South Park fanfiction.
What's one of the most aggravating things to have to do on Earth? Chances are, you might say, "waiting in line," and lots of people would agree with you (including Cartman). So, it should be no surprise that that's exactly how Hell starts off: standing in a long line.
I appear at the back of a line that stretched for seemingly miles. Fortunately, I have my flash pass with me, so I walk to the check-in desk at the front of the line. The other guests (or rather, soon-to-be permanent residents) are a little confused, and also a tad angry. I'm used to it.
The desk attendant was new, but she was pretty. I felt kind of bad, because signing me in was going to be a pain. Why did these poor sexy girls always have to have the sucky job of being a sign-in clerk? Oh, right, it's because Satan's gay, and the men have the…other…sucky jobs….
Ok, now I have to get that image out of my head. Ogling at the girl's boobs helps.
"Welcome to Hell…name?" she asks, like she's probably already said a thousand times.
"Kenny McCormick," I answer. She scans a list on her computer, looking for my name, and I know she's not going to find it.
She frowns. "It…seems there must be some mistake. You're not listed on here, Mr. McCormick."
Hmm…Mr. McCormick? I like it. It doesn't seem that long ago that I was just a kid, and the attendants had to actually lean over the desk to see me, breasts dangling down. Boy, they were even sexier back then.
"I'm probably listed under 'Special Cases,'" I offer helpfully.
"What makes you say that?"
"I've been here a few times before."
The girl looks shocked. "Uh…supervisor?" she calls over her shoulder.
"WHAT IS IT!" a woman screams.
"Someone here isn't on the list," the girl says, not sure what else to do.
"WELL, THAT MEANS HE'S NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE! FIND OUT IF HE'S A MORM—oh." The supervisor, Veronica Crabtree, comes into view and sees me. She and I go way back (not like that, you sicko!); she used to be our school bus driver, before she was murdered by the Left-Handed Killer. Now, apparently, she's part of Hell's entrance staff. "You again?"
"Yep," I say. "I'm back."
At this point, Ms. Crabtree turns to the girl and reverts back to her default form of communication. "LOOK UNDER 'SPECIAL CASES'; HE'S GOT HIS OWN FOLDER IN THERE! JUST FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS!"
The girl winces at each word; Ms. Crabtree is literally right in her ear. Then Ms. Crabtree walks away, back to torment the other attendants, no doubt. The girl is relieved to see her go. "I know," I say. "She's one ugly bitch." The attendant giggles.
"WHAT DID YOU SAY!" Ms. Crabtree is apparently still in earshot. The girl looks horrified, but I know how to deal with this.
"I said, 'the computer seems to have a glitch.'"
"Oh," she says. "Well, you should be able to fix it." Then she walks away.
The attendant giggles even more. "I'll have to remember that one." Then she opens the file. "Ok, it says here that you get 1000 dollars in credit for your stay here in Hell."
Okay, allow me to explain. Whenever someone goes to Hell, they are always assigned a room to stay in at one of the hotels. Usually, the more evil a person you are, the bigger a place you get. Most people are in Hell just for not being Mormon, and they get little apartments to stay in. On the other hand, Hitler, Genghis Khan, and Osama Bin Laden just skipped the whole hotel room business, and practically all have mansions right next to Satan's castle.
However, with me it's a little different. For some reason, I only get a certain amount of money to spend, and once the money is spent, they force me to leave, and I go back to South Park. So, basically, I can spend one night in one of the fancier rooms (which is what I usually do every nowadays, just for convenience), or I could use up the money slowly in the one of the more shitty rooms (truly, a new meaning to the word "hell"), and potentially stay in Hell for several months. I tried to doing that once to try and end the whole cycle, but then I realized it's just delaying the inevitable, so I didn't try again.
This time, however, I ask for the cheap room again. Because I'm on a mission, and I'll need to make sure I have all the time I can spare.
"1000 dollars?" I whistle. "That's a lot. Usually I only get about 400."
"Well, apparently (she checked her screen) you raped one of your classmates." She gives me a look, and I quickly take my eyes away from her breasts. "That was a very naughty thing to do."
Yeah, I know. I still feel really bad about that, and I'm really, really hoping that Wendy would just forget the whole thing had ever happened. I wonder if Stan and Cartman would forgive me for that; even if I made it back with Kyle, they might hate me.
To the attendant who had caught me staring at her boobs, I innocently chuckle, "I was just looking at your nametag, Melissa." Well, I had seen her nametag, even though I wasn't exactly looking at it.
"Oh," Melissa says. "You mean you didn't notice these?" she pouts, fondling her breasts a little.
I breathe a sigh of relief. And to think I was worried about people judging me.
Melissa smiles. "Anyway, here's your money and your room key." She winks at me. "Maybe I'll stop by later to…check on you."
My heart rate speeds up. She sure is lovely, but I should probably turn her down, since I have to prove myself to Lizzy. She's not going to be happy if I go around fucking half the sluts in Hell. Well, maybe Melissa could just come over to talk. Nothing wrong with that…
It's the next morning, I just woke up, and she's already gone. My clothes are scattered all over the floor. Damn it, how do I always get into these messes? Why can't I control myself long enough to just have a conversation? I really need to work on that.
Well, time to go find Kyle and Lizzy. Hell is big, so I'm going to get started right away. I begin to get dressed, and—
—my shoes are also gone. What a bitch.