycataracteyesandpinched,tremblingshoulders, I say,“Now,don’t tellme…”Isay,“AreyouMr.Halmott fromBoise,Idaho?”

“In the flesh,” the old man says, “or whatever I am, these days.” Soapparentlypleasedthatheblushes.

Congestiveheartfailure,Irecite.Ishakehishandandsay,“WelcometoHell.”

On thefarsideof thecounter,at thedemon’sdesk,adot-matrixprintergrindstolife.Sprocketwheelspullcontinuous-feedpaperfromadustybox.Thepaper,yellowedandbrittle.Theprintercarriageroarsbackandforthaseachpageadvances,linebyline,pulledalongbyitsperforatedtracks.

WithBabette’sarmdrapedacross thebackofmyneck,herhandhangsnear the side ofmy face. There, the cuff of her blouse has pulled back torevealdarkredlinesontheinsideofherwrist.Runningfromthesleevetothebaseofherpalm,gougedscarsgape,rawasifthey’dbeenrecentlycut.

Andyes, Iknowsuicide isamortalsin,butBabettehasalways insistedshewasdamnedforwearingwhiteshoesafterLaborDay.

WitholdMr.HalmottandMrs.Trudysmilingatme,Imyselfamstaringpoint-blank—first,atBabette’ssuicidescars—thenathersheepishgrin.

Removingherarm frommyshoulders, sliding the sleeve toconcealhersecret,Babettesays,“Girlreally,really,reallyinterrupted…”

Thedemontearsthepagefromtheprinterandslapsitonthecountertop.

XXIAreyouthere,Satan?It’sme,Madison.Mylast

sightingofmybelovedGoranhadbeenthenightofthe Academy Awards. If Hell is— as the ancientGreeks claimed — the place of remorse andremembering,thenIamslowlyaccomplishingthosetasks.

Lolling about amid the cold remains of our room-servicemeals, GoranandI sprawledon thecarpet in frontof thesuite’swide-screen television. Itorched a spliff of my parents’ best hybrid skunkweed, took a toke, andhandedthestinkingdoobietotheobjectofmypreteenadoration.ForaJudyBlumeinstant,ourfingerstouched.Barelyourfingertipsbrushed,sprawledaswewereonthecarpet,notdissimilartoGodandAdamontheceilingoftheSistineChapel,butasparkof life—ormerelystaticelectricity—snappedandjumpedbetweenus.

Goran took the joint andpuffed.He tapped the ashonto a dinner plate,nexttoahalf-eatencheeseburgerandanarrayofstalepotatochips.Webothsat,silent,holdingthesmokeinour lungs.Romanticanarchists thatweare,weignoredthefactthatthiswasanonsmokingsuite.Ontelevision,someoneacceptedanOscarforsomething.Somebodythankedsomeone.Acommercialpitchedmascara.

Exhaling, I coughed. I coughed and coughed, a genuine fit, finallyreachingforaglassoforangejuicewhichsatona traywithacoldplateofbuffalowings.Theairinthesuitesmelledlikeeverywrappartymyparentshad ever hosted on the final day of principal photography. Stinking ofcannabisandFrenchfriesandscorchedrollingpaper.Cannabisandcongealedchocolatefondue.Ontelevision,aEuropeanluxurysedanracedacrossdesertsaltflats,swervingbetweenorangetrafficcones,drivenbyamoviestar,andI’m not certain whether this is another commercial or something sampledfromanominatedmovie.Next,afamousactressdrinksamajorbrandofdietsodainwhatcouldbeeitheranadvertisementorafeaturefilm.Eventhefastcarsseemtodragalonginslowmotion.Myhandreachesouttowardaplateofcoldgarlictoast,andGoranslipsthesmolderingroachbetweenmyfingers.I take another hit, and hand it back. I reach toward a plate heaped withsteaming, buttery, mouthwatering prawns, but my fingertips touch onlysmoothglass.Myfingernailsscratchatthisglassbarrier.

Goranlaughs,blastingoutgreatcloudsofsourdopestench.

My prawns, so enticing and delicious-looking, are merely a televisioncommercial for a franchised seafood restaurant. Tasty and crunchy andcompletelybeyondmyreach.They’reonlyateasingmirageofsavorinessonthehigh-definitionscreen.

Ontelevision,gigantichamburgersrotateslowly,theirgrilledmeatsohotit still bubbles and spits with grease. Slices of cheese collapse, moldingthemselves over the contours of searing-hot beef patties. Molten rivers offudgeflowthroughamountainous landscapeofvanillasoft-serve icecreamunderacruelhailofchoppedSpanishpeanuts.Blizzardsofpowderedsugarburyfrosteddoughnuts.Pizzadripsdollopsoftomatosauceandtrailsgooeywhitishstringsofmozzarella.

Goran takes the smoking roach from between my fingers. He takesanotherhit,chasingthesmokewithaswigofchocolatemilkshake.

Oncemoremouthing the dampbutt of the sharedmarijuana cigarette, Iattempttodiscerntheflavorofmybeloved’ssaliva.Tonguingthemoistfoldsofpaper,Itastechocolate-chipcookiespurloinedfromtheminibar.Itastethetangofartificialfruit,lemons,cherries,watermelon,stolencandies,forbiddentousbecauseoftheirtooth-decayingqualities.Atlast,beneathitall,mytastebudslocatesomethingearthy,fecund,thespitofmyprimitiverebelman-boy,theforeignpongofmystolidHeathcliff.Myrusticrudesavage.Irelishthis,the appetizer to a banquet ofGoran’smoist tongue kisses. In the scorchedganjaItastetheresidueofhischocolatemilkshake.

On television, a basket of nachos, heavily laden with sliced olives andgorysalsa,thisvisiondissolvestotaketheshapeofabeautifulwoman.Thewomanwearsaredgown—inhindsight,moreorangethanred—ascrapofgrosgrainribbonpinnedtoherbodice.Theribbonaspinkasdicedtomatoes.Thewomansays,“Thenomineesforthisyear’sbestmotionpictureare…”

Thewomanonscreenismymom.

Atthis,Iclimbtomyfeet,toweringabovethehotelcarpet,swayinghighabove the discarded food and Goran. I stumble into the suite’s bathroom;there,Iunrollanawfullotoftoiletpaper,milesoftoiletpaper,makingtwolumps of roughly equal size which I proceed to stuff into the front of mysweater. In thebathroommirror,myeyes lookred-rimmedandbloodshot. Istandsidewaystothemirrorandstudymynewbustyprofile.Ipullthetissuefrom inside my sweater and flush it down the toilet— the tissue, not thesweater. I am so high. It seems as if I’ve been in this bathroom for years.Decades have passed. Aeons. I pull open a drawer next to the sink andretrievethelongstripofHelloKittycondoms.Ireemergefromthebathroom,presentingmyselfbeforeGoranwiththestripofcondomsloopedaroundthe

backofmynecklikeafeatherboa.

Ontelevision,thecamerashowsmydadsittingintheaudience,midwaydownthemainfloor,rightontheaisle,hisfavoriteseat,sohecansneakoutand drink martinis during the awards for boring foreign crap. Only scantmoments have actually gone by. Everyone applauds. Still standing in thebathroomdoorwayIbow,deeply.

Goran looks from the television to me. His eyes almost glow red, andGorancoughs.Crimsonseafoodsauceissmearedonhischin.Gooeydabsoftartarsaucetraildownthefrontofhisshirt.Theairinthesuitehangsmisty,foggywithdopesmoke.

I knot the strip of condoms around my neck and pull the knot tight,saying,“Youwanttoplayagame?”Isay,“Youonlyneedtoblowintomymouth.”Istepforward,slinkingtowardmybeloved,andsay,“It’scalledtheFrench-kissingGame.”

XXIIAreyouthere,Satan?It’sme,Madison.Please

don’t take thisasacriticism,butyoureallyoughtto upgrade your word-processing equipment. Thereadability of your dot-matrix printer especiallyway sucks, not tomention those perforated tracksthathangofftheedgesofeveryprintedpage.

My mom would tell you, “Two lips and a tongue can promise youanything.”Meaning:Getallyourdealsinwriting.Meaning:Alwayspreserveapapertrail.

Acrossthetopoftheprintedform,thefaintdot-matrixwordsread:HellInductionReportforGoranMetroSpencer.Age14.

Under “Site of Death” it says: Los Angeles River Detention Center forViolentJuvenileOffenders.

Thatwouldexplainhishot-pinkgetup,completewiththeprisonnumbersewn to his chest. While somewhat fashion-forward, still not an obviouschoiceforthemoody,imperiousGoranIknow.

Under“CauseofDeath”thereportsays:Stabbedbyfellowinmateduringriot.

Under“ReasonforDamnation” it says:Manslaughterconviction for thestrangulationofMadisonSpencer.

XXIIIAre you there, Satan? It’s me, Madison.

Unpleasantasdeathmightseem,theupsideisthatyouonlysufferitonce.Subsequenttothat,thestingis gone. The memory might be enormouslytraumatic,butthat’sallitis:amemory.Youwon’tbe asked to perform an encore. Unless, justpossibly,you’reaHindu.

Probably I shouldn’t even tell you this next part. I know how self-righteousalivepeopleare.

Faceit,everytimeyouscantheobituarypagesinthenewspaperandyousee somebody younger than yourself who died — especially if the obitfeaturesaphotographofthemsmiling,sittingonsomemownlawnbesideagoldenretriever,wearingshorts—admit it,youfeelsodamnedsuperior. Itcould be you also feel a smidgen lucky, but mostly you feel all smug.Everybody alive feels so superior to the dead, even homosexuals andAmericanIndians.

Probablywhenyoureadthisyou’lljustlaughandmakefunofme,butIremembergaspingforbreath,choking thereon thecarpetof thehotelsuite.The crown of my head was wedged against the bottom of the televisionscreen,theremainsofourroom-servicebanquetarrayedonplatesaroundme.Goranknelt astridemywaist, leaningoverme, his face looming abovemyface;hishandsgrippedthetwoendsoftheHelloKittycondomswhichwereknottedaroundmyneck,andhewasyankingthenoosetight.

Thestinkofoureveryexhaledbreathhungheavy,cloudingthesuitewithitsskunkweedreek.

Toweringabovemeontelevision,sorealsheseemedtobestandingthere,rosethefigureofmymother.Sheseemedtotoweruptothedistantceilingofthe suite. The full length of her, glowing, radiant in the stage lights.Luminescent inherperfectbeauty.Agloriousvision.Anangelgarbed in adesigner gown. On the television,mymom stands, gracious and patient insilence,waitingfortheapplauseofheradoringworldtosubside.

Incontrast,myarmsandlegsflailandthrash,scatteringthenearbyplatesof jumbo prawns. My desperate convulsions upset the bowls of leftoverbuffalowings.Spillranchdressing.Strewoldeggrolls.

On television, the cameras cut to showmy dad seated in the audience,

beaming.As the applause fades to quiet, my serene, lovely mother, smiling and

enigmatic,says,“Beforepresentingthisyear’sOscarforbestfeaturefilm…”Shesays,“I’dliketowishmydear,sweetdaughter,Madison,ahappyeighthbirthday…”

Asoftoday,thetruthis—I’mthirteen.Mypulsepoundsinmyears,andthecondomscutintothetenderskinofmyneck.Thestarsandcometsofredand gold and blue begin to fill my vision, obscuring Goran’s grim face,obscuringmyviewoftheroom’sceilingandmyradiantmother.Inmyschooluniformof sweater and skort, I’msweating.Mykiltie tassel loafers,kickedoffmyfeet.

Asmyvisionnarrowstoasmallerandsmallertunnel,edgedbyagrowingmarginofdarkness,Icanstillhearmymother’svoicesay,“Happybirthday,mydearestbabygirl.Yourdaddyand I loveyouvery,verymuch.”Abeatlater,muffledandfaraway,sheadds,“Now,goodnight,andsleepwell,mypreciouslove….”

Inthehotelsuite,Ihearpanting,gasping,someonedrawinggreatinhalesofbreath,butit’snotme.It’sGoranpantingwiththeefforttosuffocateme,tostranglemeinexactlythemannerI’ddictatedaccordingtotherulesoftheFrench-kissingGame.

BythenI’mfloatingup,myfacedriftingclosertothepaintedplasteroftheceiling.Myheartbeat,silent.Myownbreathing,stilled.Fromthehighestpoint in the room, I turnand lookbackatGoran. I’mshouting,“Kissme!”I’mscreaming,“Givemethekissoflife!”Butnothingmakesasoundexceptfortherushoftelevisedapplauseformymother.

Splayedthereonthecarpet,I’mreducedtothestatusofthecoolingfoodwhich surroundsme:my life only partially consumed.Wasted. Soon to beconsignedtothegarbage.Myswollen,lividfaceandbluelips,they’remerelya conglomerate of rancid fats, so like the old onion rings and stale potatochips. My precious life, rendered nothing more than congealing andcoagulating liquids. Desiccating proteins. A rich banquet only nibbled at.Barelytasted.Rejectedanddiscardedandalone.

Yes, I know I sound quite cold, insensitive to the pathetic sight of athirteen-year-oldBirthdayGirldeadonthefloorofahotelsuite,butanyotherattitudewould overwhelmmewith self-pity. Floating here, I want nothingmorethantogobackandtofixthishideouserror.Inthismoment,I’velostbothmyparents.I’velostGoran.Worstofall,I’velost…myself.Inallmyromanticscheming,I’veruinedeverything.

On television,mymompuckers her lips. She presses the fingers of hermanicuredhandtoherlips,thenblowsmeakiss.

Gorandropstheendsofthecondomstripandgazesdownonmybody,astrickenlookonhisface.Heleapstohisfeet,dashingintothebedroom,thenreemergeswearinghiscoat.Hedoesn’ttaketheroomkey.Hedoesn’tintendto return. Nor does he call 911. My beloved, the object of my romanticaffection,simplyracesfromthehotelsuitewithoutsomuchasasinglelookback.

XXIVAreyouthere,Satan?It’sme,Madison.Askme

thesquarerootofpi.Askmehowmanypecksareina bushel. Ask me anything about the truncated,tragiclifeofCharlotteBronte.IcantellyouexactlywhenJoyceKilmerdiedintheSecondBattleoftheMarne. I can tell you the combination of keys,Ctrl+Alt+S or Ctrl+Alt+Q, which will access thesecurity cameras or manipulate the lighting andwindow treatments of my sealed bedrooms inCopenhagen orOslo, those roomsmymother hasair-conditioned down to meat locker… down toarchival temperatures, where the electrostatic airfiltersprohibitaspeckofdusttoeversettle,wheremy clothes and shoes and stuffed animals wait inthe darkness, locked away from sun fade andhumidity, patient as the alabaster jars and gildedtoyswhichaccompaniedanyboypharaoh intohiseternaltomb.AskmeabouttheecologyinFijiandthe amusing personal habits of tony Hollywoodgadabouts. Ask me to describe the politicalmachinationsembeddedintheall-girlscultureofatrès-reserved Swiss boarding school. Just doNOTaskmehowI’mfeeling.DonotaskifIstillmissmyparents. Don’t ask if I still cry from being sohomesick.Ofcoursethedeadmisstheliving.

Personally, I myself miss sipping TwiningsEnglish Breakfast Tea and reading Elinor Glynnovelsonrainydays.ImisssmellingthecitrustangofBaindeSoleil,cheatingatbackgammonagainstour Somalimaids, and practicing the gavotte andtheminuet.

Butonalargerscale,tobebrutallyhonest,thedeadmisseverything.

In my desperation to talk, for the comfort of a little chat therapy, ItelephoneCanadianEmily,andawomananswersthephone.Whensheasksmy name I tell her that I’m Emily’s friend from long distance and ask ifEmilycanpleasecometalk,justforaminute.Please.

At this, thewoman begins to sniff, then sob.Over the telephone, she’sdrawing deep shuddering breaths, choked with guttering sobs. Keening.“Emily,” she says, “my baby…”Herwords dissolving into cries, she says,“Mybabygirl’sgonebackintothehospital…”Thewomanrallies,sniffing,askingifshecanrelayamessagefrommetoEmily.

And yes, despite all my considerable Swiss training in decorum,regardless of my hippie training in empathy, over the telephone I ask, “IsEmilyabouttodie?”

No,it’snotfair,butwhatmakeslifefeellikeHellisourexpectationthatit should last forever. Life is short. Dead is forever. You’ll find out foryourselfsoonenough.Itwon’thelpthesituationforyoutogetallupset.

“Yes,” thewomansays,hervoicehoarse,deepwithemotion.“Emily isabouttodie.”Hervoiceflatwithresignation,sheasks,“Wouldyoulikemetotellhersomethingforyou?”

AndIsay,“Nevermind.”

Isay,“Don’tletherforgettobringmytenMilkyWaycandybars.”

XXVAreyouthere,Satan?It’sme,Madison.It’snot

true that your life flashes before your eyes whenyou die. At least, not all of it. Some of your lifemightflash.Otherportionsofyourlifeitmighttakeyouyearsandyears to recall.That, I think, is thefunction of Hell: It’s a place of remembering.Beyondthat, thepurposeofHellisnotsomuchtoforgetthedetailsofourlivesasitistoforgivethem.

And,yes,whilethedeaddomisseverythingandeverybody, they don’t hang around the earthforever.

This one time, my dad flew our Learjet to attend some stockholdermeetinginPrague,exceptthatsameday,mymomneededtobeinNairobitocollectsomeharelip-and-cleft-palateorphanorafilm-festivalawardorsomedumb something, so she leased a jet to fly her andme, except the leasingtime-sharejetpeople…theysenttheexactdiametricallyWRONGkindofjetfromwhatmymotherhadordered,thoughtlesslydispatchingonewithgold-plated bathroom fixtures and hand-painted frescoes on the ceilings, exactlythesortofjetwhichyoungermembersoftheSaudiroyalfamilywouldhiretoflyaharemofMissCoozeyCoozerbiltcallgirlstoKuwait,anditwastoolateto send a different jet, and my mom went nuts, she was just so way-aestheticallyfreakedout.

Well,walkingintothehotelsuiteaftertheAcademyAwardsandsteppingintoaboutabillionhalf-eatenplatesofoldclubsandwiches,thenfindingmedeadandstrangulatedbyastripofHelloKittycondoms—let’sjustsaymymomfreakedoutevenworse.

Atthattimemyspiritwasstillhoveringintheroom,crossingmyspiritualfingersthatsomebodymightbothertocalltheparamedics,andthey’drushinand perform some resuscitation miracle. Needless to say Goran was longgone. He and I had hung the Do Not Disturb sign so the maid hadn’tperformedtheturndownservice.Nochocolatesrestedonthebedpillows.Allthe lights were turned off, plunging the suite into total pitch-darkness.Myparents enter, tiptoeing because they think Goran and I are fast asleep. Itwasn’tpretty.

No,it’sneveraspecialtreattowatchyourmomjustscreamandscreamyourname,thenfalltoherkneesinamessofketchupyonionringsandcold

prawncocktails,grabbingatyourdeadshoulders,shakingyouandyellingforyoutowakeup.Itwasmydadwhocalled911,butthatwasreally,reallywaytoolate.TheEMTswhocamedidmoretotreatmymom’shystericsthantorescueme.Ofcoursethepolicecame;theytookasmanyphotographsofmedeadasPeoplemagazinehadtakenofmeasanewbornbaby.Thehomicidedetectives lifted about a million of Goran’s fingerprints off the strip ofcondoms.MymomtookaboutamillionXanax,oneafteranother.Duringallof this,my dad stalked over to the closetwhereGoran’s new clotheswerestored, threwopen theclosetdoor, and ripped theRalphLauren sportswearfrom the hangers, rending, shredding without a word shirts and trousers,buttonspoppingandricochetingaroundthesuite.

All that time,allnight, Icouldmerelywatch,asdetachedanddistantasmymotheraccessingsecuritycamerasonherlaptop.MaybeIdrewthehotelcurtainsclosed,orturnedonalight,butnobodyseemedtonotice.Atbest,asentry.Atworst,avoyeur.

It’spower,butakindofpointless,impotentpower.

No one is discriminated against more than alive people discriminateagainstthedead.Nobodyisasbadlymarginalized.Ifthedeadareportrayedin popular culture it’s as zombies… vampires… ghosts, always somethingthreateningtotheliving.Thedeadaredepictedthewayblackswerein1960smassculture,asaconstantdangerandmenace.Anydeadcharactersmustbebanished, exorcised, driven from the property like Jews in the fourteenthcentury.Deportedlikeillegal-alienMexicans.Likelepers.

That said, go ahead and laugh at me. You’re still alive, so apparentlyyou’redoingsomething right. I’mdead, sogo rightaheadandkicksand inmyfat,deceasedface.

Intheprejudiced,bigotedmodernworld,aliveisalive.Deadisdead.Andthe two factions must not interact. This attitude is entirely understandablewhen you consider what the dead would do to property values and stockprices.Oncethedeadinformedthelivingthatmaterialpossessionswereabigjoke—AREabigjoke—well,theDeBeerspeoplecouldneversellanotherdiamond.Pensionfundswouldtrulywither.

Inreality,thedeadarealwaysaroundtheliving.Ihungaroundwithmyparentsforamonth;seriously,itbeattaggingalongtowatchtheMr.SkeazyVanderskeazemortuaryguypumpoutmybloodandmonkeywithmynakedthirteen-year-oldcorpse.Myenvironmentalistparentschoseabiodegradablecasketofpressed-woodpulpguaranteedtorapidlybreakdownandencouragebacterialsubsoillife-forms.Thisistypicalofhowlittlerespectyougetonceyou’redead.Imean,thewell-beingofearthwormsgetsahigherpriority.

Consider that as proof positive that you’re never too young to record afinaldirective.

Itwaslikebeingburiedinsideapiñata.

If I’dmanaged to call the shots I’d have been buried in an all-bronze,hermeticallysealedcasketstuddedwithrubies,notevenburiedbutlaidtorestinacryptofcarvedwhitemarble.Onatinywoodedislandinthecenterofalake. In the Italian Alps. However, my parents pursued their own vision.Instead of something elegant, they chose a caterwauling gospel choir fromsomechurchthatneededtogarnernationalexposureforanalbumtheywerereadytolaunch.SomebodyreworkedthatEltonJohnsongaboutthecandlesoit went, “Good-bye, Madison Spencer, though I never knew you at all…”They even released about a zillion white doves. Talk about clichéd. Talkaboutderivative.

Amongtheloiteringdead,evenJonBenetRamseyfeltsorryforme.EventheLindberghbabywasembarrassedonmybehalf.

HereIwas,dead,andallthelittleMissSkankyVonSkankenbergsatmyboardingschoolwerestillaliveandattendingmymemorialservice.ThethreeSluttyMacSlutsstoodthere,allpious,headsbowed,notsayingawordabouthowthey’dtaughtmetheFrench-kissingGame.ThosethreeWhoreyVanderWhores took their printed funeral programs to my mom and asked her toautograph them.Thepresidentof theUnitedStateshelpedcarry thepapier-mâché,eco-friendlybiotainertomygrave.SodidtheprimeministerofGreatBritain.

Moviestarswereinsomberattendance.Somefamouspoetsaidsomecrapflowerypoemthatdidn’tevenrhyme.Worldleadersweretheretopaytheirvaunted respects.Connected by satellite, the entire planetwas there to say,“Good-bye.”

ExceptGoran,mybeloved,myonetruelove…Goranwasn’t.

XXVIAre you there, Satan? It’s me, Madison. It

dawns on me that I’ve never adequately thankedyou for sending thecar,and Iought to; itwasanextremelysensitive,thoughtfulgestureonyourpart.Youactedverykindly towardmeata timewhen Idesperatelyneededsuchcourtesy,andIwantyoutoknowthatI’llalwaysappreciatethatgenerosity.

It’snoeasiertobeajust-deadspiritthanitistobeajust-borninfant,andI’m pathetically grateful for any modicum of care and nursemaiding.Clustered around my grave site at Forest Lawn, everyone was crying: mymomanddadwerecrying,thepresidentofSenegalwascrying.Everyonewasjust boo-hooing with the notable exception of me, and that’s because mecrying atmy own funeral strikesme as awfully egocentric. It goeswithoutsayingthatnoonecanseetherealme,thespiritme,standingintheirgrievingmidst. I know, I know, in that totally archetypal Tom Sawyer scenario it’ssupposed to beway satisfying to attend your own funeral andwitness howeveryonesecretlylovedandadoredyou,butthesadtruthisthatmostpeoplearejustasfakey-faketoyouafteryou’redeadaswhenyou’realive.Ifthere’seven a thinmargin of profit in it, everyonewho hated youwill rend theirgarmentsandfloparoundlikephonycrybabies.Caseinpoint:thetrioofMissTrampyMcTramptons station their skeazy preteen selves aroundmy bereftmotherandtellherhowmuchtheylovedme,evenastheirspideryanorexicfingers and French manicures toy with bejeweled rosaries all lumpy withTahitian black pearls and fat rubies and emeralds designed by ChristianLacroix for Bulgari that they ran off and bought on Rodeo Drive just fortoday’s funeral. These threeMiss Slutty Sluttenheimers keepwhispering tomybereftmomthatthey’veeachbeenreceivingpsychicmessagesfromme,that I keep visiting them in their dreams and begging them to pass alongmessages of love and support to my family, and my poor mom seemstraumatizedenough to listen to these threehorridharpiesand take their liesseriously.

Ingreaternumbers,abevyofblondproductionassistantsglomontomydad,allofthemwearingsexyblackstripperglovesandtryingtoout-legoneanotherby letting theirblackminiskirts rideup too faron their tanned-and-waxed thighswhile theyclutch littlebrand-new,black leather-boundBiblesthe same way they would Chanel pocketbooks, and all told it’s obviousthey’reallsleepingwithhim—myfather,withallhisnoble-sounding,high-

minded,left-wingplatitudes—buthecan’texpensetheirvarioussalariestoanyproject’sshootingbudgetifheadmitsthattheonlyjobtheyeverperformis blow jobs. Thisweepymedia circus centers aroundmy earthly remains,whicharewaddeddeepinsideanorganicshroudofunbleachedbamboofiberwithsomebullshitAsian-lookingcalligraphyscribbledalloverit,resemblinglikenothingsomuchasagiganticoff-whiteturdcoveredwithChinesegangtags, situatednext tomyownfreshlyhewn tombstone.Suchare themyriadindignities foisted upon the dead: The stone is chiseled with my fullridiculous name of Madison Desert Flower Rosa Parks Coyote TricksterSpencer,amonstrouspersonalsecretI’vebeenvigorouslycoveringupforallmythirteenyearsandwhichthethreeMissCoozyCoozenburgsclearlycan’twaittosharewithallmyoldclassmatesbackinSwitzerland,nottomentionthefactthatthebirthanddeathdatescarvedintothegranitewillforeverfixmeatanerroneousnineyearsold.Toaddinsult to injury, theepitaphsays:Maddy Rests Now, Cupped and Suckling at the Sacred Breast Milk of theEternalGoddess.

This,allofthisasininecrapiswhatyoujustlydeserveifyoudiewithoutalegallybindingfinaldirective.I’mdeadandstandingadecentdistanceapartfromthismadcrush,butIcanstillsmellalltheirmakeupandhairspray.

And if Ididn’tknowthemeaningofasininebefore, Icertainlydonow.Asforthedefinitionoferroneous,Ionlyhavetolookaround.

Andifyoucanstomachknowingonemorefactabouttheafterlife,hereitis: Nobody grieves more at funerals than does the newly deceased. That’swhy I’m so pathetically grateful when I avert my gaze from this dismaltableautosee,parkedatthecurb,justidlingattheedgeofagraveyardlane,ablackLincolnTownCar.The shinywaxed-and-polishedblackof it reflectsthe army ofmourners… the blue sky… the gravestones of Forest Lawn…really, it reflects everything except for me, because the dead don’t havereflections. On earth, the dead don’t cast a shadow or show up inphotographs.Bestofall,standingbesidethecarisauniformedchauffeur,hishairhiddenbeneathavisoredcapandhalfhisfaceblockedbehindmirroredsunglasses.Inhisblack-driving-glovedhandheholdsawhiteclipboardwith,writtenacrossitinblockyhandwriting,MadisonSpencer.Thisdriverwearsalittle chrome name tag on his lapel, his name engraved there, but it’s notworththebothertoread,becauseIknowfromlonghabitthatI’llforgetitamillisecondfromnowandjuststartcallinghimGeorge.

Havingspenthalfmylifetoolingaroundinthesecar-servicecars,Iknowthedrill.Itakeastep,anotherstep,athirdsteptowardthecar,andthedriverwordlesslyopens the reardoorandstepsaside forme toenter.Hemakesaslightbowandtouchestheedgeoftheclipboardtotheedgeofhisvisoredhat

inalittlesalute.Oncethelegsofmyskortaresafelyensconcedintheseat,thedriver swings thedoor closedwith a thud, the solid soundof aquality-madeAmericanlandyacht,soheavyandmuffledthatitendsanysuggestionoftheliving,breathingworldoutside.ThewindowsaresodarklytintedthatIfindmyselfinacradlingcocoonofblackleather,thesmellofleatherpolish,thecoldfeelofair-conditioning,andthesoftgleamofmurkyglasswindowsand brass interior trim. The only sound comes from behind the old-schoolpartitionthatseparatesthefrontandrearseats.Submergedundertheoverallsmell of leather is another, fainter smell; it’s as if someone has recentlypeeled and eaten a hard-boiled egg in this car, a tiny stink of sulfur ormethane.Andthere’sthesmellofpopcorn…popcornandcaramel…popcornballs.Thelittlewindowinthecenterofthepartitionisshut,butIcanhearthedrivertakehisseatandclickhisseatbelt.Theenginestartsandthecarmovesforwardinslow,languidmotion.Afteralongmomentthefrontofthecartiltsupward.It’sthesamesensationoneassociateswiththelongclimbupthefirsthillofarollercoasterortheimpossiblysteepascentneededforaGulfstreamtoachievetakeofffromthelittlealpineairportofLocarno,Switzerland.

ThepaddedandupholsteredleatherywombthatisthebackseatofaTownCar…anytimeonefindsoneselfinsuchaplacesheoughttoassumeshe’senroutetoHades.Inthemagazinepocketsitstheusualassortmentoftraderags,including the Hollywood Reporter, Variety, and a copy of the Vanity Fairwith my mom grinning on the cover and spouting her Gaia, Earth First!gibberishontheinside.ShelooksPhotoshoppedalmostbeyondrecognition.

Andyes,myparentshavetaughtmewellaboutthePowerofContextandMarcelDuchamp,andhowevenaurinalbecomesartwhenyouhangitonthewallofaclassygallery.AndprettymuchanyonecouldpassasamoviestarifyouputtheirmugshotonthecoverofVanityFairmagazine.Butthat’showcomeIso,so,soappreciatecrossingintotheafterlifeaboardaLincolnTownCarascompared toabusorapolebargeor someothercattle-car, steerageformofsweatymasstransit.SoIagainthankyou,Satan.

The steep rising angle of the car’s trajectory and the resulting g-forcessettlemedeeperintotheleatherupholstery.Thelittlewindowinthedriver’spartition slides aside to reveal the chauffeur’s sunglasses framed in therearviewmirror. Speaking tome via his reflection, the driver says, “If youdon’t mind my asking… are you related to the movie producer AntonioSpencer?”Ofhisfeatures,allIcanseeishismouth,andhissmilestretchestobecomeaspookyleer.

IretrievethecopyofVanityFairandholdthecoverphotoofmymotherbesidemyownface,saying,“Seeanyresemblance?UnlikemymomIhavepores…”Already, I’m falling asleep, driftingoff.Sadly, I sensewhere this

conversationisgoing.

Thedriversays,“Idosomescreenwriting,myself.”

Andyes,ofcourse,IsawthisrevealcomingfromthemomentIfirstsawthecar.Everydriver isnamedGeorge, andeverydriver inCaliforniahasascreenplayreadytofobontoyou,andsincetheageoffour—whenIcamehome from Halloween trick-or-treating, my pillowcase loaded with specscreenplays,I’vebeentrainedtomanagethisawkwardsituation.Asmydadwouldsay,“We’renotreadingfornewprojectsatthistime…”Meaning:“Gopeddle your spec script to some other sucker for financing.” But despite achildhoodof arduous training in how to gently and politely dash the hopesanddreamsofmoderatelygifted,earnestyoungtalents…maybejustbecauseI’mexhausted…maybebecauseI realize that theeternalafterlifewillseemevenlongerwithout thedistractionofevenlow-qualityreadingmaterial…Isay,“Sure.”Isay,“Getmeacleancopy,andI’llgiveitaread.”

EvenasI’mdriftingofftosleep,myhandsstillgrippingtheVanityFairwithmymom’sfaceonthecover,Isensethatthefrontofthecarisnolongerclimbing into the sky. It’s leveledoff, and, as ifwe’ve crested amountain,we’re slowly beginning to tilt downward in a slow, perilous, straight-downplunge.

Fromtherearviewmirror,stillleering,thedriversays,“Youmightwanttobuckleup,MissSpencer.”

Thatsaid,Ireleasemymagazineanditfallsdown,throughthepartitionhole,andliesflattenedagainsttheinsideofthewindshield.

“Anotherthingis,”thedriversays,“whenwegettoourdestination,youdon’twanttotouchthecagebars.They’reprettydirty.”

The car plummeting, plunging, diving impossibly fast, in ever-acceleratingfreefall,Iquicklyandsleepilyfastenmyseatbelt.

XXVIIAreyouthere,Satan?It’sme,Madison.Bytheir

nature, stories told in the second person cansuggestprayers.“Hallowedhethyname…theLordiswith thee…”With this inmind,pleasedon’tgetthe idea that I’m praying to you. It’s nothingpersonal,butI’msimplynotasatanist.Nor,despitemyparents’bestefforts,amIasecularhumanist.Inlightof findingmyself in theafterlife,neitheramIany longeraconfidentatheistnoragnostic.At themoment,I’mnotcertaininwhatIbelieve.Farbeitfrom me to pledge my faith to any belief systemwhen, at this point, it would seem that I’ve beenwrongabouteverythingI’veeverfeltwasreal.

In truth, I’m no longer even certain who I,myself,am.

Mydadwouldtellyou,“Ifyoudon’tknowwhatcomesnext,takeagoodlonglookatwhatcamebefore.”Meaning:Ifyouallowit,yourpasttendstodictate your future.Meaning: It’s time I retracemy footsteps.With that inmind,Iabandonmyjobatthetelemarketingphonebankandsetoffonfoot,carryingmy new high heels,wearingmy trusty, durable loafers.Clouds ofblackhouseflieshover,buzzing,denseandheavyasblacksmoke.TheSeaofInsects continues to boil in eternal rolling, gnashing chaos, its shimmering,iridescentsurfacestretchingtothehorizon.Thepricklyhillocksofdiscardedfinger- and toenail parings continue to grow and slough in scratchyavalanches.Thedesertofbrokenglasscrunchesunderfoot.ThenoxiousGreatOceanofWastedSpermcontinuestospread,engulfingthehellishlandscapearoundit.

And yes, I find myself a thirteen-year-old dead girl gaining a fullerknowledgeofherowntrustissues,butwhatI’dreallyratherbeisanEasternBlocorphanabandonedandaloneinmymisery,ignored,withnopossibilityof rescue until I become indifferent to my own horrid circumstances andunhappiness.Or, asmymotherwould tellme, “Blah,blah,blah… shut up,Madison.”

Mypointis,I’vemademyentireidentityaboutbeingsmart.Othergirls,mostlyMissSluttyVandersluts,theychosetobepretty;that’saneasyenoughdecisionwhen you’re young.Asmymomwould say, “Every garden looks

beautiful in May.” Meaning: Everyone is somewhat attractive when she’syoung.Amongyoungladies,it’sadefaultchoice,tocompeteonthelevelofphysicalattractiveness.Othergirls,thosedoomedbyhookednosesorravagedskin, settle on being wildly funny. Other girls turn athletic or anorexic orhypochondriac.Lotsofgirlschoosethebitter, lonely, lifetimepathofbeingMiss Snarky Von Snarkskis, armored within their sharp-tongued anger.Another life choice is to become the peppy and upbeat student bodypolitician. Or possibly to invent myself as the perennial morose poetess,poring overmy private verse, channeling the drearyweltschmerz of SylviaPlathandVirginiaWoolf.But,despitesomanyoptions,Ichosetobesmart— the intelligent fat girl who possessed the shining brain, the straight-Astudent who’d wear sensible, durable shoes and eschew volleyball andmanicuresandgiggling.

Sufficeittosaythat,untilrecently,Ihadfeltquitesatisfiedandsuccessfulwithmyowninvention.Eachofuschoosesourpersonalroute—tobesportyorsnarkyorsmart—withthelifelongconfidencethatonecanpossessonlyasasmallchild.

However,inlightofthetruth:thatIdidnotdieofamarijuanaoverdose…nor did Goran reveal himself as my romantic ideal… my schemes havebroughtnothingexceptheartachetomyfamily…Thus,itwouldfollowthatIamnotsosmart.Andwiththat,myentireconceptofselfisundermined.

Even now, I hesitate to use words such as eschew and convey andweltschmerz,sothoroughlyismyfaithinmyselfshaken.Theactualnatureofmy death reveals me to be an idiot, no longer a Bright Young Thing, butinstead a deluded, pretentious poseur. Not brilliant, but an impostor whowould craft my own illusory reality out of a handful of impressive words.Such vocabulary props served as my eye shadow, my breast implants, myphysicalcoordination,myconfidence.Thesewords:eruditeandinsidiousandobfuscate,servedasmycrutches.

Perhapsit’sbettertorecognizethisdegreeofpersonalfallacywhilestillyoung,ratherthanloseone’sfixedsenseofselfinmiddleageasbeautyandyouthfade,orstrengthandagilityfail.Itmightbeworsetoclingtosarcasmand contempt until one finds herself isolated, loathed by all her peers.Nevertheless, this extreme form of psychological course correction stillfeels…devastating.

With that crisis fully realized, I retrace my route, returning to the cellwhere I first arrived in Hell. My arms swinging, the diamond ring whichArcher gaveme, the finger ring, flashes heavy and stolen.No longer can Ipresentmyselfasanauthorityonbeingdead,soIretreattomyenclosureoffilthybars,thecomfortprovidedinsidealock,therustandgrimescratchedby

thepointedsafetypinofadeadpunkrocker.Doomedwithintheirowncells,myneighborsslump,grippingtheirheadsbetweentheirhands,solongfrozenandcatatonicinattitudesofself-pity thatspiderwebsenvelopthem.Ortheypace,punchingtheairandbabbling.

No, it’s not too late for me to devote myself to being funny or artsy,energeticallyfloppingmybodyaroundonsomegymnasticsmatsorpaintingmoodymasterpieces;however,havingfailedatmyinitialstrategy,I’llneveragainhavesuchfaith inasingle identity.Whether Ichannelmyfuture intobeing the sporty girl or stoner girl, the smiling cover on aWheaties cerealbox, or an absinthe-guzzling auteur, that new persona will always feel asphony and put-on as plastic fingernails or a rub-on tattoo. The rest of myafterlife,I’llfeelascounterfeitasBabette’sManoloBlahniks.

Nearby, oblivious souls sprawl within their cages, so sunken in theirshockand resignation they fail to shoo thehouseflies that crawlalong theirsoiled arms. These flies freely roam across their smudged cheeks andforeheads. Black flies, fat as raisins, walk across the glassy surface ofpeople’s staring,dazedeyes.Unnoticed, thesehouseflieswander into slack,openmouths,thenemergefromnostrils.

Behind their own jail bars, other condemned souls tear at their hair.Enraged souls, they rend and shred their own togas and vestments, rippingtheirerminerobes,theirshroudsandsilkgownsandtweedSavileRowsuits.Someof them,Romansenatorsand Japanese shoguns,deadanddamned toHellsincelongbeforeIwasevenborn.Thesetormentedwail.Theirspecksofraving slobber mist the fetid air. Their sweat runs in rivulets down theirforeheads and cheeks, glowing orange in the ambientHellish firelight. ThedenizensofHades,theyflailandcower,shakefistsattheflamingsky,poundtheir heads into the iron bars until their blood blinds them.Others claw attheirowncountenances,rakingtheirskinraw,scratchingouttheirowneyes.Their broken, hoarse voices keening. In adjacent cells… in cages beyondcages… trapped, they stretch to the burning horizon in every direction.Countless billions of men and women yammer, despairing, shouting theirnames and status as kings or taxpayers or persecutedminorities or rightfulproperty owners. In this, the cacophony of Hell, the history of humanityfracturesintoindividualprotest.Theydemandtheirbirthrights.Theyinsistontheir righteous innocence as Christians or Muslims or Jews. Asphilanthropists or physicians. Do-gooders or martyrs or movie stars orpoliticalactivists.

InHell,it’sourattachmentstoafixedidentitythattortureus.

In the distance, following the same route on which I’ve so recentlyreturned,abrightbluesparkfloats.Thespotofbrightblue,vividagainstthe

contrastingblazeoforangeandredfire,thebluenimbusbobsalong,edgingbetweenfarawaycagesandtheirshriekingoccupants.Thebluespeckpassesthedeadpresidentsgnashing their teeth, ignores the forgottenemperorsandpotentates.Thisbluespotdisappearsbehindheapsofrustedcages,vanishingbehind crowds of lunatic former popes, obscured behind the iron hives ofimprisoned, sobbingdeposed shamansandcity fathers andexiled, scowlingtribesmen,onlytoappearalittlemoreblue,a little larger,closer,amomentlater.Inthismanner,thebrightblueobjectzigzags,comingnearer,navigatingthelabyrinthofdespairandfrustration.Thebrightblue,lostwithincloudsofflies.Theblue,cloaked inoccasionalpocketsofdense,darksmoke.Still, itemerges, larger, closer, until the blue becomes hair, a dyed-blue Mohawkhaircut atop an otherwise shaved head. The head bobs, perched upon theshouldersofablackleathermotorcyclejacket,supportedandbornealongbytwo legs clad in denim jeans, and two feet shod in black boots.With eachstep, thebootsclankwithbicyclechainswhichareloopedabouttheankles.Thepunk-rockkid,Archer,approachesmycell.

Clamped under one leather-clad arm, Archer carries a brown manilaenvelope.Hishandsstuffedintothefrontpocketsofhisjeans, theenvelopepinnedbetweenhiselbowandhiship,Archertosseshispimpledchininmydirectionandsays,“Hey.”

Archer throws a look at the people who surround us, sunk in theiraddictionsandrighteousnessandlust.Eachpersoncutoff,isolatedfromanyfuture, anynewpossibility,withdrawnand isolatedwithin the shellof theirpastlife.Archershakeshisheadandsays,“Don’tyoubeliketheselosers…”

He doesn’t understand. The truth is I’m prepubescent and dead andincrediblynaiveandstupid—andI’mconsignedtoHell,forever.

Archerlooksdirectlyintomyfaceandsays,“Youreyeslookallred…isyourpsoriasisgettingworse?”

AndI’maliar.Itellhim,“Idon’tactuallyhavepsoriasis.”

Archersays,“Haveyoubeencrying?”

AndI’msuchabigliarthatIsay,“No.”

Not thatbeingdamnedisentirelymyfault. Inmyowndefense,mydadalwaystoldmethattheDevilwasdisposablediapers.

“Deathisalongprocess,”Archersays.“Yourbodyisjustthefirstpartofyouthatcroaks.”Meaning:Beyondthat,yourdreamshavetodie.Thenyourexpectations.Andyourangerabout investinga lifetime in learningshit andlovingpeopleandearningmoney,onlytohaveallthatcrapcometobasicallynothing.Really,yourphysicalbodydyingistheeasypart.Beyondthat,your

memoriesmustdie.Andyourego.Yourprideandshameandambitionandhope,allthatPersonalIdentityCrapcantakecenturiestoexpire.“Allpeopleeverseeishowthebodydies,”Archersays.“ThatHelenGurleyBrownonlystudiedthefirstsevenstagesofuskickingthebucket.”

Iask,“HelenGurleyBrown?”

“Youknow,”Archersays,“denial,bargaining,anger,depression…”

HemeansElisabethKiibler-Ross.

“See,”Archersays,andhesmiles.“Youaresmart…smarterthanme.”

Thetruthis,Archertellsme,youstayinHelluntilyouforgiveyourself.“Youfuckedup.Gameover,”hesays,“sojustrelax.”

The good news is that I’m not some fictional character trapped in aprintedbook,likeJaneEyreorOliverTwist;formeanythingisnowpossible.Icanbecomesomeoneelse,notoutofpressureanddesperation,butmerelybecauseanewlifesoundsfunorinterestingorjoyful.

Archershrugsandsays,“LittleMaddySpencerisdead…nowmaybeit’stimeforyoutogetonwiththeadventureofyourexistence.”Asheshrugs,theenvelopeslipsfromunderhisarmanddriftstothestonyground.Themanilaenvelope.ThebrownpaperisstampedConfidentialinredblockletters.

Iask,“What’sthat?”

Stooping to retrieve the fallen envelope, Archer says, “This?”He says,“Here’s the results of the salvation test you took.” A dark crescent of dirtshowsbeneatheachofhisfingernails.Scatteredacrosshisface,thegalaxyofpimplesglowdifferentshadesofred.

By “salvation test” Archer refers to that weird polygraph test, the lie-detectorsetupwherethedemonaskedmyopinionaboutabortionandsame-sexmarriage.Meaning: thedeterminationofwhetherIshouldbeinHeavenor Hell, possibly even my permission to return to life on earth. Reachingspontaneously,compulsivelyfortheenvelope,Isay,“Giveit.”Thediamondring,theoneArcherstoleandgavetome,thestoneflashesaroundonefingerofmyoutstretchedhand.

Holding theenvelopeoutsideofmycellbars,beyondmy reach,Archersays,“Youhavetopromiseyou’llstopsulking.”

Stretchingmyarm toward theenvelope, carefully avoidingcontactwiththesmuttymetalbarsofmycell,IinsistthatI’mnotsulking.

Danglingthetestresultsnearmyfingertips,Archersays,“Youhaveaflyonyourface.”

AndIwaveitaway.Ipromise.

“Well,”Archersays,“that’sagoodstart.”Usingonehand,Archerunclipstheoversizesafetypinandwithdrawsitfromhischeek.Ashedidbefore,hepokesthesharpenedpointintothekeyholeofmycelldoorandbeginstopicktheancientlock.

Themoment thedoor swingsopen, I stepout, snatching the test resultsfromhishand.Mypromisestillfreshonmylips,stillechoinginmyears,Itearopentheenvelope.

Andthewinneris…

XXVIIIAreyouthere,Satan?It’sme,Madison.Please

consider amending the famous slogan currentlysynonymouswiththeentranceofHell.Ratherthan“Abandonallhope,yewhoenterhere…”itseemsfarmore applicable and useful to post, “Abandonall tact…” Or perhaps, “Abandon all commoncourtesy…”

Ifyouaskedmymom,she’dsay,“Maddy,lifeisn’tapopularitycontest.”

Well,inrebuttal,I’dtellherthatneitherisdeath.

Thoseofyouwhohaveyettodie,pleasetakecarefulnote.

AccordingtoArcher,deadpeopleareconstantlysendingmessagestotheliving—andnotjustbyopeningwindowcurtainsordimmingthelights.Forexample,anytimeyourstomachisrumbling,that’scausedbysomeoneintheafterlife who’s attempting to communicate with you. Or when you feel asuddencravingtoeatsomethingsweet,that’sanothermeansthedeadhaveofbeingintouch.Anothercommonexampleiswhenyousneezeseveral timesin rapid succession.Orwhenyour scalp itches.Orwhenyou jolt awake atnightwithasavagelegcramp.

Cold sores on your lips… a bouncing, restless leg… ingrown hairs…accordingtoArcher,theseareallmethodsthatdeadpeopleusetogainyourattention,perhapsinordertoexpresstheiraffectionortowarnyouaboutanimpendinghazard.

Inallseriousness,Archerclaimsthatifyou,asaliving,aliveperson,hearthesong“You’retheOneThatIWant”fromthemusicalGreasethreetimesinasingleday—seeminglybyaccident,whetherinanelevator,onaradio,atelephoneholdbutton,orwherever—itindicatesthatyou’llsurelydiebeforesunset. Incontrast, thephantomodorofscorched toastmerelymeans thatadeceasedlovedonecontinuestowatchoveryouandprotectyoufromharm.

Whenstraywildhairssproutfromyourearsornostrilsoreyebrows,it’sthe dead trying tomake contact. Even before legions of dead people weretelephoning the living during the dinner hour and conducting polls aboutconsumerpreferencesregardingbrandsofnondairycreamer,beforethedeadwere providing salaciousWeb site content for the Internet, the souls of theexpiredhavealwaysbeeninconstantcontactwiththelivingworld.

ArcherexplainsallofthistomewhilewetrudgeacrosstheGreatPlains

ofBrokenGlass,wading theRiver of Steaming-hotVomit, trekking acrossthe vast Valley of Used Disposable Diapers. Pausing a moment, atop astinkinghill,hepointsoutadarksmudgealongthehorizon.Alowceilingofbuzzards, vultures, carrion birds soar and hover above that distant, darklandscape.“TheSwampofPartial-birthAbortions,”Archersays,noddinghisblueMohawkinthedirectionoftheshadowymarshes.Wecatchourbreathand move on, skirting said horrors, continuing our foray toward theheadquartersofHell.

It’sArcher’s assertion that I ought to abandon being likable.My entirelife, he’s willing to wager, my parents and teachers have taught me to bepleasant and friendlyNodoubt Iwas constantly rewarded for being upbeatandpeppy…

Ploddingalongbeneath the flamingorange sky,Archer says, “Sure, themeekmightinherittheearth,buttheydontgetjackshitinHell…

He says that since I spent my entire life being nice, maybe I shouldconsider some alternative demeanor for my afterlife. Ironic as it seems,Archer says nobody nice gets to exercise the kind of freedom a convictedkillerenjoysinprison.Ifaformerlynicegirlwantstoturnoveranewleaf,maybe explore being a bully or a bitch, or being pushy or simply beingassertiveandnot justsmilingbright toothpastesmilesandlisteningpolitely,well,Hell’stheplacetotakethatrisk.

HowArcher found himself damned for all eternity is, one day, his oldladysenthimtoshopliftsomebreadanddiapers.Notoldladymeaningwife,butoldladyreferringtohismother;sheneededthediapersforhisbabysister,except they didn’t have the funds to pay, so Archer stalked around aneighborhoodgrocerystoreuntilhethoughtnobodywaswatching.

Asthetwoofuswalkalong,shufflingthroughtheflaky,waxydeadskinof theDandruffDesert,we approach a small groupof doomed souls.TheystandinaclusterroughlythesizeofacocktailpartyintheVIPloungeofatop-tiernightclubinBarcelona,everypersonturnedtofacethecenterofthecrowd.There, raisedabove thecoreof thegroup,aman’s fistwaves in theair.Muffledwithinthepeople,aman’svoiceshouts.

Attheedgeofthecrowd,Archerduckshisheadnearmineandwhispers,“Now’syourchancetopractice.”

Seenthroughthelisteningfigures,filteredbetweentheirstandingforms,their filthy arms and ratty heads of hair, there’s nomistaking the center oftheir attention: amanwith narrow shoulders, his dark hair parted so that itfalls across his pale forehead. He thrashes the fetid air with both hands,gesticulating wildly, punching and slashing while he shouts in German.

Dancingatophisupperlipisaboxybrownmustachenowiderthanhisflarednostrils.Hisaudiencelistenswiththeslackexpressionsofthecatatonic.

Archer asksme,What’s theworst that can happen?He says I ought tolearnhowtothrowmyweightaround.Hesaystoelbowmywaytothefrontofacrowd.Pushpeopleoutofmypath.Playthebully.Heshrugs,creakingthe black leather sleeves of his jacket, saying, “You choose… ” At that,Archer places one hand flat against the small of my back and shoves meforward.

I stumble, jostling the crowd, falling against their woolen coat sleeves,treading on the polished brown uppers of their shoes. Honestly, everyonepresentwearsthetypeofsensibleclothesbestsuitedtoHell: lodencoatsofdeep green and gray flannel, thick-soled shoes and boots of leather, tweedhats. The only ill-chosen fashion accessory present is an abundance ofarmbands worn around everyone’s biceps, red armbands emblazoned withblackswastikas.

Archertossesalookatthespeaker.Stillwhisperingtome,hesays,“Littlegirl…ifyoucan’tberudetoHitler…”

Heurgesmetogopickafight.StompsomeNaziass.

Ishakemyheadno.Myfaceblushing.Aftera lifetimeofbeing trainednevertointerrupt,Icouldn’t.Ican’t.Theskinofmyfaceflusheshot,feelingasdeepredasArcher’spimples.Asredastheswastikaarmbands.

“What?” Archer whispers, his mouth pulled into a sideways smirk, hisskinbunchedaroundthestainless-steellanceofthesafetypinwhichskewershischeek.Hechidesme, saying, “What?AreyouafraidMisterHerrHitlermightnotlikeyou?”

Withinme,atinyvoiceasks,What’stheworstthatcanhappen?Ilived.Isuffered. Idied—theworst fateanymortalpersoncan imagine. I’mdead,and yet something of me continues to survive. I’m eternal. For better orworse. It’sobsequious littlenicety-nicegirls likemewhoallowassholes torun the world: Miss Harlot O’Harlots, billionaire phony tree huggers,hypocrite drug-snorting, weed-puffing peace activists who fund the mass-murdering drug cartels and perpetuate crushing poverty in dirt-poor bananarepublics. It’smy petty fear of personal rejection that allows somany trueevils toexist.Mycowardiceenablesatrocities.Undermyownsteam,IstepawayfromArcher’spushinghand.I’mshoulderingmywaythroughwoolencoatsleeves,elbowingbetweentheswastikas,clawingandswimmingapathtoward the center of the crowd. With each step I’m actively stomping onstrangers’feet,wedgingmyself,plungingdeeperintothetightlypackedmassofthedamned,untilIburstintotheeyeofthemob.Trippingoverthefront

rowof feet, I tumble, fallingwithmyeffort,only to landonmyhandsandknees,face-firstintheloosedandruff,myeyeslevelwiththepolishedtoesoftwoblackboots.Reflectedinthebuffed,glossyleather,Iseemyselfclose-up:apudgygirldressedinacardigansweaterandtweedyskort,adaintywatchstrapped around one chubbywrist,my face blazingwith bug-eyed, flushedembarrassment.Aboveme,AdolfHitlerloomswithhishandsclaspedbehindhisback.Rockingonhisbootheels,he looksdownand laughs.Myglasseshaveflownfrommynoseandliehalf-buriedindeadskin,andwithoutthemthe world looks distorted. Everyone bleeds together to form a solid massentrapping me; unfocused, their faces look smeared and melted. His headthrownback,toweringmonstrouslyoverme,Hitlerdirectshistinymustacheattheflamingskyandroarswithlaughter.

Encirclingus,Hitlerandme,thecrowdfollowshiscueuntilI’mburiedintheir laughter.Theystandsodensely thatArcherandhisblueMohawkhairarelost,walledoffbehindsomanydeadbodies.

Climbingtomyfeet,Ibrushthelooseflakesofstickydandrufffrommyclothes. I open my mouth to tell everyone to be quiet, please. My handsscrabblinginthelayereddermisofgreasydandruff,Ifeelaroundinsearchofmyeyeglasses.Evenblind,IbegforsilencesoIcanridiculetheirleader,butthemobmerelybellowswithsadisticglee,theirblurredfacesreducedtotheirgapingmouthsandteeth.

Perhapsit’sduetosomepost-traumaticstressreaction,butinthatinstantI’mtransportedtotheafternoonattheSwissboardingschoolwhenthetrioofMissSluttyVandersluts took turns chokingme to death,muggingwithmyeyeglasses and ridiculingmebefore bringingmeback to life. I feel a handdescend to clutch at my arm, a huge, coarse hand, cold as themortician’stable;thecallousedfingerswrapmyelbow,astightlyasaswastikaarmband,and something lifts me to my feet. Perhaps it’s due to some suppressedmemory of some skeezy undertaker’s fondling touch, the reek offormaldehyde andmen’s cologne, but I pull backward. The entire thirteen-year-old weight of me falls backward, pushing my fist and skinny armforwardinarocketingarc,apinwheelswingwhichconnectswithsomethingsolid.This…something…crunchesagainstthebonyimpactofmyknuckles.Again, I collapse into the soft carpet of dandruff flakes, only this timesomethingheavylandsinthedeadskinbesideme.

The crowd’s laughter goes silent. My hands unearth my glasses. Eventhrough the dirty lenses, foggedwith dead flakes of scalp, I can seeAdolfHitler crumpledbesideme.Hemoans softly, apurpledoughnutof abruisealreadyformingaroundoneclosedeye.

The ring, the diamond ring which Archer had stolen from a groveling,

slobbering,doomedsoultrappedinthecagebesidemyowngrimycell, thisring around my finger has collided with Hitler’s face. Like a bulbous,seventy-five-caratbrassknuckle,thefatdiamondhasknockedhimcold.Myfist vibrates.Mywrist thrums like a tuning fork, so I shakemy fingers toregainfullfeelinginthathand.

A man’s voice shouts. Archer’s voice, behind the stunned wall ofonlookers,shouts,“Takeasouvenir!”

AsArcherwouldexplainlater,allgreatbullieshavetakentotemsorfetishobjectsinordertostealthepoweroftheenemiestheyhavevanquished.Somewarriors took scalps they could display on their belts. Others took ears,genitals,noses.Archerinsiststhattakingasouvenirhasalwaysbeencrucialtoassuminganenemy’spower.

There I stoodwithHitler lying prone atmy feet.Tobe honest, I reallydidn’twant his boots.Nor did I feel the slightest desire to lay claim to hisnecktie or silly armband. His belt? His gun? Some little piece of Nazicostume jewelry, a tin-plate eagle or a skull? No, good taste seemed toprecludetakinganyreadilyapparentportionofhiscostume.

And, yes, I might be a formerly nicety-nice girl with no qualms aboutusing thewordsprecludeorqualms, andnohesitation tocoldcocka fascisttyrant, but I continue to be very particular about the manner in which Iaccessorizemyveryblandwardrobe.

From the far edge of the crowd, Archer’s voice shouts, “Don’t be apussy!”Heshouts,“Takethedamnedmustache!”

Of course, it’s the one talisman which bears the entire identity of thismadman.Hismustache—atinyscalptohangfrommybelt—itrepresentssomethingwithoutwhichHitlerwouldnolongerbeHitler.Bracingtheheelof one sensible loafer firmly against his neck, I lean over and entwinemyfingers through the coarse, pubic-feeling fringe of the tiny lip hairs. Hisbreathingfeelswarmanddampagainstmyhands.EvenasIbracemyselfforonegiganticpull,oneherculeanyank,Hitler’seyelashesflutterandhiseyespin me with their focused rage. Stomping my foot into his throat, I jerk,pullingtheshorthairswithallofmystrength—andHitlerscreams.

Thecrowdrecoils,retreatingastep.

Onceagain,Ifallbackward,myarmspinwheelingbutstillclutchingmyprize.

AdolfHitler holds his facewrapped in both hands, blood pouring frombetween his fingers; his bellowing words sound garbled and choked, thesleevesofhisuniformrunningwithblood,sosoakedthatthevividrederases

thedullswastikabandedaroundhisarm.

Cuppedwithinthepalmofmyhandcurlsthewarmlittlemustache,tornaway,stillattachedtoapale,thincrescentofupperlip.

XXIXAre you there, Satan? It’s me, Madison. My

taste for power continues to grow, as does myabilitytoaccrueit.

The diamond ring, Archer explained, came from Elizabeth Bathory, aHungariancountesswhodiedandhasbeenimprisonedwithinherowngrimy,hellish cage since 1614. Always a beauty, the Countess Bathory had oncestruckaservantgirl,whobledfromtheassault,andwherethespilledbloodaccidentallysplashedonthecountessitseemedtorejuvenateherroyalskin.Basedonthisclearlyanecdotalevidence,ElizabethBathorywentnutsforthisnew skin-care ritual, immediately hiring and exsanguinating some sixhundredservantgirlsatalightningpace,sothatshemightcontinuallybathein their warm blood. These days, the countess looks terrible; she sitsslobberingandcomatosewithfrustrationanddenial,unabletotransitionfromabloodthirstyMissWhoreyVonWhoreski.

Armedwith the ring of vampirishElizabeth, I couldmore easily knockoutAdolfHitler.Andnow,armedwithhistinyfascistmustache,IbanishedtheNazisuperman.Ofcourse,oncesomeoneissentencedtoHell,itbecomesnearly impossible to discard him further. My solution was to send himsomeplacewhereImyselfneverplannedtoventure.MyinitialselectionwastheSeaofInsects;however,withadditionalconsiderationIrevisedmychoicetotheSwampofPartial-birthAbortions.There it is, in thehellofHell, thatboggy landscape of nightmares where stewed infants simmer beneath anenormousmovie screen, an inescapable billboard, uponwhich The EnglishPatientplays in a never-ending Technicolor loop, that’s where Herr Hitlerresides,shornofmustacheandidentity.

Deprivedoftheirdemagogue,Hitler’smindlessdronesinevitablyfellintostepbehindArcher andme, traversing theDandruffDesert inour footstepswhile we continued our journey Of course, I requested they discard theirdistastefularmbands,andtounderscoremydemandsIdidbrandish the tinyprofanemustache.

We’dventurednofartherthantheLakeofTepidBile—ArcherandIandour band of newfound sycophants — when we encountered a statuesquewomanholdingcourtamidaretinueofbowing,scrapingattendants.Agreatill-gottenheapofAlmondJoysservedasherthrone,andthemembersofhercourt formed concentric circles surrounding the hem of her brocaded andembroidered gown. The woman, while mad with a manic, eye-rolling

hysteria,wore a coronetor adiademofpearls perched atop thenest of herelaborately plaited hair. Even as her court kowtowed at her feet, her wansmilefelluponArcherandmeandpromptlyvanished.

Asour travelingpartyneared thisnewsight,Archer leanedclose tomyear.HisRamonesconcertT-shirtpungentwiththestenchofhisperspiration,hewhispered,“CatherinedeMedicis…”

If you askedmy father for advice he’d tell you, “The secret to being asuccessfulcomedianistoneverstoptalkinguntilyouhearsomeonelaugh.”Meaning:Persevere.Meaning:Bedetermined.Make just oneperson laugh;then leverage thatpersonand that joke intomore laughter.As somepeopledecideyou’refunny,increasingnumbersofpeoplewillbegintoagree.

The tinyHitlermustache secreted safewithin the pocket ofmy skort, IlistenedtoArcher’scounsel.

“She’ssomequeenofsomeplace,”Archerwhispers.

OfRenaissanceFrance, I reply.TheconsortandqueenofHenry II, shedied in1589.Most likelyshe’scondemnedtoeternalhellfirefor instigatingthe St. Bartholomew’s DayMassacre, in which Parisian mobs slaughteredthirtythousandFrenchHuguenots.Aswedrawnearerandnearer,thequeen’seyes become fixed uponme, perhaps sensingmy newfound power andmygrowing lust for more. In the same manner that Hitler was trapped in thepersonaofarantingblowhard,andtheCountessBathorywasfixatedonbeingapermanentyouthfulbeauty,CatherinedeMedicisseemsfartooattachedtoherimperiousnoblestationofbirth.

Stopping, Archer allowed me to continue my approach, my every stepnarrowingthedistancebetweenmeandmynewadversary.Frombehindme,standingatasafedistance,Archercalled,“Goforit,Madison.Kickherroyalcandyass…..”

Admittedly, my battle charge might’ve appeared somewhat crudelyjuvenile, consisting of racing full-tilt at the object ofmy attack, shouting alitany of playground curses such as, “Prepare to die, dirty butt-face, youstinky, skuzzy dumb-ass snotty stuck-up wop queen…!” before shovingCatherinedeMedicis’sbodilyfromhercandy-barthroneandpummelingherwith a rain of toe kicks, fingernail scratches, hair pulls, savage tickles, andcruelpinches.Yetdespitethisschoolyardbarbarism,Ididmanagetocompelthe lofty de Medicis to consume a mouthful of soil after successfullypositioningHerHighness to lie facedownupon theground.Thence, it tookonlymymodestbodyweightdirectedthroughthepointofmycrookedelbow,drivenbetweenhershoulderblades,tomotivateherroyalCathynesstorecite,under duress, “Si! Si! I am a skuzzy Miss Skuzzyski and a Douchey

MacDoucheBagand I smell like stale cat pee……” It goeswithout sayingthatneitherCatherinenorherparasiticcourtierscouldunderstandasyllableofwhatsherecited,buthercompulsoryspeechoccurredashighlycomic toArcher,whoeruptedinaveritablevolcanoofsurlyguffaws.

Yes, now it’s power I want. Not affection. I don’t want that kind ofpointless,impotentpower,asearlierdiscussed.Markmywords:Beingdeadisn’t all sitting around in remorseful reflection andbitter self-recrimination.Death,likelife,iswhatyoumakeofit.

Fortified with the Hitler mustache and the Bathory diamond, I madequick,brutalworkofthiscutthroatreligiousbigot.Onceshe’ssentpackingtojoin Adolf in the mucky swamp, I resume my journey with Archer, thecoronetofpearlsnowbalanceduponmyownhead,andtheraggedretinueofRenaissanceladiesandgentlemenfallintostepamongmygrowinglegionoffollowers.Traipsingalongbehindus,Archer andme,our army swellswithNazi zombies…plus these deMedicis hangers-on… later,Caligula’s campfollowers.

Youmay attributemy new boldness to a sort of placebo effect, but bycarrying the mustache of a loudmouthed despot, my own words began tosound more eloquent to my ear.My every statement carries the force andauthority of a speech blasted over amplifiers to a rally of goose-stepping,torch-bearing,book-burningminions.Inordertobalancethepearlcrownofarighteous,sadisticqueen,I’mforcedtostandtaller,myspine,mybearing,myentire carriage stretched to a nobler height.Casting asidemy sensibleBassWeejunloafers,IplacemyfeetinthehighheelsprovidedbyBabette,furtherincreasingmystature.

Beforewe reached the next horizon, I’d vanquished yet another foe—Vlad III,aliasVlad the Impaler,aprinceof theDracul family,whodied in1476 after torturing somehundred thousandpeople to death—amanwhoformedtheflesh-and-bloodbasisoftheDraculavampirelegend.Fromhim,Iclaimed a jeweled dagger, a dusty clique of corrupt knights, and a treasurechestbrimmingwithCharlestonChews.

Subsequent to him, I utilize said dagger to obtain the testicles of thecorruptRoman emperorCaligula.And hismighty cache ofReese’s PeanutButterCups.

After we’d resumedwalking, at present shadowed by half the obedientidiots from world history, I ask Archer, “So you’re in Hell because youshopliftedbread?”Isay,“How…JeanValjean.”

Archermerelystaresatme.

“HowNumber24601…”Isay,flutteringmyhandinaflourishingGallicgesture.“HowLesMiserables.”

Inresponse,Archersays,“There’smoretoitthanjuststealingbread.”

Fartheralongonourjourney,weentertheThicketofAmputatedLimbs,agrotesquebrambleof severed arms and legs, tangledhands and feet,whichfiltersthesmoky,sootybreeze.Thepathispavedwithalitterofdisembodiedfingers, all of the limbs and digits lost and separated from their rightfulowners, all the battlefield amputations and hospital leftovers which wereperfunctorilydiscardedandneverarrivedatanappropriategravesite.Plustheubiquitous, worthless popcorn balls. There, I lay claim to the belt of KingEthelred II, the English monarch responsible for the deaths of twenty-fivethousandDanesintheSt.Brice’sDaymassacre.It’sfromthisbeltthatIhangthedangling,severed testicles; the jeweleddagger;and the tinyscalpof themustache. The spoils of my ongoing campaign to prove myself a badass.Soon these talismans are joined by the ceremonial rumal, or handkerchief,used by cult leader Thug Behram to strangle his 931 victims. This belt,becomingthegrislycharmbracelet thatproclaimsmyprogressfromnicety-niceboarding-schoolgirltoway-impolitewarriorprincesswithnoregardfordecorum.IamtheAnti-JaneEyre.Barelybreakingmystride,IvanquishtheinfamousBluebeard,GillesdeRais,addinghisbraquemard—the rodwithwhichhe’dsuffocatedsixhundredchildrenwhilesodomizingthem—tothegrotesque trophies which dangle and sway from my waist. As with eachvictory,anewtroopoflieutenantsfallsintostepinmyshadow.

Throughout my pilgrimage of transformation, the manila envelopecontaining the results of my salvation polygraph test, folded carefully,remains tuckeddeep intoonehippocket ofmy skort.Seldomdowebreakstride in our relentless campaign across the burning landscape, beneath theskyscorchedwithorangeflames.

“AfterIgotthebreadanddiapers,”Archersays,“Itookthemhometomyoldlady……”

Isay,“Pleasetellmethatyou’renotaschoolshooter,likeyouoriginallyclaimed.”

AndArchersays,“Justlisten,okay?”

He delivered the bread and diapers to hismother, only to discover thathe’dnervouslystolentheexactwrongtypeofdiaper.Insteadofswipingthebrandwith adhesive plastic tabs to hold them in place,Archer had broughthome a less expensive productwhich required safety pins. To compensate,he’d offered the pins he normally wore pierced through his cheeks andnipples. It was one of these poorly sanitized punk accessories which, no

doubt,prickedhisinfantsister.Thefrailchildfell illfromabloodinfectionand,almostovernight—died.

Sensingtheawkwardnessofhisadmission,Ideliberatelydidnotseektomake eye contact. Instead, I continued tomarch atArcher’s side, our armystreaming along in our wake. Directing my eyes straight ahead, I felt thebumpandjostleoftalismans,fetishes,powerobjectsswayingfrommywaistandcollidingwithmystridinghips.Istoodupright,balancingtheweightofmynewpearlycrown.Keeping the toneofmyvoicenonchalant,offhand, Iaskedifthatwashisreasonforbeingeternallydamned…becausehe’dkilledhisbabysister.

“Thatwasprettyshitty, thewayshedied,”Archersays,keepingpaceatmyside.Hesays,“Butthere’smoretoit……”

It’swithournextstep that the towers, the turretsandbattlementsof theHellheadquartersfirstpokeabovethefarhorizon.Atourheels,thenumbersofourmarchingarmy,themostvilescofflawsandthugsandcriminalsofallhuman history, the number of our legions has grown to become almostinfinite.Thecombinedtreadofourmarchingfeetshakestheground,crushingdiscarded toffees to dust.We parade, a grand pageant, underlings prancingaheadtosprinkleourpathwithafragrantcarpetofRedHots,Skittles,peanutM&M’s,andgumballs.OurspoilsofBostonBakedBeansandJollyRanchersarenearlybeyondmeasure.

Theyoungladywhoexpiredintheglowofahoteltelevision…sheisnotthe sameyoungwomanwhonowpresents herself before the gates ofHell.Hannibalshould’vepresentedsuchafearsomesight.ThehordesofGenghisKhan would appear as nothing compared to my own. The Spartans. Thelegions of the Caesars. The armies of the pharaohs. None could hope tosurvive a battle with these, my hollow-eyed blackguards, their corrodedcutlassesandscimitarsclashingagainstthedirtysky.

Behold, my name is Madison Spencer, child of Antonio and CamilleSpencer,citizenofHell,andmyarmyisasnumberlessasthestars.Asisthewealthofmycandy.IbidallthedemonsanddevilsofHadesimmediatelytoopentheirstoutfortressuntome.

XXXAre you there, Satan? It’s me, Madison.

Whetheryouareoryouarenot,ithardlymatters…because I am here. The prodigal daughter. LittleMaddySpencerhascomehometoroost.

Evenasweapproachtheprecipicewallsofunderworldheadquarters,thestoutgatesofHell—oakenbeamsblackenedwithageandboundiniron—are already swinging shut to block our entry. Stretched to the horizon oneither hand, these crumbling battlements rise lofty as thunderheads, rearingbackasifbracedagainstourassault.Standingblackagainst theorangesky.Here, the Great Plains of Discarded Razor Blades, a vast, baked continentpavedmilesdeepwitheverydullandrustedrazorbladecastoffbyhumanity,thisglitteringfieldendsatthebaseoftheseominousstonewalls.

Asoledemonstandsguardasthegatesaremadefast,rattlingfromwithinwith the telltale rasp of bars sliding into place, chains being wrapped andlocked,boltsshot.Thisdemon,itsskinpebbledwithinfectedsores, itshiderunningwithpusandcorruption,thesnoutofamonstrousboardominatesitsrubbery face. Its eyes are those black stones through which a killer sharksurveysitscold,wateryvictim.HerepresentsitselfBaal,deposeddeityoftheBabylonians, receiver of generations of sacrificial children slaughtered intribute. Thundering with the voice of these screamingmillions, the demondemands, “Halt and approach no closer!” The demon, Baal, commands,“Disperse your menacing armies! And relinquish your delicious stores ofNestleCrunchbars!”

Thusblockingthepath,thisdemonhybridofpigandsharkandpedophiledemandstoknowmyname.

Asif,atthisnewestmoment,Iknewwhattocallmyself.

Who I am is no longer the plump girl who’d smile winningly, bat hereyelashes,andsay,“Prettyplease,withsugarontop.”MyvoicespeakswiththerageoftheHitlermustache.Myheadstandsunbowedbeneaththeweightof the garish deMedicis crown.My chunky loins, girded with the belt ofmurderouskings, swagger anddisplay the spoils ofmycampaign.Myhipsbristlewithtotemsandtalismans,proofthatIamnotsimplyacharacterinafixedbookor film. I amno singlenarrative.AsneitherRebeccadeWinternorJaneEyre,Iamfreetorevisemystory,toreinventmyself,myworld,atanygivenmoment.AdvancingbesideArcher,Iamresplendentinmysavagefineryof seizedpower. Inmyservicecharge thecollectedblackguardsofa

dozen tyrants now dispatched to a lesser oblivion. My fingers, stainedcrimsonwith thebloodofdespots,arenot the fingerswhichpaged throughthepaperlivesofhelplessromanticheroines.NomoreamIapassivedamselwho waits for circumstance to decide her fate; now have I become thescalawag, the swashbuckler, the Heathcliff ofmy dreams bent on rescuingmyself.FornowdoIembodyall thetraitsIhadsohopedtofindinGoran.Meaning:NolongeramIlimited.

Iammyownrakishseducer.Idoserveasmyownsurly,brutishbounder.

AsweadvanceuponthegatesofHell,notslowingourpace,thatcadenceof our billion-upon-billion marching feet, Archer whispers to me, “Thegreatestweaponanywarriorcancarryintobattleisabsolutecertaintyofhereternalsoul.”

Noslippery,wetheartbeatswithinthedamphollowofmychest.Bloodcourses not beneath the delicate skin of my limbs. At this point, I am nolongeranythingwhichcanbekilled.

Archerwhispers,“Yourdeathoffersyouagoldenopportunity.”

ThedemonpigBaalbaresitsfangs,itspalatebrimmingwiththerupturedfluids and gore of countless foes, a jagged nightmare of toothy torture andsuffering— but only to those still wedded to their past lives. As kings orbeauties.Asrichmenorcelebratedartists.No,suchgnashing,clashingfangswouldfrightenonlythosewhohaveyettoacceptthefactoftheirimmortality.Thedemonbeast snorts flame,hacking the scaldingairwithgreat, slashingclaws. The monster roars laughter so greedy, so guttural with hunger thateven the scoundrels andknavesmarching inmywake,my rapscallions andlowlifes, even they begin to fall back in fear. Even Archer, his head bentagainst the onslaught of venomous, sulfurous exhalations, even my blue-hairedlieutenantslacksinhisbravecharge.

Yet Idonotventurehere tobewell liked.Nordo I seekany tributeofsweet,smilingaffection.Myobjective isnot to flirtandcurryfavor;and inmymind’seye,myhairstreaming,mykneesthrownhigh,daggerunsheathed,IappearquiteByronic.

Uponarrivalwithinarm’slengthoftheheinousdemon,iftruthbetold,Iamnot surprised to findmyself standing alone.The entire lot of them,mylegionsofcadsandgladiators,despitetheirmachetesandbravado,dotrembleandwithdraw.Evenmysecondincommand, thepunkArcher,falters inhisboldattack.Thewhisperofhissageadvicenolongerhissinginmyear.

Pity the poor demon with but its single strategy to win. In the samehandicappedwayJaneEyremustremainmeekandstoic, thisdemonicBaal

knows only one way to exist: by being fearsome.While I exist plastic tochange and adapt, tailoringmy battle plan to each newmoment, Baal cannever dissolve an enemy into helpless laughter, nor charm a foe by usingextraordinary beauty. Therefore, when we neglect to fear such a brittlemonstrosity,werenderitpowerless.

Issuing a war whoop far more Grace Poole than Jane Eyre, I launchmyselfboldlyandsquarelytowardBaal’sporcinethorax.Inaccordancewithmy long-ago, school-mandated rape-prevention training, I execute a two-prongedoffensive against thedemon’s stony eyes and tender porkgenitals,gougingtheformerandstompingmystilettoheelsuponthelatter.Payingnoheedtotheuntil-nowcarefulpreservationofmyneatandcleanappearance,Isnatchupahandfulofthecorrodedrazorbladeswhichpavethegroundandcommence to slash and claw, my efforts bringing forth a flood of piggishblood.Thestenchofthedemon’sexposed,rupturedvisceraisthereekofthecharnel house. A fog of spouting slaughterhouse blood and killing-floorscreamsensues.Theoffal flies inwidearcs,GrandGuignolstyle,andeventheHellishorangeskyisrackedbyBaal’ssquealingprotest.

It’s a little-known fact, but demons are only slightly more difficult todefeat than despots or tyrants. Despite their immense size and fearsomeappearance, demons lack any actual self-confidence.All of their advantagelies inbluster,hideousdeformity, andputrid stink, andonce thosedefensesarebreachedademonhasverylittlewithwhichtobackthemup.Thegreatprideofademon isalso itsweakness.Likeallbullies,at thepointwhere itfindsitselflosingface,ademonmostoftentakesflight.

What little thatwasleftofMadisonSpencer,movie-starscion, is lost inthe subsequent savage flurry.Battling alone against the evilBaal, I amnotunaware of the sullied hordes who, from a distance, witness my boldsavagery. Assaulted with the unrelenting volley of my infantile slaps andgirlish pokes, my churlish vocal taunts, the infuriating flurry of my wetwilliesandIndianburns,thisfiercestofdemonscriesinpanickedfrustration.Subjectedtomyfearsomebarrageofpainfulnoogies,thenmylightning-fastattackoftittytwisters,myentirearsenalofgrade-schoolinsults,Baalwrestlesto free himself. Following a particularly violentwedgie inflicted uponhim,thedemonunfurlshiswrinkled,leatherywingsandfleesthesceneofbattle.Those batlike wings beating, beating the black smoke and clouds ofhouseflies,Baalracestovanishoverthefarorangehorizon.

Thus I’m left standing alone at the sealed gates of headquarters but foronly a moment. I savor the glory of being bathed, soaked, drenched withwarmbloodwhichisnotmyown.

Evenbeforesaidbloodcancool,asolevoicecallsdownfromawindow

placed high in the locked battlements.Awoman’s voice calls, “Maddy? Isthatyou?”Littlelargerthanthefacewhichfillsit,thewindowissituatedsohigh that it takes a moment for my eyes to locate it, but there hovers thevisage of an old woman, Mrs. Trudy Marenetti, most recently fromColumbus,Ohio,whoarrivedinHellbywayofpancreaticcancer.Shecalls,“HurrayforlittleMadison!”

Fromanotherdistantwindow,anotherface,thatofMr.Halmott,victimofcongestiveheartfailureandBoise,Idaho,echoestheshout,“HurrayforlittleMaddy!”

Fromotherwindows,otherbattlements and turrets, amultitudeof facestrumpetthenameofMadisonSpencer.Ofthese,someIrecognize,butothersIdonot,forI’vespokentothemonlyoverthetelephone,counselingthemnotto fear their imminent deaths. During my absence, these souls have beenarriving in droves, transforming Hell into a veritable Ellis Island of newarrivals, shocked but not devastated by their demise, more curious thanfrightened, in fact eager to shed their former failing lives and embarkuponsome new enterprise. It would seem that I’ve recruited them. All of them,everyoneofthesefaceslaudsmefromtheirfar-flungwindowsinthewallsofHell. They demand the gates be thrown open so that they might embraceme…theirnewhero.

SuddenlytheveryairisfilledwithsweetnessasdeadpeopleshowermewithSugarBabiesandmalted-milkballs.IntributetheytossasugaryblizzardofPezandRootBeerBarrels.

Myarmycoalescesoncemore,andtheunmistakablesoundsofboltsandchainscanbeheardfromwithinthebarreddoors.Byfractionsofadegree,byhairbreadths, the two ponderous gates begin to swing aside, offering aglimpse of the headquarterswithin. Behindme, the thunderous troops rushforward toconveymeupon theirburly,murderous shouldersandcarryme,victorious, into the besieged city. My hordes begin to plunder the candycoffersofHades.Looting that treasuryofPixyStix,AtomicFire-Bails,andYorkPeppermintPatties.

Withthegatesnotyetashoulders’widthapart,afigureappearsfromtheinterior, a youngwomanwith nice breasts and good hair; wearing beat-upfakeManoloBlahnikshoes,dime-sizecubiczirconiumearrings,acounterfeitCoachbagslungoveronearm,therestands—Babette.

Lookingatme,withCaligula’sshriveledballswornonmybelt,next tothat Hitler’s nasty mustache hanging like a tiny scalp, my assortedbloodstaineddaggersandbludgeons,thenwrinklingherbuttonnose,Babettesays,“Younevercouldaccessorizeforshit.”

NodoubtshestillwantstotransformmeintosomeWhoreyVanderwhoreversionofanoverlymadeupAllySheedy.

Steppingforward,Isay,“Domeafavor?”

Themultitudes surroundinguswait inpensive silencewhile Iwithdrawthe folded polygraph test from the hip pocket of my bloodied skort. Thatcryptic report concerningmyviewsongaymarriageand stemcell researchand women’s rights, I place this, the final scored version of my test, intoBabette’soutstretchedhandandsay,“DidIpass,orwhat?”

Andwiththechippedwhitenailpolishofhermanicure,Babetteslidesthetestresultsfromtheirmanilaenvelopeandbeginstoread.

XXXIAre you there, Satan? It’s me, Madison. My

mom used to say, “Madison, you’re a worrier.”Meaning: I fret over everything. Meaning:EVERYTHING.NowI’mworriedthatI’vewon.Myascenttopowerseemstohavebeentooeasy.Inmylife, in my parents’ lives, the rewards have comewith so little struggle. The homes in Dubai andSingapore and Brentwood. The afterlife goes on;however; it’s not quite death as usual. Somethingseemsfishy,butIcan’tputmyfingeronit.

Gone is the previous Maddy Spencer, she of the sterling posture andfinishing-schoolmanners.Thatwinsomemehasbeendeclaredextinct.True,oncemoreIamseatedbeforetheconsoleofmytelemarketingstation,buttheheadsetrestscantedatopmyheadtoallowforthepearl-studdeddeMediciscrown,andmydemeanorisforeveraltered,forthebetterornot.

Instead of wheedling the chronically ill, diplomatically andnonthreateningly,withmyassuranceabout the liabilityofHades—is theresuch a word as “die-ability”?— espousing all the wonderful opportunitiesofferedbytheafterlife,thenewmebrowbeatsthosewhoprocrastinate,thoselollygaggerswhopostpone their deaths.Rather thannurture and assure, theaggressivenewmeharangues thedyingwhohave themisfortune toengagemeintelephoneconversation.Yes,I’mthirteenyearsoldanddeadanddoingchild labor in Hell — but at least I’m not whining and crying about mysituation.Incontrast, thepeople towhomI talkaresoendlesslyattachedtotheir wealth and achievements, their homes and loved ones and physicalbodies. So attached to their stupid fear. These failing strangers with theirstage-four brain tumors and kidney failure, they’ve put a lifetime intoperfecting themselves, practicing and fine-tuning every nuance of theiridentity,andnowallofthiseffortisabouttobewasted.Inallhonesty,theyirkthebejesusoutofme.

The previous Madison Spencer would bother to hold their frightenedhand,tocalmandcomfortthem.WhoIamnow,however,Itellthemtocrymeastinkingshitriverandfalldowndead,already.

Onoccasion,adivisionorcompanyofmystainedhordes,thearmiesI’veinheritedfromGillesdeRaisorHitlerorIdiAminwillstopby,beggingforaworkassignment,somelarge-scaletasktoperformonmybehalf.

More often, the people I’ve coached into Hell stop by to pay theirrespects. The just-arrived dead still smelling of funeral carnations andformaldehyde, these immigrant souls sport the troweled-on cosmetics andoverly primped hairdos that only an undertaker would inflict, and only acorpse would tolerate. These new arrivals, they all feel compelled to talkthroughtheirterribledeathexperience,andIjustletthemchatteraway.Moreoftenthannot,Idirectthemtooneofthenumeroustalk-therapysessionsI’velaunched, my new hope-aholics recovery groups, a twelve-step peer-supported cliché. But with our high graduation rate and low recidivism itwould doDanteAlighieri proud.After a coupleweeks of complaining andself-mourning — the usual railing over lost luxury items and survivingenemies and wrongs left unavenged, plus the typical gloating about pastawardsandaccomplishments—mostpeoplegettheirfillanddecidetomoveforwardwiththeireternalexistence.Crudeasmymethodsmightappear,mydead friends are not among those people who linger for centuries in theirsoiled cages cursing their new reality.Thedeadwhom I coachprove toberemarkably well-adjusted and productive. Among them, Richard Volk whodied of blunt-force trauma caused by an automobile accident last week inMissoula,Montana, thisweekhe’s leadingtheformerbattalionsofGenghisKhan in their current campaign to collect all the discarded cigarette buttswhichinevitablyenduphere.HerealsoisHazelKunzeler,whosuccumbedtohemophilia twoweeksago in Jacksonville,Florida; she’snowcommandingformer Roman legions in their latest me-assigned mission to propagate abillionfloweringrosebushesinthespacenowoccupiedbytheLakeofTepidBile.Obviouslythisconstitutesablatantmake-workproject—sosueme—buttheeffortkeepseveryoneoccupiedforcontentedaeons,andevenasmallmeasure of success improves the overall atmosphere of the underworld.What’s of most importance is how these assignments deflect would-behangers-onandallowmetofocusonmyownprojects.

Yes,Imightbeadeadchildstrangledinapoorlyunderstoodsexgame,buttometheglassismosttimeshalf-full.DespitemyoptimismthereremainsnosignofGoran—notthatI’vebeenscouringtheafterlifesearchingforhiminadesperate,lonelystalkerway.

At the limits of my peripheral vision, Babette comes walking in mydirection, my salvation polygraph test clasped in her chipped whitefingernails.

Intomytelephoneheadset, Iaskamiddle-agedwomandyinginAustin,Texas,“Areyou familiarwith theoldReno-styledivorces?” Iexplainhow,decades ago, one simply took a six-week vacation to establish residency inNevadainordertofileforano-faultdissolutionofmarriage.Well,Itellher

tocatchthenextflighttoOregon,wheretheyhavelegalizedassistedsuicide.Shewon’tevenhavetobuyaround-tripplaneticket,andshecanbedeadbythis comingweekend. “Book yourself into some luxury hotel in downtownPortland,” I say, “get amassage, and call room service for an overdose ofPhenobarbital.It’sthateasy.Makearealjunketoutofit……”

Sittinghere, talkingon the telephone,myfingerscrossed, I swearallofthis is true. Honest Injun. My workstation, what would pass as my officecubicle on earth, is arrayed with my power souvenirs, the various murderweapons and body parts and symbols of imperial power. Staringme in theface,pinnedtomycorkbulletinboard,thedriedmonkeypatchoftheHitlermustachedoesnotinspirehonestyInmyperipheralvision,Babetteproceedsevercloser,bearingtheinevitableresultsofmytest.

Intomy telephone, I assure this dyingTexas person that her permanentrecordisopenonthedeskinfrontofme,anditshowsshe’sbeenprettymuchon the fast track toHell since theageof twenty-three,whenshecommittedadultery.Despite the fact that she’dbeenmarried toherhusband forbarelytwoweeks,sheengagedinsexualintercoursewithalocalmailcarrier,largelybecauseheremindedherofaformerbeau.Upontheheelsofthatrevelation,the woman gasps. She convulses into racking coughs, struggling to ask,“How’dyouknowthat?”

Inaddition,itwouldappearthatshehonkedherautomobilehornonetoomanytimes.Accordingtodivinelaw,Iexplain,eachhumanbeingisallowedtohonknomore thanfivehundred timesover thecourseofa lifetime.Onehonkbeyondthatnumber,regardlessofcircumstances,resultsinanautomaticcondemnation toHell—suffice tosayall taxicabdriversareHellhound.Asimilarunbreakablelawappliestodiscardedcigarettebutts.Thefirsthundredare permitted, but any dropped butts beyond that number result in eternaldamnationwithnohopeforrecourse.Itseemsshe’salsoinviolationofthisregulation. It’s all spelled out, here, printed in almost illegible dot-matrixblackandwhiteinherpersonalfile.

BynowBabettehasarrivedatmyelbow,whereshestands, tapping thetoeofonefauxBlahnik,twistingherwristtolookpointedlyatthetimeonherlong-deadSwatch.

To stall for time I hold up one straightened index finger,mouthing thewordwait,whileintothetelephoneI tell theTexasladythere’snothingshecando in thebrief timeshehas leftonearthwhichwillearnheraplace inHeaven.Sheneedstoconsiderherlovedones, tostophoggingthespotlightand allow the peoplewho love her to go back to their ownprecious, brief,messed-up lives. Yes, she should warn them about not honking theirautomobile horns and not discarding cigarette butts, but then she ought to

moveon.

I tell her, “Die already.”My finger hovering above the control board, Isay, “Hold, please…,” and punch the button. I twist in my seat to faceBabette,myeyebrowsarchedinexpectation.Myentirefaceasilent,begging,Please.

Babetteoffersthereport.Shetapsachippedfingernailonanumberatthebottomofalongcolumnoffaintdot-matrixnumbers,saying,“Justfromyouroverallculpabilityscore…”Shesays,“Thisnumber,here.”Handingmethesheetofpaper,Babettesays,“Youneedtofileforanappeal.”Withthat,sheturnsononebatteredhighheelandbeginstowalkaway.

My latest Hell recruit, the horn-honking, cigarette-strewing gal slowlydyinginTexas,she’sstillblinking,blinkingonhold.

CallingafterBabette,Iaskwhatshemeansbyappeal.Inresponse,withoutlookingback,Babetteshouts,alreadyfour…five…

six workstations away; still receding, she says, “You shouldn’t even behere……”

Fromevenfarthergone,Babetteshouts,“There’sbeenanofficialscrew-up.”Loud enough for everyone to overhear, she shouts, “Double-check thenumbersyourself.”Sheshouts,“Because,right thisminute,youought tobeinHeaven.”

Upanddowntheinfiniterowoftelemarketers,facestwisttoseemine.Alingering crowd of mercenaries and fresh-off-the-boat Hell newbies waitwithin earshot, their faces slack with confusion. One of their small groupsteps forward, not a dastardly blood-drenched pirate, nor an aged personattired in her best funeral suit of clothes. No, this stranger standsapproximatelymyheight.Areasonableguesswouldplaceherageatthirteen.Thisstrangercouldalmostpassas theearlierme, thepristine,well-behavedMadisonwearingsensibleshoesanda tweedyensemblecarefullychosen tomaskfuturesoiling.Incontrasttomycurrentself,thissmallstrangerpresentsherselfwithnodrieddemonicbloodonherhands and face,herhair neatlycombed and meticulously arranged. Offering a dainty hand of nicety-nicepinkfingernails,thisgirlsays,“MadisonSpencer?”Shemeetsmygazewithcalm, unblinking eyes, her perfect double row of white teeth bound instainless-steelbraces,saying,“Youwin……”

Atthat,thegirl’sdaintyhandsdipintothepocketsofhertweedskirt,andthenthepocketsofhercardigansweater,andshebringsforthcandy.Seven,eight, nine candybars.Ten full-sizedMilkyWaybars,mynewbest friend—myfirstbestfriend,ever—thisdeadgirloffersthesesweetchocolatyprizes

tome.

XXXIIAre you there, Satan? It’s me, Madison. How

miserably hypocritical, you might say, but nosooner am I offered a chance to flee Hell than Iyearn to stay.Few familieshold their relationsasclosely as do prisons. Few marriages sustain thehigh levelofpassion that existsbetweencriminalsandthosewhoseektobringthemtojustice.It’snowondertheZodiacKillerflirtedsorelentlesslywiththe police. Or that Jack the Ripper courted andbaited detectiveswith his—or her—coy letters.We all wish to be pursued. We all long to bedesired.AtthispointI’vebeeninHellforalongerperiod of time than I’ve ever spent in any of myearthly homes, in Durban, in London, in Manila.Worsethanfeelingmerelyconflicted,I’mmiserableatthethoughtofleaving.

Inorder tokeepthevariousbloodthirstyarmiesoccupiedandoutofmyhair, I’veordered themtocaptureandpaintall thenoxiousbatsofHell redand blue, to pass for cardinals and bluebirds. The industrious butcherspreviouslyemployedbyPolPotandMadameDefarge,I’vedispatchedthemto fabricate bright butterfly wings out of colorful construction paper andglitter, then glue these false wings to the real wings of our ever-presenthouseflies.Notonlydoes this spruceup thenormallydismalatmosphereoftheunderworld,italsopreventswhatwouldbetheinevitableclashesbetweenMongolian hordes andNazi storm troopers and Egyptian charioteers.Mostimportant, it keeps them all busy and allowsme to spendmy time touringEmilyaround,eatingMilkyWays,anddiscussingboys.

Throughoutourrelaxedamble,Iremarkonpossibleimprovementstothelandscape, a flowering dogwood here, a reflecting pool there, perhaps anaviaryofcolorfulparrots,eachofwhichEmilydutifullymakesnoteofonaclipboardshecarries.

The potentially needy mobs of newly dead, those anxious souls I’veenrolledindyingandrelocatingtoHell,I’vedelegatedthosefolkstovariousotherreclamationprojects.Really,IcouldpassasnolessthantheFDRoftheafterlife, what with all the dams I’ve decreed be build across rivers ofscalding blood. I’ve ordered other work teams to dig channels and drainexpansive marshes of rank perspiration; thanks to me the ancient Sweat

SwampsofHellnolongerexist.Lostsoulswhologgedentirelifetimesinthestudyandpracticeofcivilandstructuralengineering,thosepeoplearethrilledfor the opportunity to put their existing skills to use. The rolling hills ofsemicoagulated mucus have been leveled. And an entire gulag of happilydamnedslavelaborersdoesnothingexceptfashionfalsewaterlilyblossomsfromcrepepaperandfloattheirproductsonthesurfaceoftheShitLake.

MoreandmoreIseethatHellisn’tsomuchapunitiveconflagrationasitis the natural result of aeons of deferred maintenance. Frankly put: Hellamountstonothingmorethanamarginalneighborhoodallowedtodeteriorateto the extreme. Picture all the smoldering, underground coal mine firesexpandingtorubelbowswithalltheburningtiredumps,throwinalltheopencesspools and hazardous-waste landfills, and the inevitable resultwould beHell, a situation hardly improved by the self-absorbed tendency of theresidentstofocusontheirownmisfortuneandneglecttoliftadeadfingerindefenseoftheirenvironment.

Fromourvantagepoint, strollingalong theshoresof theSeaof Insects,Emily and I survey the slow but certain improvements in the dismallandscape.Ipointoutareasofinterest:theroilingRiverofHotSaliva…thebuzzards circling Hitler and his distant colleagues relegated to theirunspeakableplace.Iexplaintheseeminglyarbitraryrulesofwhichpeoplerunafoul, how each living person is allowed to use the F-word amaximumofsevenhundredtimes.Mostlivingpersonshaven’ttheslightestideahoweasyitistobedamned,butshouldanyonesayfuckforthe701sttime,heorsheisautomaticallydoomed.Similarrulesapplytopersonalhygiene;forexample,the 855th time you fail to wash your hands after voiding your bowels orbladder,you’redoomed.Thethreehundredthtimeyouusethewordniggerorthewordfag,regardlessofyourpersonalraceorsexualpreference,youbuyyourselfthatdreadedone-waytickettotheunderworld.

Walking along, I tell Emily how the dead may send messages to theliving.Inthesamewaythatlivingpeoplesendeachotherflowersore-mails,a dead person may send a living person a stomachache or tinnitus or anaggingmelodywhichwilloccupythealiveperson’sattentiontothepointofmadness.

The pair of us walking along, idly examining the putrid, boilinglandscape,aproposofnothing,Emilynonchalantlysays,“ItalkedtothatgirlBabette,andshesaysyouhaveaboyfriend…

Idonot,Iinsist.

“Hisname,”saysEmily,“isGoran?”

IinsistGoranisnotmyboyfriend.

Her eyes remaining fixed upon the notes she’s jotted on her clipboard,Emily asks if Imiss boys.What about prom?Do Imiss theopportunity todateandgetmarriedandhavemyownchildren?

Not particularly, I reply. A crew of sinister Snarky Miss Snarky-pantsgirls at my old boarding school, the infamous three who taught me theFrench-kissing Game, they once professed to educate me about humanreproduction.Astheytold it tome, thereasonboysdesiresodesperately tokissgirlsisbecause,witheachkiss,theactivitymakestheboy’swangergrowlarger. Themore girls a boy can kiss, the larger a wanger he’ll eventuallypossess, and the boys boasting the largest are awarded the best-paying,highest-statusjobs.Really,it’sallverysimple.Allboysdevotetheirlivestoamassingthemostelongatedgenitals,growingthenastythingssothatwhentheyeventuallywedge them insidesomeunfortunategirl, thedistantendoftheenlargedwangeractuallybreaksoff—yes,thewangerfleshbecomessohardenedthatitshatters—andthebrokenportionremainslodgedwithinthegirl’shoo-hoo.Thisnaturalevent ismuchlike thoselizards that live inariddesertsandcanvoluntarilydetachtheirsquirmingtails.Anyamount,fromthepointedtiptoalmosttheentirewiener,canliterallysnapoffinsideagirl,andshe’sfullyunabletoremoveit.

Emily stares at me, her face distorted in far more disgust than sheregistered even when first witnessing the Lake of Tepid Bile or the GreatOceanofWastedSperm.Theclipboardhangs,ignored,betweenherhands.

Continuing, Iexplain that theembeddedportionof thefracturedwangergrowstobecometheresultingbaby.Intheeventthewangerhasbrokenintotwoorthreeportions,eachoftheseevolvestobecometwinsortriplets.Allofthisfactualinformationcomesfromaverylegitimatesource,IassureEmily.IfanyoneatmySwissboardingschoolknewanythingaboutboysand theirridiculousgenitalsitwouldbethosethreeMissCoozyO’Cooznicks.

“Knowing the factsof lifeas Ido,” I tellEmily,“no, I certainlydo notmisshavingaboyfriend……”

Thetwoofuscontinuewalkingalonginsilence.Myarrayoffetishesandpowerobjectsdangleandswayfrommybelt.Theyclangandknockagainsteachother.OnoccasionIsuggesta lovelybirdbathbeplacedhereor there.Ora sundial surroundedbyapicturesquebedding schemeof redandwhitepetunias. Eventually, to break an extended silence, I ask what she missesaboutbeingalive.

“My mother,” Emily says. Good-night kisses, she says. Birthday cake.Flyingkites.

Isuggesttinklingwindchimesmightimprovetheblacksmokethatswirls

andbillowsaroundus.

Emilyfailstowritedownmyidea.“Andsummervacationfromschool,”shesays,“AndImissswingsets……”

Ahead of us, a figure comes walking down the path in the oppositedirection. It’s a boy, passing in andout of the drifting clouds of smoke. Inturns,he’srevealedandoccluded.Apparentandhidden.

Shemissesparades,saysEmily.Pettingzoos.Fireworks.

The figure,aboy,approachesusholdingsomesortofpillowcradled tohischest.Hiseyesarerakish,hisbrowsurlyandmoody,hislipstwistedintoasensuouslypuckeredsneer.Thepillowhecarries iscoloredbrightorange,texturedsuchthatitappearssimultaneouslysoftandvivid.Theboywearsahot-pinkjumpsuitwithalongnumberstitchedacrossonesideofhischest.

“Imissrollercoasters,”Emilysays.‘Andbirds…realbirds,Imean.Notjustred-paintedbats.”

Theboy,nowblockingourpath,he’sGoran.

Lookingupfromherclipboard,Emilysays,“Hello.”

Nodding to her, he speaks tome. “I am sorry I chokedyou intodead,”saysGoraninhisvampireaccent,andhehandshisorangepillowtowardme.‘Atpresent,youseenowIamdeadaswell,”Goransays,placingthepillowinmyarms.Hesays,“Ifoundthisforyou.”

The pillow feels warm. It hums in short pulses. Bright orange, soft, itlooksatmewithflashinggreeneyes,fullyaliveandpurring,nestledagainstmybloodstainedsweater.Itswatsapaw,itstinyclawsbattingattheCaligulatesticles.

No longer dead and stuffed in the plumbing of some luxury hotel, nolongerapillow,it’smylittlekitten.Alive.It’sTigerStripe.

XXXIIIAreyouthere,Satan?It’sme,Madison.Ihave

mykitty.Ihavemyboyfriend.Ihavemybestfriend.IhavemoredeadthanIeverdidwhilealive.Exceptformymomanddad.

NosoonerhadImademypeacewithGoranthananothercrisisoccurred.NosoonerhadIacceptedthewarm,cuddlyfuzzballofmybelovedkitty,

Tiger Stripe, than my emotional equilibrium was again knocked askew.Goran, I assured him, did not killme.Yes, in some sense, he accidentallykilled the person identified asMadison Spencer; he forever destroyed thatphysicalmanifestationofme,butGorandidnotkill…me.Icontinuetoexist.Furthermore,hisactionswereprecipitatedbymyown fallaciousconceptofFrench-kissing.Whattranspiredinthathotelsuitewasacomedyoferrors.

Graciously,IacceptedTigerStripe,thenintroducedGorantoEmily.Thetrio of us continued to stroll until obligation required I resume mytelemarketingduties.Mybelovedkittycurledandsnoozinginmylap,happilypurringaway,myheadsetfirmlyinplace,Ibegantofieldsurveycallsasthecentral computer connectedme to households, to breathing people alive intimezoneswheretheeveningmealwassettocommence.

Inonesuchresidence,someplacewithafamiliarCalifornianareacode,amansvoiceansweredthetelephone,“Hello?”

“Hello,sir,”Isaid,followingbyrotethescriptwhichdictatedmyeverystatementandresponse.Pettingthecatatrestinmylap,Isay,“MayIhaveafewminutesofyourtimeforanimportantconsumerstudyconcerningbuyinghabitsinrelationtoseveralcompetingbrandsofadhesivetape…?”

Ifnotadhesivetape,thetopicwouldbesomethingelsejustasmundane:aerosolfurniturepolish,dentalfloss,thumbtacks.

In thebackground,almost lost in thedistancebehind theman’svoice,awoman’svoicesays,“Antonio?Areyouill?”

Thewoman’svoice,likethetelephonenumber,feelsstrangelyfamiliar.

StillpettingTigerStripe,Isay,“Thiswillonlytakeafewmoments……”

Abeatofsilencefollows.

Isay,“Hello?”Isay,“Sir?”

Anotherbeatof silenceoccurs,brokenbyagasp,almosta sob,and the

man’svoiceasks,“Maddy?”Double-checkingthetelephonenumber,theten-digitnumberwhichreads

onmylittlecomputerscreen,Irecognizeit.

Overmyheadset,themansays,“Oh,mybaby…isthatyou?”

The woman’s voice in the background says, “I’ll grab the bedroomextension.”

ThetelephonenumberisourunlistedlineforthehouseinBrentwood.Bysheercoincidence,theautodialerhasconnectedmewithmyfamily.Thismanandwoman are the former beatniks, former hippies, former Rastas, formeranarchists—myformerparents.Aloudclicksounds,someoneliftinganotherreceiver,andmymother’svoicesays,“Darling?”Notwaitingforananswer,shebeginstoweep,begging,“Please,oh,mysweetness,pleasesaysomethingtous……”

At my elbow, brainiac Leonard sits at his workstation plotting chessmoves against some alive adversary in New Delhi. On my opposite side,Patterson conspireswith living football enthusiasts, keeping track of teamsand quarterbacks, marking their statistics in the blank spaces of a fantasyspreadsheet. The business of Hell continues unabated, spread to eitherhorizon.Elsewhere, the afterlife continues as usual, butwithinmy headset,mymother’s voice begs, “Please,Maddy…Please tell your daddy andmewherewecancomefindyou.”

Sniffing, his voice choked and his breath exploding into the telephonereceiver, my father sobs, “Please, baby, just don’t hang up……”He sobs,“Oh,Maddy,we’resosorryweleftyoualonewiththatevilbastard.”

“That…”mymotherhisses,“that…assassin!”

Myguessisthatthey’rereferringtoGoran.

And yes, I’ve vanquished demons. I’ve deposed tyrants and takencommand of their conquering armies. I’m thirteen years old, and I’veshepherdedthousandsofdyingpeople into thenext lifewithrelatively littleupset. I never finished junior high school, but I’m overhauling the entirenatureofHell,onscheduleandunderbudget.Ideftlytossoffwordssuchasabsentiaandmultivalentandconvey,butI’mcaughtcompletelyoffguardbythesoundofmyparents’tears.Forhelplying,IfingerthedriedscrapoftheHitler mustache. For coldness, to quell the tears already building in myburning eyes, I consult thedeMedicis crown.Over the telephone I tellmyweepingmotherandfathertohush.It’strue,Iassurethem:Iamdead.IntheicyvoiceofchildkillerGillesdeRais,ItellmyfamilyIhavepassedoutoffragilemortallifeandnowdwellintheeternal.

At this, theirweeping subsides. In a hushed, hoarsewhisper,my fatherasks,“Maddy?”Inavoiceweightedwithawe,heasks,“AreyouseatedwiththeBuddha?”

InthelyingvoiceofserialmurdererThugBehram,Itellmyparentsthateverything they taught me about moral relativism, about recycling, aboutsecularhumanismandorganicfoodandexpandedGaiaconsciousness—it’sallturnedouttobeabsolutelytrue.

Ajoyous,shrillcryoflaughterescapesmymother’smouth.Apuregaspofrelief.

Andyes,Iassurethem,Iamthirteenandstilltheirpreciousbabygirlanddead…butIresideforevermoreinserene,peacefulHeaven.

XXXIVAre you there, Satan? It’s me, Madison. My

dead posse and I are planning a little pilgrimageback to hobnob among the living. And to plundertheearthforitswealthofcandy.

Leonard goes after the candy corn, those faux kernels of gritty sugarstripedincolorsofwhite,orange,andyellow.Pattersoncravesthechocolate-flavored known as Tootsie Rolls. Archer covets the overly sweet blend ofpeanuts and toffee marketed as Bit-O-Honey. For Babette, it’s peppermintCerts.

AsLeonardexplains,Halloweenistheonlyregularoccasiononwhichthedead ofHell can revisit the living on earth. From dusk untilmidnight, thedamnedmaywalk—fullyvisible—amongtheliving.Thefunendswiththestrokeofmidnight;andlikeCinderella,missingthatcurfewmeritsaspecialpunishment.AsBabettedescribesit,anytardysoulsareforcedtowandertheearth for a year, until dusk of the next Halloween. Thanks to the meltedplastic of her dead Swatch, Babette missed the deadline once and wasbanished to loitering, invisible andunheard, among the self-obsessed livingfortwelveboringmonths.

InpreparationforourHalloweenforay,wesitinagroup,sewing,gluing,cuttingourcostumes.Chess-champion,brain-trustLeonardripsthehemfromapairofpants;withhis teeth,hebitesand frays thepant legs. ‘Scoopingacaramels better handful of cinders and ash from the ground, Leonard rubsthese into the pants. He soils a tattered shirt and wipes his dirty palms toblackenhisface.

Watching,Iaskifhe’ssupposedtobeahobo?Atramp?

Leonardshakeshisheadno.

Iask,“Azombie?”

Leonard shakes his head no and says, “ I’m a fifteen-year-old slavecopyistwhodiedinthefirewhichdestroyedthegreatlibraryofPtolemytheFirstinAlexandria.”

“That was my next guess,” I say. Exhaling breath onto the blade andpolishing my jeweled dagger, I ask why Leonard chose that particularcostume.

“It’snotacostume,”Pattersonsays,andlaughs.“That’swhathewas.It’s

howhedied.”Leonardmightlookandact likeacontemporarykid,buthe’sbeendead

sincetheyear48B.C.Patterson,withhisfootballuniformandall-Americanfresh-faced good looks, he explains this while polishing a bronze helmet.Removinghisfootballhelmet,hefitsthebronzeoneoverhiscurlyhair.“I’manAthenianfootsoldierkilleddoingbattlewiththePersiansin490B.C.”

Drawing a comb through her hair, the red scars clearly showing on herwrists,Babetteexplains,“IamthegreatPrincessSalome,whodemandedthedeathofJohntheBaptistandwaspunishedbybeingtornapartbywilddogs.”

Leonardsays,“Youwish.”

“Okay,” Babette confesses, “I’m a lady-in-waiting toMarieAntoinette,andendedmyownliferatherthanfacetheguillotinein1792…..”

Pattersonsays,“Liar.”

Leonardadds,“Andyouaren’tCleopatra,either.”

“Okay,” Babette says, “it was the Spanish Inquisition… I think. Don’tlaugh,butit’sbeensolongIdon’treallyremember.”

OnHalloween, custom requires thedead tonotmerely revisit theearth,but todosoin theguiseof theirformer lives.Thus,Leonardbecomesoncemore an ancient dweeb. Patterson, a Bronze Age jock. Babette, a torturedwitch orwhatever. That some ofmy newfound friends have been dead forcenturies, some formillennia, thismakes the presentmomentwe’re seatedtogether, stitching and polishing, seem all the more fragile and fated andprecious.

“Fuck that,” says littleEmily.She’sclearly sewinganelaborate skirtoftulle, decorating it with gems she’s gathered from comatose and distraughtsouls.Stitchingaway,shesays,“I’mnottrick-or-treatingasadumbCanadiangirlwithAIDS.”Emilysays,“I’mgoingtobeafairyprincess.”

Insecret,Idreadthethoughtofroamingamongthealive.DuetothefactthatthisisthefirstHalloweensincemydemise,IcanonlyshudderattheideaofhowmanyMissSkuzzyVanderskuzzieswillbeoutwanderingwithHelloKitty condoms looped around their necks, their faces anoxic with bluemakeupinacheapparodyofmyowntragicend.Walkinginthosefewhours,will Ibecontinuallyconfrontedby insensitive revelersas theymake funofme? Like Emily, I consider appearing as some stock character: a genie orangelorghost.Anotherpossibleoptionistotakemyevilarmiesbacktoearthandcompelthemtocarrymearoundinagoldensedanchairwhilewehuntdownmy various SnarkyMiss Snarky-pants enemies and terrorize them. I

couldcarryTigerStripeandpresentmyself as awitchaccompaniedbyherfamiliar.

Perhapssensingmyreluctance,Leonardasks,“Youokay?”

Towhich I simplyshrug. Itdoesn’thelpmymood, rememberinghowIliedtomyparentsoverthetelephone.

The only thing that makes Hell feel like Hell, I remind myself, is ourexpectationthatitshouldfeellikeHeaven.

“Thismightcheeryouup,”saysavoice.Unbeknownsttome,Archerhasenteredourcompany,andinsteadofacostume,hecarriesathickfilefolder.Holding the folder inonehand, heuseshis other topinch a sheet of paperfromthecontentsandwithdraw it.Holding thesheetaloft foreverybody tosee,Archersays,“Whosaysyouonlyliveonce?”

Stamped on the sheet of paper, in red block letters, is the single wordapproved.

XXXVAreyouthere,Satan?It’sme,Madison.Ifyou’ll

forgiveme,Ineedtojumpbackwardforamoment.Funny…measkingfortheDevil’sforgiveness.

ThesheetofpaperArcherheldaloft, it’smyappeal. It’s theblah,blah,blahformforreconsideration,whichBabettefiledonmybehalfinresponseto theresultsofmypolygraph-ysalvation test. Itcouldbe thatmysoulhasactually been found innocent, and the powers that be are righting theirmistake. More likely, what’s happened is more political, and my growingpoliticalstrength—thenewlydeadrecruitsI’vegarneredfromearth,andthearmies I’ve gathered— poses such a threat that the demons arewilling toreleasemeifthatmeansretainingtheiroverallpower.Whatitallboilsdowntois…InolongerhavetostayinHell.Inolongerevenhavetobedead.

Icangobacktoearth,tobewithmyparents,tolivewhateverlifetimeIhaveallotted.I’llbeabletomenstruateandhavebabiesandeatavocados.

Theonlyproblemis,Itoldmyparentswe’dbetogetherforalltime.Yes,of course, I told themwe’d all be inHeavenwith the Buddha andMartinLuther King Jr. and Teddy Kennedy smoking hashish or whatnot… but IWASonlytryingtosparetheirfeelings.Honestly,mymotivationwasfairlynoble.Really,Ijustwantedthemtostopcrying.

No, I’m not completely unrealistic about my parents’ slim chances ofattainingHeaven.Tothatend,talkingoverthetelephone,I’dmademyfatherpromisetohonkhiscarhornatleastahundredtimeseachday.I’dswornmymothertoconstantlyusethewordfuckandtoalwaysdrophercigarettebuttsoutdoors. With their existing track record, these behaviors would wayguaranteetheirassureddamnation.ForeverinHellisstillforever,andatleastwe’dallbetogetherasanintactnuclearfamily.

Evenashewept,Iforcedmyfathertopromisethathe’dneverpassupanopportunitytobreakwindinacrowdedelevator.MymomImadepromisetourinate in every hotel swimming pool she’d ever enter. Divine law allowseachperson topassgas inonly threeelevators,and tourinate in thesharedwaterofonly twoswimmingpools.This is regardlessofyourage, somostpeoplearealreadyrelegatedtoHellbytheageoffive.

I told my mom she looked way beautiful giving away those dumbAcademy Awards, but that she should hit Control+Alt+D and unlock thedoors of my bedrooms in Dubai, London, Singapore, Paris, Stockholm,Tokyo,andeverywhere,allofmyrooms.BykeystrokingControl+Alt+Cshe

oughttoopenallmycurtainsandallowsunlightintothosesealed,shadowyplaces. Imademydadpromise togiveallmydollsandclothesandstuffedanimalstotheSomalimaidswehadineveryhousehold—andtogivethemall a sizable raise in theirwages.On top of all those demands I askedmyparentstoadoptallourSomalimaids,toreallylegallyadoptthem,andmakecertain those girls get college degrees and become successful cosmeticsurgeonsandtaxattorneysandpsychoanalysts—andthatmymomcan’tlocktheminbathroomsanymore,evenasajoke—andbothmyparentsyelledinunisonoverthetelephone:“Enough!Madison,wepromise!”

In my effort to comfort my parents, I said, “Keep your promises, andwe’ll be one big, happy family, forever!” My family, my friends, Goran,Emily,MisterWiggles,andTigerStripe…we’llallspendeternitytogether.

Andnow,yegods…itseemsasthoughI’mtheonewhowon’tbeinHell.

XXXVIAre you there, Satan? It’sme,Madison. But I

guess you already knew that. If you’re to bebelievedIguessyouknowmoreaboutmethanIdo.You know everything, but I suspected thatsomething was not right. At last we meet face-toface……

We’ re all dressed in our Halloween costumes, which aren’t reallycostumes,withtheexceptionofEmily’sfairy-princessoutfit.Babetterefusesto accept the possibility that she’s somedeadnobody; instead, she’s dolledherself up as Marie Antoinette, with jagged, black-thread stitches goingaroundherneck,andatpresentwe’reloiteringaroundtheshoreoftheLakeofTepidBile,waitingtohitcharidebacktoRealLifeandhustleourselvessomesweet,sweetcandyriches.

Just when it appears that we’ll be compelled to take some nasty-dirtycattle-carleftoverfromcommutingtheJewstotheHolocaust,afamiliarblackLincolnTownCardriftstoaslow-motionstopbesideus.It’sthesamecarasfrommy funeral, and the same uniformed chauffeurwearing a visored capand mirrored sunglasses steps from the driver’s seat and approaches ourgroup. In one driving-gloved hand he holds an ominous-looking sheaf ofwhitepaper.Alongoneedge,threeChicagoscrewsbindthepagestogether.Clearly,it’saspecscreenplay,andfromevenafewsteps’distanceitstinksofhungerandnaivelyhighexpectationsandabsurdoutsideroptimism—moreoutsiderthanIcouldpossiblydream.

Holdingthethicknessofpagesoutinfrontofhim,obviouslywaitingformetotakeit,thedriversays,“Hey.”Hismirroredglassestwitchbetweenthepagesandmyface,baitingme tosee thescreenplayandacknowledge it.“Ifoundmyscriptforyoutoread,”hesays.“Onyourtripbacktoearth.”

In this taut moment, one corner of the driver s mouth twitches into apossible leer, some expression either shy or snide, showing a tangle ofbrowned rodent teeth sprouting from his gums. His exposed cheeks flushcrimsonred.Hetwistsandduckshishead,hunchinghisshoulders.Withthetoeofonefoot,shodingleamingblackridingboots—veryold-schoolforachauffeur,almostlikehooves—hedrawsafive-pointedstarinthedustandash.He’sholdinghisbreath,hisvulnerabilitysotangibleyoucantasteit,butI know from vast experience that the moment I touch his cinematic pipedream I’ll be expected to attach bankable talent to it, secure financing for

principalphotography,andlandafatdistributiondealforhim.EveninHades,suchmomentsareexcruciatinglypainful.

Nevertheless, Iwant to rideback toHalloween trick-or-treating instyle,not in some typhus-stinking, lice-ridden Nazi boxcar, so I acquiesce toactually looking at the proffered title page.There, centered in boldface all-capsletters—thefirstdreadedsignofanamateur’sprecious,self-importantwork—Ireadthescript’stitle:

themadisonspencerstory

AuthoredbyandCopyrightBelongingtoSatanFirstoff,Ireadthetitleagain.Andagain.Second,Ilookatthenametag

pinnedtothelapelofhischauffeursuniform,theengravedsilver,anditdoes,indeed,read:Satan.

With his free hand, the driver removes his cap, revealing two bone-coloredhornsthatpokeupthroughhismopofordinarybrownhair.Heslipsoff hismirrored sunglasses to show eyes cutwith side-to-side irises, like agoat’s.Yelloweyes.

My heart…. instantly, my heart is in my throat. At long last, it’s you.Without thinking I step forward, ignoring theofferedscreenplay,and throwmyarmsaroundthedriver,asking,“Youwantmetoreadthat?”Buryingmyface inhis tweedyuniform—inyour tweedyuniform.Thecloth smellsofmethane and sulfur and gasoline.A hug later, I step away.Nodding at thepages,Iask,“Youwroteamovieaboutme?”

Thereitisagain,thatleeringsmile,asifheseesmenaked.Asifheknowsmy thinking.He says, “Read this?My littleMaddy, you’ve lived it.”Satanshakeshishornedhead,saying,“But,technicallyspeaking,thereisno‘you.’”

His gloved hands flip open the manuscript and shove it toward me,demanding, “Look!” He says, “Every moment of your past is here! Everysecondofyourfuture!”

MadisonSpencerdoesnotexist,Satanclaims.Iamnothingbutafictionalcharacterheinventedaeonsago.IamhisRebeccadeWinter.IamhisJaneEyre.Every thoughtI’veeverhad,hewrote intomyhead.EverywordI’vesaid,heclaimshescriptedforme.

Baiting me with the screenplay, his yellow eyes flashing, Satan says,“You have no free will! No freedom of any kind. You’ve done nothing Ididn’tplotforyousincethebeginningoftime!”

I’ve been manipulated since the day I was born, he insists, steered asgracefullyasElinorGlynwouldpositionaheroineona tiger-skinrugfora

tryst with an Arab sheik. The course of my life has been channeled asefficiently as pressing Ctrl+Alt+Madison on a laptop keyboard. My entireexistenceispredestined,decreedinthescriptheholdsoutformyinspection.

Istepback,stillnotacceptingthatdreckscript.Notacceptinganyofthisnew concept. If Satan is telling the truth then even my refusal is alreadywrittenhere.

Archinghis thornyeyebrows,hesayssmugly,“Ifyouhavecourageandintelligenceit’sbecauseIwilledforyoutohavethem.Thosequalitiesweremygift!IdemandedthatBaalsurrendertoyou.Yourso-called‘friends’workforme!”

Hitler,Caligula,IdiAmin,heclaimsthattheyeachthrewthebattletome.That’swhymyascenttopowerhappenedsoquickly.It’swhyArchereggedmetofightinthefirstplace.

ButIrefuse.“WhyshouldIbelieveyou?”Istammer.Iscream,“You’rethePrinceofTides!”

Satanthrowshisheadback,stretchinghisstainedteethattheorangeskyandshouting,“Iamthe‘PrinceofLies’!”

Whatever,Isay.Isaythat—ifhe’sreallyandtrulyresponsibleformyeveryquote—thenHEfuckedupmylastlineofdialogue.

“I gave your mother movie fame! I gave your father a fortune!” hebellows. “If you want proof, just listen…,” and he flips the script open,readingaloud:“‘Madisonsuddenlyfeltconfusedandterrified/”

AndIdid.Ididfeelconfusedandterrified.

He reads, “‘Madison looked around anxiously for reassurance from hercliqueoffriends.’”

AndatthatmomentIhad,indeed,beencraningmyneck,tryingtocatchsight ofBabette andPatterson andArcher.But they’d already climbed intothewaitingTownCar.

Andyes,Iknowthewordspanicandracingpulseandanxietyattack,butI’mnotcertainwhetherIevenexisttoexperiencethem.Insteadofafat,smartthirteen-year-oldgirl…ImightbeafigmentofSatan’simagination.Justinkstainsonpaper.Whetherrealityactuallyshiftedinthatinstant…oronlymyperception of it changed… I can’t tell. But everything seems undermined.Everythinggoodseemsspoiled.

Inhisnerdyway,Leonardhadtriedtowarnme.It’spossiblethatrealitywasexactlythewayhe’ddescribed:Demon=Daimon=MuseorInspiration=MyCreator.

Perusing the pages of his script, chuckling over his work, Satan says,“Youaremybestcharacter.”Hebeams.“I’msoproudofyou,Madison.Youhave such a natural talent for luring souls to perdition!”Withmore than asmidgen of wistfulness, he says, “People hate me. No one trusts me.” Helooksatmealmostlovingly,tearstremblinginhisgoateyes,andSatansays,“That’swhyI’vecreatedyou……”

XXXVIIAreyouthere,Satan?It’sme,Madison,andI’m

not your Jane Eyre. I’m nobody’s CatherineEarnshaw. And you? You’re certainly no writer.You’renotthebossofme;you’rejustmessingwithmy head. If anybody wrote me it would be JudyBlumeorBarbaraCartland.Ihaveconfidenceanddetermination and free will — at least, I guess Ido……

Onawhim,Ididn’ttakeanyofmystormtroopersorMongolhordeswithmetrick-or-treating.IfIcantrustthem—ifIwonthemfairandsquare—Idon’tknowanymore.Besides,thereareonlysomanypeopleyoucanfitintoaLincolnTownCar,anddespitewhatmymomsays,anentouragecanbetoolarge.At the lastminute, I couldn’t evenwear theHitlermustachebecauseTiger Stripe ate it; and then I didn’t want to take my kitty and risk hiscoughingupsomebigNazihairballonsomebody’sfrontstoop.Intheenditwas just us,Archer andEmily, Leonard,Babette, Patterson, andme, goingdoor-to-door.TheDeadBreakfastClub.

Thatsaid,IdidwearthebeltofKingEthelredII,thedaggerofVladIII,the hook with which Gilles de Rais murdered so many children. Emily,dressed as a fairy princess, wears the diamond ring of Elizabeth Bathory.Leonard trades everyone for their candy corn. First we went to the townwhere Archer had last lived, someplace with houses lined up along streetsbrimmingwithalivechildren.Maybesomearedeadchildren,returnedlikeusfor a few hours of nostalgia. For one millisecond I could swear I sawJonBenetRamseywearingsequinedtapshoesandwavinghitous.

Surroundedasweareby themaraudingpacksof costumedurchins, it’sunsettling to know that some of these diminutive living goblinswill die indrunk-driving accidents. Some little cheerleaders and angels will developeatingdisordersandstarvetodeath.Somegeishasandbutterflieswillmarryalcoholichusbandswhobeatthemtodeath.Somelittlevampiresandsailorswill stick their necks through nooses or get shanked in prison riots or bepoisonedbyjellyfishwhileondreamvacationssnorkelingtheGreatBarrierReef.Of the lucky superheroes andwerewolves and cowgirls, old agewillbringthemdiabetes,heartdisease,dementia.

On the porch of one brick house, aman answers the doorbell, and thegroupofusshout,“Trickortreat!”inhisface.Ashegivesuschocolatebars,

this man effuses over Emily’s fairy costume… Babette’s bejeweled MarieAntoinetteoutfit…PattersonasaGreekfootsoldier.Ashiseyessettleonme,the man scans the strip of Hello Kitty condoms twisted around my neck.Placingacandybarinmybloodstainedhand,themansays,“Wait,don’ttellme……”Hesays,“You’resupposedtobethatgirl,themoviestar’skid,whogotchokedtodeathbythepsychobrother,right?”

Standingbesidemeontheman’sporch,Goranwearsaturtlenecksweaterandaberet.Goransmokesanemptypipe.Evenshieldedbehindheavy,horn-rimmedspectacles,Goran’ssultryeyeslookwounded.

It’s possible that Satan scripted this moment. Or it might really behappening.

“No,sir,”Itelltheman.“IhappentobeSimonedeBeauvoir.”MotioningtoGoran,Iadd,“Andthis,ofcourse,isthemuch-celebratedMonsieurJean-PaulSartre.”

EvennowI’mlost.WasI justbeingcleverandcompassionate,orwasIreading smart-ass dialogue written by the Devil? Leaving the porch, ourgroup continues down the street.Almostwithout notice,Archer has veeredawayinadifferentdirection,soIsprintafterhimtocollecthimandherdhimalongwiththerestofus.Catchinghimbyoneblackleathersleeve,Itugforhimtofollowme,butArcheronlycontinuestowalkintheoppositedirection,clearlyonhisownmission,puttingmoreandmoredistancebetweenthetwoofusandthelargergroupofourpeers.AbandoningtheBreakfastClubbers.Without furtherwords, I followuntil the streetlights occur only irregularly,thennotatall.Wecontinueuntiltheconcretesidewalkends,untilthehousesendandthetwoofusarewalkingalongthegravelshoulderofanempty,darkroad.

Archerlooksatmeandasks,“Maddy?Areyouokay?”

Ishebeingconcerned,orisheplayingarole?IsSatanwritingourwalk?Idon’tknow,soIdon’trespond.

Awrought-irongateway rises near us in the shadows, andArcher turnsintoit.Wepassthroughawrought-ironfence,andwe’reinstantlysurroundedby tombstones, treadingonmowngrass, listening tocrickets chirp.Even innear-total darkness,Archermarcheswithout a false step.Onlyby clutchingthesleeveofhisleatherjacketcanIfollow,andevenwithsuchguidanceI’mstumblingovergravemarkers.I’mkickingasidebouquetsofcutflowers,myhigh-heeledshoeswetfromthedamp.

Archercomestoanabruptstop,andIcollidewithhislegs.Notsayingaword,hestandslookingdownonagrave,thestonecarvedwithapictureofa

sleepinglamb,engravedwithtwodatesonlyayearapart.“Mysister,”Archersays.“Shemust’vegonetoHeaven,becauseIain’teverseenher.”

BesidethegraveasecondstonebearsthenameArchibaldMerlinArcher.

“Me,”saysArcher,tappingthesecondstonewiththetoeofhisboot.

Westandthere,silent.Themoonhovers,throwingaweaklightoverthescene around us, countless headstones spread in every direction. Moonlitgrasscoverstheground.Uncertainhowtorespond,IstudyArcher’sfaceforclues. The moonlight glows blue in hisMohawk and glints silvery off hissafetypin.Finally,Isay,“YournamewasArchieArcher?”

Archersays,“Don’tmakemepunchyourlightsout.”

The night after his baby sister was buried, Archer explains how he’dreturned to the grave site.That night a stormwas rolling in, pushing alongthunderclouds, soArcherhadhurried toshoplifta spraybottleofherbicide,the aerosolkindused tokillweeds andgrass.He’d spritzedhismotorcycleboots until the leatherwas sodden, and thenwalked to the newlymoundedgrave.Once there,hisbootssquishingandsquirtingpoisonwitheverystep,Archerhaddoneaprimitiveshuffle,araindanceinthelasthourbeforethestormwouldhit.He’dpirouettedandleaped.Hisleatherjacketflapping,he’dcursed,craninghisneckandrollinghiseyes.Stompinghistoxicfeet,Archerhadrantedandbellowed,boundingandcaperinginthegrowingonslaughtofwind. With the storm building, he’d pranced and cavorted and gamboled.He’d ravedandhowled.As the first raindrops touchedhis face,Archerhadfelt theairsurroundinghimcracklewithstaticelectricity.Hisbluehairhadstoodtoitsfull,straight-upheight,andthesafetypininhischeekhadsparkedandvibrated.

Awhite fingerof light had zigzaggeddown fromHeaven,Archer says,andhiswholebodyhadcookedaroundtheoversizesafetypin.“Righthere,”he says, standing beside his sister’s tombstone, on the spot which wouldbecomehisowngrave.Hesmirksandsays,“Whatarush.”

In that swath of mown grass extending over a dozen graves in eitherdirection,thatallèe,aghostofArcher’sdancestepsstilllingers.There,anewgenerationofgrass,greener,softer,likethefirstfreshbladesgrowntocoverabattlefield,thisnewgrasstraceseverytoxicfootstepArcherleftbeforebeingstruckdownby lightning.Everywherehe’d stompedhispoisonedboots,hesays,thegrasshaddied,anditwasonlynowgrowingback,reseeded,toerasehislate-nightchoreography.

There, onlydays after he’dbeen rendered a giant heretical, sacrilegiousshishkebab skeweredaroundhisown red-hotpiercing, in time forhisown

funeral, his final words had already surfaced as poisoned yellow lettersclearlylegibleinthemanicuredgreen.Evenasthepallbearersborehiscaskettothegrave,theymarchedacrosstheselastangrydancesteps,thisshuffling,stumbling path which spelled— in dead-yellow letters too tall for anyoneexceptadeitytoread:FuckLife.

“Twokidsinoneweek…”saysArcher,“…mypoormom.”

In thesilencewhich follows, Ibegin tohearmynamestreamingon thenighttimebreeze,asthinasthedistantsmellofcandleflamescookingcarvedpumpkins from the inside. From somewhere over the nighttime horizon, achorus of three faint voices seems to callme. In the distant, faraway dark,three different voices chant repeatedly: “Madison Spencer… MaddySpencer…MadisonDesertFlowerRosaParksCoyoteTricksterSpencer…”Withthissiren’ssongentrancing,captivating,luringmeintotheunknown,Istagger in pursuit of the bait. I’m edging between tombstones, hypnotized,listening.Thoroughlypissedoff.

Behindme,Archercalls,“Whereareyougoing?”

Ihaveanappointment,Icallback.Idon’tknowwhere.

“OnHalloween?”Archer shouts. “We’ve all got to be back inHell bymidnight.”

Not toworry, I shout to reassurehim.Stilldrifting,dazed, inpursuitofthemysteriousvoices,drawnalongbythesoundofmyownname,IcallbacktoArcher,“Don’tworry.”Distracted,Ishout,“I’llseeyouinHell……”

XXXVIIIAreyou there,Satan? It’sme,MadisonDesert

FlowerRosaParksCoyoteTricksterSpencer.You’ve thrown down the gauntlet. You’ve

broughtmywrathdownuponyourhouse.Now, toprove that I exist I must kill you. As the childoutlives the father, somust the characterbury theauthor. If you are, in fact, my continuing author,thenkillingyouwillendmyexistenceaswell.Smallloss.Suchalife,asyourpuppet,isnotworthliving.ButifIdestroyyouandyourdreckscript,andIstillexist…thenmyexistencewillbeglorious,forIwillbecomemyownmaster.

When I return to Hell, prepare to die by myhand.Orbereadytokillme.

Myworstfearshavebeenrealized.IntheSwissboardingschoolwhereIfoundmyself lockedout-of-doors,nakedin thesnowynight,Ihavebecometheghostrumoredintobeingbysillyrichgirls.

WhyisitthatIoccurasastorytoeveryoneexceptmyself?

CrowdedintothesmallresidencehallroomIonceoccupied,thevariousclassesofstudents—thesegiggling,nervousgirls—spendthisHalloweenaround my former bed. Seated upon the bed in approximately the samepositionsinwhichtheyheldmeandsuffocatedmeandbaitedmebacktolife,thereare the threeMissWhoreyVanderwhores. It is their trioof littleMissSkanky Von Skankenberg voices that recite, “We summon the everlastingsoulofthelateMadisonSpencer.”

In unison, they say, “Come to us, Madison Desert Flower Rosa ParksCoyoteTricksterSpencer……”Andtheyallthreesnickerovermyludicrousname.They intone,“Wedemand theghostofMaddySpencercomeanddoourbidding…..”

SkanksorSatan.WhyamIalwayscalledtodosomeone’sbidding?

Centered on the bed, a plate stolen from the dining hall holds a fewburning candles, but otherwise my former room is dark. The curtains areopen,revealingtheraggedtreesandwintrynight.Thedoortothehallwayisclosed.

OneMiss SluttyMacSlutski leans off the side of the bed. She reachesunder the mattress and retrieves a book. A dog-eared book. “With thispersonalobject,” theSkankySkankerpantssays,“Weexerciseourpower tocontrolyou,MaddySpencer.

Thebook?It’smybelovedcopyofPersuasion.Acollectionofcharacterswho’velongoutlivedtheirauthor.

At the sight of my personal possession, my favorite book, the othergiggling, wide-eyed witnessing girls fall silent. Their eyes flicker withcandlelight.

It’s on that cue, just as I’d press Ctrl+Alt+C on my mother’s laptopcomputer, that Ibegin toslowlydrawthecurtainsclosed,andwith thefirsthintofmovementtheassembledgirlsscream.Thesmallergirlsscrambleandtumbleoveroneanotherintheirhurrytoescapetheroom.AseasyaspressingCtrl+Alt+A, I increase the air-conditioning, dropping the room temperatureuntiltheremaininggirlscanseetheirbreathhang,hazy,inthecandlelight.InthesamewayI’dtoggleCtrl+Alt+L,Iflashtheroom’soverheadlightsonandoff,onandoff,strobingthelightsasfastaslightning.Fillingtheroomwiththe equivalent of every flash photograph of every People magazinephotographerwho’deversnappedmypicture.Iblindtheassembledgirlsaswouldanarmyofmercenarypaparazzi.

Withthis,theremaininggirlsclawtheirwaytotheopendoor,spillingoutintothehallway,screamingandwailinglikedoomedsoulslockedwithinthesoiled cages ofHell. They skin their knees and elbows climbing over eachother,leavingonlythethreeevilMissPervyVanderpervsstillseatedaroundthecandlesonmybed.

Yes,hereIam,thelegendarynakedgirlwholeft theghostprintsofherdeadhandsonthedoorknobsofthisveryresidencehall.MissMadisonDesertFlowerRosaParksCoyoteTricksterSpencer.HereIam,returnedtoyouforjust thisonenight, thedummydumb-assspoileddaughterofamoviestar.Igazedownatthesethreewiththeirpointedballetfeetsmudgingmybedandtheknobbyhipbonesoftheiranorexicbuttsdiggingintomyoldmattress,andaseasyaskeystrokingCtrl+Alt+D,Islamandlock thehallwaydoor. Isealthem inside my room just as my mother would hold some Somali maidhostageuntilthebathroomtiletrulygleamed.

In the time-honoredagelessway thedeadhavealwayssentmessages tothe living, I wail my subsonic attack on their shriveled Miss SleazyO’Sleaznoid bowels, roiling and boiling the watery contents of their so-abuseddigestivetracts,bubblingandchurningthestewedrefusecontainedintheirintestines,stomachs,colons.Ipushthemessinviolentperistalticwaves,

makingthethreegrabattheirownmidsections,theirnetherorificeseruptingin methane clouds, exploding the tiny candle flames, dousing the room instinking, suffocating darkness. I force outward the hot slop of their pastmeals, pushing it against their clenched oral and analmuscles. Trumpetingthisscaldingputrescenceinaslurryagainstthoseconfiningfleshywalls.

Their hands clamped to cover their burning mouths, the girls screambetweentheirfingers,wailingandcallingforaid.Theyclutchtheirbloatingmidriffs.Inthehallway,beyondthelockeddoor,theassembledstudentsandfacultywrestlewiththelockedknob.

OnlythendoIannouncemyself,thatIamarrived.IamMadisonSpencer,the nominal ruler ofHell.Makingmy soprano voice all eerie andwailing-ethereal,IwarnthatthethreeHarlotVonHarlottygirlsmustmakealleffortstonotfindthemselvesdamned…foriftheydo,theywillsuffermywrathforalleternity.TheywillbesubjecttomywhimsandenduretheendlesstortureswhichIshalldecree.LikeArcherrantingandrailinginhiscemeteryatnight,ahumanlightningrod,IdecreethatshouldthesethreegirlsfindthemselvescondemnedtoHades,Iwillforcethemtostandlips-deepalongsideHitlerandCompanyintheSwampofPartial-birthAbortions,forever.

Theacrid,sulfurousstenchofHellalreadywaftingout,spouting,issuingfromtheirownlithesome,ballet-trainedbodies,thethreegirlsweepandbegforforgivenessandrelease.Thelockeddoorreverberateswiththepoundingfists and shouted entreaties of those students and teachers excluded in thehallway

“Heedmywords,”Itellthem.Fromthismomentforward,inordertosavethemselves, they must utilize the slang terms nigger and fag at everyopportunity. Theymust neverwash their hands after using the toilet. Theymust refrain from ever covering their mouths when they cough or sneeze,especiallywhileaboardcrowdedairplanesduring in-flightmeal serviceandfilmicpresentationsofTheEnglishPatient.Oh, I justgoonandon.Damn,butI’mhavingsomuchfun.Andatthelastpossibleinstantbeforetheychoketotally to death, mired in their own pungent filth, I throw open the door,allowingeveryoneof theirpeersfullviewofwhat thesethreeMissTwattyTwatlandershavebecome.

Theretheysprawl,moaningintheirownslipperydegradationforall theworldtoobserve.

Andyes,Iampettyandvengeful,butIhaveplacestobeandfloweringtrees to plant. I have evil hordes and bloodthirsty armies to command.According to my sensible, durable wristwatch it’s twenty minutes toHalloweenmidnight.

Toanyonereadingthiswhoisn’talreadydead,Iwishyouluck.Honestly,I do. You just keep swallowing your vitamins. Keep jogging aroundreservoirs and avoiding secondhand cigarette smoke. Cross your fingers…maybedeathwon’thappentoyou.

Andyes,Iamthirteenanddeadandagirl.Imightbeatouchofasadistandalittlebitjejune…butatleastI’mnotavictim,notanylonger.Ihope.Ihope,thereforeIam.ThankGodforhope.

Fortherestofyou,pleasedon’tbeafraid.IfyougotoHeaven,bullyforyou.But ifyoudon’t—well, lookmeup.Theonly thing thatmakesearthfeellikeHell,orHellfeellikeHell,isourexpectationthatitoughttofeellikeHeaven.Earthisearth.Deadisdead.Anotherinsiderfactabouttheafterlife:If you miss your midnight curfew on All Hallows’ Eve you’ll be stuckwandering the earth, a ghost trapped among the living, until the nextHalloween.

Now,ifyou’llexcuseme,it’slate,andI’minaterrible,terriblehurrytogokicksomesatanicass.

Tobecontinued…