Hell Freezes Over

By Bob Liddil

“Am I not the Prince of Darkness?” Beelzebub called out to the courtiers before him.

“Yes, Master,” chorused the demons, demigods, trolls, wraiths, boogeymen and snake-like creatures of malevolence.

“And is this not Hell, a place of scorching heat and fire and pain and suffering for all mortal mankind in which they may pay for their sins and transgressions, all of which please me greatly?” 

“Oh, yes, Master, it is truly so.” The unholy chorused once more.

 “Then by the pitchfork I carry and the fork in my tail, and all that is black and evil, where did all this ICE come from?”

 Surely enough, icicles hung from stalactites that previously had dripped molten lava, one drop at a time down on drunk drivers consigned to hell to pay for those their folly killed. Ice, an inch thick, coated stalagmites changing the eerie red glow of Hell to a reflected polar blue. Snow covered every nook and cranny of the underworld, relieving the suffering of the eternally damned from the heat, only to plunge their tortured souls into numbing cold just as excruciating.

 “This is a disaster!” Beelzebub shouted thunderously. The power of his voice rocked Hell with a subsonic rumble that triggered avalanches and icicle showers. “What kind of respect am I going to get if you have to have snowshoes to move around HELL?”

 Beelzebub stood to his full eleven foot 5 inch height and roared in frustration. His tail switched angrily, His pitchfork waved with agitation. Hell’s minions scattered like tenpins before a perfect ball. All save one.

 “Begging your pardon, your supreme evilness,” the smallish balding slightly pudgy Jewish man left standing before the emperor of nightmares said meekly. “I can probably fix all this if you restore me to mortality with all my faculties intact.”

 “How is that?” Beelzebub replied miserably. “You can’t control weather here or on earth. What can one lower than dirt human do that I cannot?”

 “I can sue,” the little man said matter-of-factly. “Before I died, I was a very successful lawyer.”

 “Say no more.” The Prince of Darkness cheered up instantly. “Your wish is granted.”

 The little man vanished from Hell and popped up fully clothed, briefcase in hand, onto a seat on a San Francisco BART train headed toward Berkley.

  * * *  

 Michael, Archangel, Patron Saint of the Warrior and nemesis to all evil, sat quietly in an unobtrusive chair in the Starbucks on Solano Ave, a short distance from the University of California. He savored the Cinnamon Dolce Frappuccino® Blended Coffee in his hand, sip by sip. It was one of those human indulgences that the Higher powers need know nothing about.

 “He is very angry.” Said the smallish balding man in a suit who moved into Michael’s field of vision. “All of Hell is frozen over and you are responsible.”

 “Who are you?” Michael asked mildly. “And what makes you think that I, out of all heavenly hosts, would take the time to freeze Hell?”

 “I am Irving Zimmerman, Attorney At Law.” The little man retorted, “and you are the only one save the creator who has the power and the twisted sense of humor necessary to do such a thing.”

 Michael chuckled, signaled a waitress and ordered another Cinnamon Dolce Frappuccino® Blended Coffee, and then said, “OK. You got me. Now what?”

 Irving took a seat. “An out of court settlement,“ he said conspiratorially. You restore Hell to its original configuration and pay one million dollars to me for pain and suffering, and the lawsuit goes away.

“Sounds attractive,” said Michael. “How about I restore Hell and give you a shot at heaven?”

“Done deal,” said Irving and offered his hand to seal the pact.

* * *

 The fires of Hell suddenly burst forth from beneath massive layers of ice, which melted explosively into thick, sticky steam.

 “Now that’s more like it.” Beelzebub mused. “Hell is supposed to be hot.”

 A courier popped out of thin air and delivered a Starbucks bag containing a hand written note that said, “Enjoy.”

 In the bag was a large Cinnamon Dolce Frappuccino® Blended Coffee and a plastic spoon.

 * * *

 Irving Zimmerman woke up the next morning in a kibbutz in Northern Israel with a wife and three children and no memory of having ever been a lawyer. He took to farming like a duck to water.

 * * *