001
Dear god, I woke up in this place that looks strangely like Xander's bedroom, but I stuck my head out the door and it was a hallway, not his living room-slash-kitchen. And let me tell you, I don't feel like going into a hallway every time I want to watch TV or make waffles even though that was Xander's job because I still can't cook!
The bunny was an omen! This is Hell! This is Hell and I'm in it! We were all doomed, but did anyone listen? No! And now our internal organs are going to be torn out of our still-living bodies and cooked over a slow flame while we wither towards the sweet relief of merciful death only to be resuscitated so we can be thrown into deep, dark pits and our flesh eaten by scarab beetles over a very long, painful millennium or more! But we won't die, our mutilated corpses will simply be imbued with consciousness by demons who won't be done with us until whatever's left of us has been salvaged from those pits and we've been forced to eat organ soup made from our very own organs! They would make us eat our organs whole, but we'll barely have mouths by that point! And then our bits and pieces will be subjected to other creative torments that I can't think of right now because I'm too flustered and unhappy to think imaginatively!
That's the last time I nobly sacrifice my life for you, Alexander Harris!
[written a few hours later]
I have questions. In my exploration of this place, I have found no brimstone, no fiends wielding hot pokers, and no Allen Funt. Why? If this is in fact real, and not a concoction of exploitative low-budget television, then it must be a hell dimension, and while I can appreciate that there are a wide variety of those, most of them like to incorporate at least some decorative use of brimstone. I find the decor here lacking and the ruling hierarchy shoddily organized at best, if they can't even put together some decently hellish torments.
But I suppose it's better than the Land Of Perpetual Wednesday.
The bunny was an omen! This is Hell! This is Hell and I'm in it! We were all doomed, but did anyone listen? No! And now our internal organs are going to be torn out of our still-living bodies and cooked over a slow flame while we wither towards the sweet relief of merciful death only to be resuscitated so we can be thrown into deep, dark pits and our flesh eaten by scarab beetles over a very long, painful millennium or more! But we won't die, our mutilated corpses will simply be imbued with consciousness by demons who won't be done with us until whatever's left of us has been salvaged from those pits and we've been forced to eat organ soup made from our very own organs! They would make us eat our organs whole, but we'll barely have mouths by that point! And then our bits and pieces will be subjected to other creative torments that I can't think of right now because I'm too flustered and unhappy to think imaginatively!
That's the last time I nobly sacrifice my life for you, Alexander Harris!
[written a few hours later]
I have questions. In my exploration of this place, I have found no brimstone, no fiends wielding hot pokers, and no Allen Funt. Why? If this is in fact real, and not a concoction of exploitative low-budget television, then it must be a hell dimension, and while I can appreciate that there are a wide variety of those, most of them like to incorporate at least some decorative use of brimstone. I find the decor here lacking and the ruling hierarchy shoddily organized at best, if they can't even put together some decently hellish torments.
But I suppose it's better than the Land Of Perpetual Wednesday.