A Winters Worth of Dog Shit

Hell hath no fury like a meter maid in 90% humidity just before her shift is up. Unless, of course perdition is where the situation presents itself.

So, dear reader, let me set the stage for you...

It’s the busy season, the mercury’s boiling and the humidity is thicker then two day old shit on a gravy soaked biscuit. An it goes without saying that the ass end of the afterlife ain’t no temperate climate.

I’ve locked up the office. Everyone is long gone. Only the echoes of my footsteps inhabit these lonely halls. Government work doesn’t pay OT. And as usual I’ve put in more then my fair share.

So it’s late in the day. I’m beat, wanting nothing more then to drink a cheap beer, watch the news, then doze off to crime drama mind rot.

Given my slightly surly disposition, I didn’t react well when I walked out the front door to discover my vehicle getting a ticket hammered down on it. I had come face to face with the queen demon bitch of all meter maids.

Sure the meter was expired, by just 3 GOD DAMN MINUTES. But I approached her with cordial suave. Burying my frustration I squarely looked her in the eyes and said;

“Thanks miss, but that won’t be necessary. Ya Dig.” I even tagged on a little wink; just to drive home my oratory debonair.


Gently, at first, she turned to me. Black lashes fluttered above insect eyes. Mingling amongst her deceptive smile, and a thick cockney accent, her mouth released these words:

"Listen closely mother fuckah...this ain’t like tipping an extra 5 quid because you dig your baristas bum and a dash of flirty chit chat. This shit ain’t optional. Ya Dig?

Completely rattled by her aggressive, and certainly unfounded verbal attack, I take a step back feeling like I had just been blasted by a jet engine lighting up.

She turned to continue her business, filling out the ticket. The second ticket I now noticed…and I could feel my anger rise.

“Listen ma’am, I’m a lead public defender for the main office of Dis, I work directly under Mammon and this is…”

“Oh, is that a Halo around your head?”

Her sarcasm wasn’t appreciated. Everyone knows angels don’t have halos.

And besides, I was obviously no angel. In truth I’m not sure who or what I was. Memory is a fleeting thing down here. Occasionally vague nostalgia washes up on your shores, but the tide rolls out quickly; leaving you standing barefoot in the sand wishing for one last wave to crash.

A couple hundred years ago I landed on the fringe. Out on the most remote borders of this place. For which my sins couldn’t have been too terrible, as its known as the “Circle of the Uncommitted.”

Uncommitted to what you may enquire?

Lets just say its not unlike a retirement home for swing voters; chock full monocle clad intellectuals, D&D aficionados, and on-the-fence ivy league professors who got the plug pulled before they could come to terms with “the great mystery.”

Folks who can’t make up their minds about dinner, let alone faith. Punishments were modest but the days were long. Their ideal afterlife consisted of a pack of Marlboros, a bottle of cognac, and a heated theology debate over crumpets and tea.

I’d walk down to the beach, and on a clear day I could see through the fog, to the Circle of Lust just beyond. I’d catch a glimpse of those sirens of the damned, taunting me, calling me out to join them.

It was time to move on.

I needed a job and that meant relocating to the Sixth circle; The city of Dis, home of the heretics and the Burning Tombs. Sure crime increased and life got a bit more complicated. Fuck, it’s the city. But it was more interesting than listening to a bunch of gaudy snobs debating the pros and cons of being a Buddhist bodhisattva in Nirvana vs. a saint in Christian non-denominational heaven.

It was quite simple really. My credit was good, I took out a loan to pay Charon. And I was off to bigger and better things.

Here in Dis, it may indeed be bit more complicated. But its also more interesting. And, I’ve discovered, when you’re down on your luck sliding deeper into the abyss, a little challenge can make all the difference in your state of mind.

It took time. Maybe decades. But I paid my dues and worked my way up the ranks. I started as an assistant. I worked with Simonists, Soothsayers, Hypocrites and Thieves. And eventually Blasphemers, Sodomites, and Gluttons.

Today I do casework for the big boys. Geryon, Barbariccia and Belial. On occasion I’ve been lucky enough to work with the chairman of the council; Beelzebub himself.

Sure, the majority of my time is spent doing sentencing for atypical gluttons and the greedy. Occassionally I’ll get lucky and deal in Heretic litigation, but I’ve never worked a solo case that’s gone beyond the 7th circle. I cant help but dream of high profile cases beyond the abyss. And certainly outside the wretched walls of Dis.

Oh Malebolge, you seem so far away.

-------------------

So here I am.

Fighting with a meter maid on the dilapidated streets of Dis; as Pintos, Porsches, and worn down jalopies cruise by. Battling their way home through rush hour traffic.

I decide to vent my frustrations toward her, and only three words escape from my mouth, “Jesus Christ Lady…”

“…Christ ain’t got nothing to do with this shit, sorry to break you in on current events here law man; but you’re about as far away from Christ as you’ll ever fucken be. And even if he was here, in the holy flesh, it wouldn’t stop me from ticketing your ass.”

Though technically I only believe the first half of her statement to be true, I take a deep soothing breath, then rub my eyes. I calmly remind myself that I’m in no mood to argue.

It’s then I realize she’s still staring me down, waiting for another remark with which she can reflect back on me with witty pestilence.

She begins to speak in the ancient tongue, The official dialect that the innocent use to speak to the guilty, a stab at flexing her wit into the realm of intelligence.

“Cut the shit lady. Just give me my fucken ticket and be done with it.”

Seeing that I’m defeated, she turns and finishes up. Her blood red, pseudo transparent claws scrawl the last of what she needs to record. She turns and gives me one last “don’t fuck with the meter maid glance” and goes about her business.

And despite my suppressed rage I realize I’m very lucky to be where I’m at. I could be on the streets, trapped in the body of a second rate street demon directing traffic. I could be taking appeals and repentance submissions at the icy gates of Giudecca. I could be administering flesh tortures or shoveling coal to keep the blood boiling at Phlegethon. I could be twisting the heads of Soothsayers or delivering Leprosy, Madness, and Hemorhaghic fevers to the Alchemists in Bolgia 10.

I was blessed to get the job I have. And case work suits me just fine.

Sure the humidity sucks here, but at least its warm, and there’s a great bagel shop two blocks from my bungalow. Its fucking Florida with an ocean of blood. Saltwater with a tint. Please file your complaints at the front desk. The one by the gate with the inscription that reads: “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”

Nah, the inscription should have read “its a coin toss baby, but you certainly can get your teeth kicked in.”

Heck…I could be back in the Midwest. With the snow melting, dealing with a winters worth of dog shit on the ground. Putrid smells permeating the air like the stockyards in a Nebraska farm town. I’ll take the scent of sulfur anyday; and with a smile on my face ta boot.

That’s odd…was I from the Midwest?

I take a moment to contemplate this memory, before it disappears and I loose it forever. But I make the mistake of glancing at the tickets, the second fine being twice the amount of the first.

“GOD DAMN!” I say aloud.

From two cars down I hear the meter maid reply with a hearty smile on her face:

“Shiiiiit mother fucker...you don’t get it...”

She turns to face me and somehow contorts her beastial mug into a look of feigned motherly sincerity.

“Honey…damned is exactly what you are. Congratulations chief, you’re here for the long haul.”

And she turns to walk away, laughing as she saunters to her next target. With her back to me, she points the index finger of her claw directly into the sky and I faintly hear her say “Besides hoss…he ain’t in charge down here anyway.” She continues laughing as she disappears into a cloud of thick steam which escapes from a street vent.

Everyone’s a fucking comedian.