HELL AIN'T WHAT IT USED TO BE
                     by J. Brian Clarke

                           PART 1
               The beginning of the beginning.

     After I died, I became a social worker.
     It began when the Grim Reaper escorted me into an
office with three doors. The door through which we entered
was labeled C.S.W., the second H, the third E. There was an
antique desk with a computer on it, and an elderly woman in
a black dress behind it. After dismissing my anonymously
draped, sour smelling companion, she introduced herself.
     "How do you do. You may call me Smith. Not Mrs Smith or
Ms Smith, just Smith."
     "Oh really," I said, as I racked my brain in an attempt
to identify the woman. I was sure we had met before. "In
that case, I am Leo Ulster Vraskin. Not Mr Leo Ulster
Vraskin, just plain Leo Ulster Vraskin." I hoped I had not
overdone it.
     "Yes Luv," she responded, using the acronym which since
grade school had clung to me like an unwelcome albatross. To
complete the putdown, she changed the subject. "What is the
last thing you remember?"
     Somehow I restrained myself. "An operating room, I
think. Lights. People leaning over me."
     "Very good. Actually, you were badly injured in an 
automobile accident. They did their best, but--" A shrug of
narrow shoulders. "What do you expect? You were drunk at the
time."
     I took a deep breath. "Am I really dead?"
     A thin-lipped smile. "Oh yes."
     "What is this place?"
     "What do you think it is?"
     "An office," I said.
     The smile faded to sour. "That is not an answer."
     My irritation notched up a level. "I asked first. What
is this place?"
     "An office."
     It was then I decided I was in Hell. So I told the lady
to go there.
     She chuckled. It was dry, with no mirth.
     I looked around for another chair, but there wasn't
one. So instead I looked around the room. The walls, except
where they were covered by the closed drapes behind the
desk, were of rich, unadorned dark wood. Other than a framed
newspaper clipping, there were no plaques or pictures. The
floor was covered with a thick carpet the same restrained
maroon as the drapes. Sparse yet dignified, the place
reflected its occupant like an outer garment.
     Smith said, "You have not lived a good life, you know."
     On the slight chance the woman exaggerated when she
informed me of my demise, I decided not to incriminate
myself. "Anything specific in mind?"
     She consulted the computer monitor. "According to your
file, you started out as an unpleasant child and never grew
out of it. You cheated your way through school and college.
You got a young woman pregnant, promised to marry her and
then abandoned her. You did not even bother to turn up at
her funeral. You faked a colleague's research data as your
own and got a prestigious award. You swindled your mother
out of most of her savings, and after her stroke abandoned
her in a public institution. Although you were regularly
unfaithful to your wife, you divorced her on trumped-up
evidence of her infidelity and got sole custody of your
daughter Celia--who you raised according to your own twisted
precepts." She looked up. "Have I missed anything?"
     "I was a pretty good entrepreneur," I said, determined
to defend myself.
     "Referring to Vraskin Drugs, I presume."
     "Damn right. Given another year or so, that Gates
fellow would be breathing my dust!"
     She was not impressed. "That is more a matter for our
commercial division--who, by the way, did provide
appropriate input. But if you wish to discuss--"
     "Don't bother," I interrupted, regretting I had brought
up the subject. "Let's just get this rigmarole over with,
OK?"
     "Rigmarole?", she echoed mildly.
     "Look, I am quite aware I am headed for an overheated
environment staffed by people with pitchforks and a bad
attitude!"
     "Oh dear, you are confused." Smith touched a computer
key and the drapes rolled aside from a large picture window.
Sunlight flooded the office; a golden illumination which
caressed the skin and did not hurt the eyes. "What do you
see?"
     For a few seconds I was speechless. I can say I saw
lush green fields, rolling hills, the towers and spires of a
gleaming city in the distance, and it would be true. But
mere words can never describe the overpowering beauty of the
place. It was beyond language.
     "Is that Heaven?"
     "We prefer the name Elysium." A bony finger indicated
the door labeled E. "The way is through there. But as you
have pointed out, it is not for you."
     I forced my attention to the door then tried not to
look again through the window. It was difficult. "You don't
need to rub it in," I muttered.
     She closed the drapes, making me regret I did not take
that second look. "I am glad you appreciate your situation.
What else do you know?"
     I jerked my thumb at the second door, the one labeled
H. "Where that leads."
     "Oh that." Again the contemptuous chuckle. "The eternal
fire. Is that what you think?"
     The woman was toying with me and I did not like it. I
yelled, "I know bloody well what H stands for!" I could have
screamed at the moon for all the effect it had on her.
     She said calmly, "Luv, I am afraid you do not know as
much as you think you do. To start with, the letter on that
door is only there because my clients expect it. It can just
as easily be X for extermination for instance, P for
purgatory, and so on. Second, there is no such thing as
infinite punishment for a finite crime. That nonsense was
dreamed up by the medieval clergy to keep the peasants in
line and the tithes coming in. Whatever a person does in a
lifetime, is rewarded or punished on a sliding scale
appropriate to that person's deeds. We call it justice."
     "I have heard of it," I admitted warily.
     "And evaded it." Smith lowered her glasses to the end
of her nose and regarded me over them. She had the owlish
look of a disapproving school teacher. "Until now, of
course."
     "I think--" I took a deep breath. "You are about to
boot me through that door, aren't you?"
     "Boot is rather a strong word. But yes, that is where
you are going."
     I tried not to think what was on the other side, and
failed miserably. Even the prospect of better things after
my litany of sins was burned out of me, seemed a long, long
way off. Then I thought of possible alternatives to fire--a
rat infested dungeon perhaps, or slavery under sadistic
taskmasters. 
     "Do I have a choice of punishment?", I asked.
     "You do not."
     "How long will I have to suffer?"
     "It is entirely up to you."
     "God," I muttered. 
     "And Her too, although do not expect too much at the
beginning. Just work hard, do what you are told, and in a
century or two subjective you may be allowed through
Elysium's door." The woman returned the glasses to the
proper place in front of her pale eyes, turned back to the
computer and poised a finger. "Now you must go."
     I remembered the glorious view through the window, and
it makes me feel worse. "Do it," I said.
     The finger descended and Hell's door opened.
     And opened...
     And opened...

                           PART 2
                   Later in the beginning.

     The worst part is knowing I have been utterly and
completely fooled--one hundred and twelve times, so far.
During an assignment I know nothing of what has gone before,
although my tormentor is creative enough to allow enough
leakage to create a nagging sense of deja vu. But each time
Smith hauls me into her presence after another unsuccessful
tilt at another windmill, I recall every humiliating detail
of everything which has happened to me since the day I died.
It was Hell squared when it began. Now, with all the intact
memories of one hundred and twelve disasters, it is Hell
raised to the umpteenth power.
     If I was alive, I would have become a raving lunatic
long ago. But because I am no longer subject to human
frailty, I remain fully rational and able to appreciate the
exquisite punishment the powers-that-be (with Smith as their
very effective instrument) have decreed for me.
     But right now I have the distinct impression Smith has 
mellowed. She has even changed her dress to something not
quite as drab. It triggers a faint hope.
      "Am I coming to the end of my punishment?", I ask
hopefully.
     "It is not for me to say."
     "That is not an answer!"
     "It is as much as you will get."
     "Damn you."
     "That was taken care of a long time ago, Luv," she says
as she jabs her overworked finger on the key which reopens
that awful door--


                           PART 3
        The beginning plus one hundred and thirteen.

     Although I was never dumped amid fire and brimstone, in
terms of pain and aggravation just about all of the
assignments were pretty close equivalents. In this case it
was a mountain of garbage next to a shanty town on the
outskirts of a third world city. Swarms of human scavengers
were poking, sifting and sorting on the odoriferous hill,
looking for things saleable or eatable.
     I will not even try to describe what was considered
eatable.
     My target was a young girl who had run away from home,
presumably to better herself (making sense only if 'home'
was a smaller garbage mountain than this one). As I looked
for her, I knew nothing about where I came from or who
manipulated my strings. I only knew I was as scruffy and
smelly as any of the garbage pickers, and as miserable--with
the additional handicap of a compulsion to complete the
assignment whatever the cost. There was also the nagging
feeling I had committed this kind of stupidity before. But I
must have been doing something right, because I did not
attract attention as I stumbled and clawed amid the refuse.
     Finally I saw her; a frail child with long greasy hair
and enormous eyes in an endearing little face. As I
pretended to pass by, I suddenly reached out and grabbed her
elbow. "You must come with me," I told her.
     I suppose I should have included 'please'. The pain as
she jabbed her sharp little knee into my groin was so
excruciating, she only had to give me a contemptuous little
push to send me tumbling down the slope. The avalanche which
accompanied me to the bottom had enough sharp points to make
me feel I was being flailed with barbed wire. To make
matters worse as I ended up amid crushed cans, bits of glass
and other unidentifiable refuse, was the barrage of missiles
and coarse insults rained on me by a half a dozen youths who
acted as if they were the waif's Praetorian Guard.
     Their obscene merriment was still burning my ears as I
forced my battered corpus to its feet and staggered to
relative safety behind a pile of rotting timber, where I
collapsed and wished for the peace and comfort of hellfire.
Nursing my hurts, I waited until the evening sun shone
luridly through garbage dust and the smoke of cooking fires.
Finally, as the day shift shambled toward the shantytown
along with bulging plastic bags which clanked and clinked as
they were either dragged or carried, I crept out from behind
the pile and watched for the waif.
     It was almost dark when I spotted her, chivying along a
youth who was bent under a load as big than she was. I
followed at a discreet distance, among other laggards who
were similarly burdened. To make myself less conspicuous, I
carried one of the pieces of timber--which added to my
discomfort as its multi-legged inhabitants decided human
flesh was a fitting desert after a main course of half
decayed wood.
     The girl had the youth dump the load on the dirt floor
of a large tent without walls. It was one of several similar
establishments which lined the street. Small boys were busy
sorting incoming junk into separate piles, re-bagging it and
loading it on a truck parked at the back. A man in a dirty
apron with a huge front pocket, flicked derrieres with a
bamboo cane while he whined imprecations about the lack of
descent help.
     Gratefully divesting myself of my over-populated
burden, I watched the girl haggle with the man. He pursed
thick lips, poked a foot at the heap of cans and bottles,
then produced a few coins from his voluminous pocket and
gave them to the girl. With great disdain, the girl studied
the coins. Then she said something which, from the purpling
of the man's face, was obviously not a compliment. He gave
her a swat which sent her sprawling while the coins bounced
out of her hand. Meanwhile, the youth made a great show of
being disinterested.
     Looking thoroughly like a tearful, cowed child, the
girl slowly got to her feet. Sniveling, she approached the
man with one small hand extended. Astonished at her temerity
(I presumed she was not acquainted with Oliver Twist), I
waited for the second swat.
     It didn't happen. Even as the man's hand lifted, his
intended victim launched a flying kick which landed on him
in the same vulnerable place her knee had earlier contacted
me. 
     He screeched, clutched his family jewels and mouthed
imprecations which were highly descriptive if not entirely
practical. Meanwhile the girl calmly retrieved her coins
plus others which bounced out of the hopping man's apron.
She gave a couple to the youth, who grinned and ran off.
Then she strolled into the street.
     Beginning to doubt this waif's status as a victim and
consequently my own as her savior, I followed as she
threaded her way through the crowd until she vanished into
an alley between two of the ramshackle structures typical of
this unwholesome community. Her disappearance seemed too
sudden to be voluntary, so I worked my way across the
street, flattened myself against a wall and peered around
the corner into the alley.
     This time, I was sure she needed help.
     Apparently senseless, she was on her back while a
skinny individual with nail scratches down the side of his
face was clearly preparing to do more than relieve her of
the day's takings. His pants were already at half mast when
I launched myself on his back and we both crashed down next
to the girl. I am not sure what happened next, other than it
involved a whirlwind of blows, shouts, an agonized scream, a
pain in my side and then darkness.

     When I came to, I was on my stomach in a narrow bed. I
tried to move, immediately changed my mind. Not only was my
head sore, so was my back from shoulders to butt. I also
felt as if a red hot poker was stuck in my side. The
mattress on which I lay did not help either. I am sure it
was stuffed with an unhomogeneous mixture of gravel and
large pebbles.
     "I see you are awake." 
     I twisted my head and saw a woman wearing a starched
gray uniform and an unfriendly expression. Her face was
vaguely familiar. "I am sister Smith," she announced. 
     Sister? Between the makeup and heavy gold earrings, she
was hardly the product of a convent. "Wh--what happened?", I
asked weakly.
     "You received a knife wound. Also, your back is badly
scraped."
     "Will I live?"
     "Probably." She did not sound terribly enthusiastic.
     "Who brought me here?"
     "Two men." Her face twisted. "Unfortunately, they also
returned the devil's daughter."
     "The devil's--" Now I remembered my assignment, and was
even more confused. "This is the orphanage, isn't it?"
     She said haughtily, "We are called The House of Charity
and Enlightenment. I am the Matron."
     "The girl. I was supposed to--"
     "As I said, she is here." The woman's tone suggested
someone who had found her christmas stocking filled with a
large and very ugly potato. She sighed. "Four more years
during which I suppose she will keep coming back like a
recurring curse." She turned to leave. "The road to hell is
truly paved with good intentions, is it not?" 
     I did not know how to respond to that, and sister Smith
did not wait for one anyway as she swept out of the cell and
left me with alone with my pains and bruised ego.
     In the distance, even beyond the world, I thought I
heard a mirthless chuckle--

     I had cautiously rolled myself onto my back when the
waif crept in later that night. She looked so angelic in a
white nightgown, with a candle in her hand, for a moment I
accepted the visit as evidence of childish gratitude--until
she put the candle down and tried to climb into bed with me.
     I yelped, "Get out of here!"
     Somehow I jerked my battered body enough she slid off
the bed and landed on her aspect with an audible thump. The
angel instantly became a harpy. She hissed, her teeth barred
like a wildcat about to spring. And then the snarl became a
grin. "What's the matter? Can't get it up?"
     "You're just a kid."
     "Twelve years old, goin' on thirteen." The grin
broadened. "But I'm an old soul."
     "I doubt you have one," I muttered, wishing she would
go away.
     She laughed. It was a tinkling, child's laugh. "You
don't know--right?"
     "Know what?"
     "That I need savin' like a maggot needs to be saved
from the cheese. After I find what's left worth stealin' in
this dump, I'll be back out there--having fun like always."
     "Fun? In the garbage?"
     She made a face. "I hate clean."
     She sat on the edge of the bed. I tensed to re-repel
boarders, but fortunately she behaved herself. "Why me?",
she demanded.  
     I sensibly decided not to shrug. "I was told to bring
you back to the orphanage." 
     "Who told?"
     I tried to remember. "I don't know," I replied
truthfully.
     "It couldn't have been the old bag. She hates me."
     "The last thing I remember--" I grimaced. "You must
have had help."
     "It wasn't me. The scum who dragged you here for a few
pennies, brought me along for the same reason."
     "Dragged me?"
     "Each had a foot."
     Which explained my sore head and back. I pictured
myself being hauled through the streets past grinning
spectators, and was grateful I was unconscious at the time.
"What about the fellow who, er--"
     "Him?" Again the tinkling laugh as she reached down as
if to scratch her leg, suddenly produced a small, wicked
looking knife. She looked at it fondly. "He's one of the
girls now."
     I watched her return the knife to its invisible sheath.
The movement was so swift, I wondered if she had been Billy
the Kid in a previous life. "You didn't treat me too well
either. Dammit, I was trying to help you!"
     Her sharp little teeth gleamed in the candlelight. "You
got in the way," she told me pleasantly as she yanked the
pillow out from under my head and jammed it down on my face.
"I don't like it when people do that."
     Death by natural causes.
     She was too smart to use the knife.
     As I faded to black, I had an intense feeling this was
not the first time I had expired in such an inglorious and
undignified manner--



                           PART 4
                  The end of the beginning.

     Smith was quite good looking without the glasses, even
seemed younger--correction, she was younger. No wonder I had
not recognized her until now. I should have realized that
time, along with its baggage of pasts, presents and futures,
is one tyranny which has no jurisdiction in this place. She
had on a dress which shimmered, a floppy hat, and a smile as
warm as the sun which shone through the open drapes. The
city gleamed in the distance.
     "Are you going somewhere?"
     She said happily, "In a while. First I want to
congratulate you on successful completion of the first phase
of your reclamation. At least you will not have to suffer
any more indignities."
     "That's nice." Each of the numerous times I was in this
office, I was mocked by the memories of my assignments--and
how I was always suckered. No more indignities? Hah!
     She gestured at the window. "I am leaving for a little
R and R, after which I will engage in activities
considerably more rewarding than--" She looked around her.
"--this."
     "Who will replace--"
     "Do you ever wonder what C.S.W. stands for?"
     I shrugged. "I assume Christian something-or-oth--"
     "All faiths are equal here, Luv. C.S.W. is Cosmic
Social Workers."
     "Oh?" A twinge of interest.
     "We are the training school for what the locals refer
to as Gabriel's Irregulars."
     "Gabriel's--" I began.
     "Angels," she said as I wondered if she would allow me
to finish a sentence. "You know, the people who keep popping
up to fix things." She removed the framed newspaper clipping
from the wall and tossed it into the waste basket. "I
certainly don't need that any more." She pulled on a pair of
white gloves, picked up a matching purse and headed for the
door marked E.
     "Hey, what about me?"
     Hand on the doorknob, she stopped and turned. "Oh,
didn't I tell you? The desk is yours now. Although you may
find the job a little tedious sometimes, you can always
liven things up by inserting yourself into the plot--as I
often did. Goodby, Leo." It was the first time she used my
given name.
     She opened the door and stepped outside. I heard the
trill of birds, smelled growing things, heard her single
comment, "Beautiful!", and the door closed behind her. I
went to the window and watched her walk toward the city
until she was just a speck in the distance--and was gone. I
closed the drapes, turned around and was not surprised to
see that the room had adopted itself to the more garish
tastes of its new occupant.
     I sat behind the huge marble-top desk and looked at the
computer screen. A name popped up and lines of data. The
C.S.W. door opened and the Grim Reaper brought in my first
client. Grimacing at the stench, which made me think of a
warehouse full of unwashed socks, I hurriedly dismissed the
G.R. Then I introduced myself to the client.
     "How do you do. My name is Smith. Not Mr Smith, just
Smith--"

     Later, as I gloomily wondered how long (subjective time
that is) I would be stuck with this job before they allowed
me to follow the previous Smith through door E, I noticed
the framed clipping in the waste basket. I retrieved it and
under the date-line June 6th, 2041 read;

  DATE-EXPIRED VACCINE RELABELED AND SHIPPED TO THIRD WORLD
                        THOUSANDS DIE
   C.E.O CELIA VRASKIN CHARGED WITH CONSPIRACY AND MURDER

     Now I knew the worst of my sins.
     Have a nice eternity, daughter.