[Pt. 2 of 2]
Then, when these newly deceased parents enter Hades, they see their slain children there and are compelled to endure a reunion.
“Mom! Dad!” say the children. “Greetings! Welcome!”
“Hello, sons and daughters,” murmur the parental shades to the shades of their long-dead children whom they murdered in cold blood on Earth.
“How’ve you been?” say the kids. “What’d you do with all those decades that you spent in the Land of the Living?”
“Well, we played bridge with the neighbors, and we also played horseshoes,” answer the parents; “and we listened to political programs on the radio and on television. We also reclined in lawn furniture and ordered takeout from restaurants.”
“Sounds fun,” reply the kids. “We’ve been reading storybooks in Hell.”
“This is Hades, kids,” the parents correct their children, “not Hell.”
“Yes, of course,” say the kids.
Now Tom and Martha manage to get away from their children for about an hour, during which time they decide to visit a diner.
“Two double vodkas, straight up,” sez Martha to the bartender.
Now Tom and Martha return to the dust bowl at the center of Hades and are roped back into the conversation with their children.
“Where’d you go, mom and dad?”
“We just went to get some refreshments. There’s a diner at the end of that path,” Tom points.
“Oh, we know about that. That’s a nice place,” say the kids.
There is now silence, or rather the sound of howling wind.
“Will you play catch with us, using a baseball?” say the boys to their father.
“Can we bake cookies together, in Hell’s kitchen?” say the girls to their mother.
Martha stands up and sez: “Why don’t we kill two birds with one stone and all of us play catch while baking cookies — mommy and daddy plus all of you kids together, as One Big Happy Corporation? (Did you know that the word corporation shares the same Latin root as corpse?) We can roll up the dough into balls and toss them back and forth, while the oven is open and the heat is invading the room. Of course, the kitchen where we are playing will become very hot. Whenever we feel that we can no longer stand the heat, our dreary exchange can be abandoned: We’ll simply lob all the dough into the oven, shut the door and leave. I’ll then whistle for some demonic attendants to come and provide us all with fluffy white towels, since bathing is prohibited here, so that we can all wipe the sweat from our faces; for we will certainly be dripping.”
“OK,” say the kids.
So Martha leads Fred and their children into the food-prep area of Hades. They dust off the utensils and set the oven to 451 Fahrenheit.
Now God comes trotting down the side of the hill on his pale horse. (“Oh no,” sez Fred; and he nudges Martha and jerks his head in the direction of the hill. Martha’s eyes grow wide, and she sez nothing aloud, but she mouths an obvious swear-word.)
“Children,” Martha exclaims in a stern, anxious voice, “gather round mommy’s skirts now, and be on your best behavior. We have a visitor.”
The pale horse carries God into the kitchen. God dismounts and gazes around. His nostrils dilate and flex. “Is something burning?” he asks.
“Where’s that snorting-oinking noise coming from — is that your horse doing that?” sez Fred, innocently wondering.
“Of course it’s the horse,” snaps God. “I myself only breathe out. For I am the source of inspiration as well as the animator of all living creatures.”
“We believe what you say,” sez Martha, while angrily making a shush face at her husband Fred. Then she tries to lift God’s mood by asking: “Any plans for the weekend?”
“I was thinking of spending some time down here,” replies God, still sniffing the air obsessively, “but I might have to change my plans, due to this stench.”
“Yes, it does smell far better in heaven,” sez Martha. “All those flowers, etc.”
God remounts his pale horse and turns it around so that it’s facing the exit. While trotting out of the kitchen, he sighs and sez: “Sorry — I’m just in a foul mood because it hasn’t rained in a while. You all try to have a good day.”
“Bye!” the children hop and wave.
The pale horse leaves a few dry turds in the hall outside the kitchen; then God disappears up the hill.
Seeing that their visitor is now safely out of earshot, Martha crouches down and speaks to her kids at eye-level: “Shall we check on our cookies?”
“Yeah!” the children cheer.
The whole family moves as a group over to the enormous oven, which is billowing black smoke. Martha puts on the protective mitts and opens the door. The family leans into the oven for a look:
The next shot is a tray of attractive chocolate-chip cookies.
“Looks tasty,” sez Fred.
Martha sets the tray on the countertop, slides off the oven mitts and picks up a cookie. “Ooh, hot!” she laughs. Then she takes a bite and sez: “Oh my! They ARE tasty.”
“May we try some?” ask the children.
“Sure,” Martha distributes fresh cookies to the kids and to her husband Fred. They all consume their treats happily, while the superimposed film-credits roll past the screen too fast to read. And when the demonic waiting staff cleans up the floor after the shoot, the remaining crumbs fill twelve handbaskets!
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