OCR is Not the Only Font

When Hell Freezes Over

Challenge #4: Write a story that includes the themes of change and forgiveness.

“Ah, sweet!” said Bob. “Pop-Tarts! I didn’t know they had Pop-Tarts in Hell! Can I have one?”

“No,” said Satan. “That’s the point. They’re all mine and you can’t have any. Om nom nom nom nom. Mmmmmmm…” He closed his eyes and smiled, savouring the taste.

Bob judged the distance between the plate and the bars of his cage. It was a bit of a stretch, but he might have a chance while the Devil was distracted. Those Pop-Tarts sure looked good. He squeezed his arm through the bars all the way up to the shoulder, but still couldn’t quite reach. One tart in particular was sticking out, but his fingertips could barely brush the pastry. Satan laughed, flames and sticky crumbs spraying from his mouth.

“Ahahahahaha! Tantalising, isn’t it? I used to use fruit, but nobody seems to want it these days. Not much point trying to get your ‘5 A Day’ when you’re dead, I guess.”

“Actually,” said Bob, prodding his beer-belly “I meant to ask about that…”

“Nope. Sorry. I’m afraid you’re doomed to stay podgy for eternity. There’s no slimming in Hell. No repentance, either…I’m kind of surprised people don’t ask about that one first.”

“Oh. I was kind of hoping there was a gym or something.”

“You had your entire life to go to the gym! And this is Hell, not Butlins.” He tossed the last scrap of Pop-Tart into his mouth and brushed the crumbs from his beard before folding his arms. “There was a pool once, but it kept evaporating.” Bob wasn’t sure what to say about that.

“You don’t seem to be eating your Pop-Tarts,” Bob said, after a pause.

“Actually, I’m getting a bit sick of them.” Satan eyed the huge pile on the plate. “I wasn’t a huge fan of the chocolate ones to begin with.”

“Can I have one, then?”

“Hmm.” He thought carefully for a moment. “Still no.”

“Awww, come on, Satan. You’re not going to eat all those Pop-Tarts.”

“I don’t have to, necessarily.” He stood and picked up the plate. “I just have to make sure you want them but can’t have them. I could spit on them!” he said, pleased with the sudden idea. “Or I could sort of trample them underfoot…but then my hooves would get sticky.”

Bob felt a faint surge of panic rise inside his stomach: only Lucifer himself could have thought of ruining such a delicious treat like that. “Well,” he said carefully, “if you did that then I definitely wouldn’t want them.”

“Yes,” Satan eyed the plate again. “That’s true. I’ll have to think of something else.”

“If you don’t want any more,” said an Italian voice nearby, “perhaps you could get someone else to eat them for you.”

“Why, yes!” Satan began to wander over towards another cage just out of sight, then… “Wait a minute! Nice try, Boniface. No Pop-Tarts for you!”

“Who was that?” asked Bob.

“None of your business!” Satan sat back down in front of the cage, dropped the plate of Pop-Tarts onto the table and picked one up. He stared at it, looking a little unwell. Bob kept his eyes on the plate. It was closer than before, he was sure of it. In fact, it was very close, and one of the Pop-Tarts was practically falling off. He could definitely reach that one. But then…he felt a little sorry for the Prince of Darkness.

“What’s all this about, anyway?” asked Bob, still watching the plate eagerly. “I mean, you don’t seem any happier than the rest of us.”

“Oh…” Satan huffed discontentedly. “It’s just that…things used to be different, you know? Back when there weren’t quite so many people. I used to know everybody down here, but now…eternal torment is just so impersonal these days.”

“I don’t know. You’ve been here with me…what, half an hour now?”

“Yeah, but Brian…by the time I get back to you, I probably won’t even remember your name.”

“If you don’t like the job any more, why are you doing it?”

“Well, somebody’s got to.”

“Why?”

“Come on…” he grinned. “Would you really have gone to Church every Sunday if it hadn’t been for the threat of this place?”

“Actually,” said Bob, “I don’t think I ever went to Church.”

Satan raised an eyebrow. “Well, then. I hardly think you can complain if I don’t give you a Pop-Tart.”

“But there was never any solid evidence that this place existed!”

“What.” It wasn’t a question. It was the sound of a mind being blown.

“Well, sure, everyone had heard of it, but not that many people actually believed it. In fact, a lot of the ones who did believe it thought it was more of an allegory than an actual…thing.”

Stunned, Satan stood up and stepped back from the bars. “Hands up,” he called, “how many of you actually knew for sure this place existed.”

There were a great many answers.

“No.”

“Nope.”

“No.”

“Not me.”

“Nope.”

“I didn’t, and I was the Pope.”

“No.”

“Seriously?” Satan scratched his head. “Oh. It doesn’t really seem fair to hold a grudge against you for that.”

Bob couldn’t believe it. He had convinced the Devil to forgive mankind. He had wrought a tremendous change in the very fabric of reality. But most of all… “Can I have a Pop-Tart, then?” he asked.

“Wh…” Satan still didn’t seem to be too sure of himself. “Well, I guess you can.” He held out the plate.

Bob reached through the bars and picked up a Pop-Tart, taking a big bite. Even in the sweltering heat, the warm pastry and gooey chocolate was wonderful. “What are you going to do now, then?” he asked with his mouth full.

Satan wiped his sweaty forehead with a clawed hand. “I think I’ll try and find the thermostat,” he said. “It’s too hot in here.”