The first thing I noticed was the scent of eternal brimstone.

It smelled like hot tar boiling forever on the sidewalk. It was also oddly familiar, and this sense of familiarity only became more clear as I opened my eyes.

I was in a dark place. Like a desert at night, except there were rocky red plates on the floor instead of sand. The heat felt like the air was on fire.

Suddenly, I heard whimpering behind me. I turned around and saw the mayor, whose movie-star good looks had turned into gruesome swiss cheese thanks to the Vinterbeen’s bullets.

“A-Are we dead?” said the mayor.

“Yes,” I said, without really knowing why.

For reasons I couldn’t remember clearly, I then kneeled down on the red rocky floor, and began to knock on it.

“What are you doing?” said the mayor.

“Shh.” I said, as I continued to knock.

Soon enough, after six hundred and sixty six knocks, a pillar of flame erupted from the floor.

The fire cleared, and a figure shaped like a man with horns stepped forward. The figure was red and covered with fur, with pitch black eyes and sulfuric breath.

“Falk,” it said, “So we meet again.”

“Satan,” I said, as if my brain had been taken over by someone else, “I’d like to play the usual game, with the usual stakes.”

“What?” said the mayor.

“Oh Falk,” said Satan, whose voice was melodic and deep, “I can’t do the usual stakes. After so many losses on my end, I need something more exciting to pull me back in.”

“I’m not just waging my soul this time,” I said.

I grabbed the mayor.

“I’m also waging his,” I said.

“Ah,” said Satan, “But that poor soul’s not nearly as delectable as yours.”

“Take it or leave it,” I said, “If I don’t play the game, you’ll never get my soul.”

Satan chuckled. It started as a human-sounding laugh, then it transitioned into the wheezy roar of a thousand horses.

“This is my domain, you fool,” said Satan, “Your sins dragging you down here have already made you my property.”

“We both know this domain isn’t yours,” I said, “We’re all just prisoners here. If you want anyone’s soul, they have to lose the game.”

“I’m very confused right now,” said the mayor.

I was confused as well. A horde of repressed memories were flooding my brain and controlling my every movement. Being a cop in my town meant dealing with a lot of deadly weapons, and I had forgotten about all the times crooks had managed to kill me. Yet, as my recollections of my many deaths came to me, there were no memories of pearly gates or angelic greetings.

There were, however, dozens upon dozens of memories of this red wasteland and the sole Satan that lived there.

“Fine,” said Satan, “We’ll play the game. You wager your soul, and his, correct?”

He pointed to the mayor, who cowered in fear.

“Yes,” I said.

“Since your new friend’s never done this,” said Satan, “Let me reiterate the stakes. If you win, your soul climbs back up the tether to your mortal forms. But if I win, the tether is severed forever, and I devour your essences. To keep things fair, the game will not be of skill, but of chance. Do you accept these terms?”

“Hold on,” said the mayor.

The mayor took my arm, and we stepped a couple feet away.

“You’re going to gamble with the Devil?” said the mayor, “With my soul at stake? I don’t care if you gamble YOUR soul, but I’m not putting MINE up for grabs.”

“Relax,” I said, “I’ve done this before. Plus, since I’m the one who knocked, I control both our souls.”

“What?” said the mayor, as I pushed him aside, “How does that make sense?”

I stepped towards Satan and put my hand out. He put out his red claw in return.

“Rock, paper, scissors,” we said in unison. I could feel Satan in my mind, searching for the exact thought that would reveal which hand gesture I would put forth.

My mind thought heavily of rock. Thus, Satan put forth paper.

But my hand, as if it had a will of its own, made scissors.

Satan let out a hoarse sigh.

“Every time. God almighty,” said Satan, “How do you do it?”

“I don’t know,” I honestly said.

Suddenly, I felt something like an iron cord wrap around my midsection. The yelp I heard from the mayor indicated that he felt the same way.

“Goodbye,” said Satan, “For now.”

With the speed of a bullet train running through a brick wall, the mayor and I were yanked by unseeable forces into the air. The air became thinner and thinner, the wind became sharper and sharper, and the rocky red floor of Hell became more and more distant as I felt my brain evaporate out of my ears.

“Maybe he won and I just didn’t notice” was my last thought before my consciousness disintegrated.

It was cold and painful when I woke up at the morgue. My body still ached from all the bullets that passed through my internal organs. The mortician, a somewhat friendly acquaintance of mine, handed me some smelling salts.

I took a whiff. It smelled like an unwashed bathroom on a hot day, though that might’ve just been me.

“So Falk,” said the Mortician in his mumbly way, “I thought you left the force.”

“I did,” I said.

“So why are you back here?” said the Mortician.

“Had to take care of some stuff that was outside police jurisdiction,” I said.

“Ah,” said the Mortician.

“Anyways,” I said, “Where’s the mayor?”

The Mortician pointed to the corner. The mayor, shivering like a shaved lamb, was wrapped up in a ratty blanket. His face was pale and bloody.

“It was so hot there,” said the mayor, “And now it’s so cold here.”

I got off the slab and hobbled over to the mayor.

“Hey mayor,” I said, “Can you–”

“Yeah, yeah,” said the mayor, “I’ll talk to the governor. The police can raze Freeman’s Woods to the ground for all I care.”

When I got back to my apartment, I could smell pizza waiting for me. My roommate was there too, watching the mayor give a press conference on the tv.

The mayor was still a bit bloated and pale, and he was wearing multiple jackets and scarves over his usual trim suit. A news reporter was asking him a question.

“Freeman’s Woods was revered as the last true free haven in our fair town,” said the news reporter, “Isn’t it rather authoritarian to let police overrun such a sacred place?”

“I guess,” said the mayor, “But since I was shot to death over there, I don’t really care anymore.”

“Mr. Mayor,” said another reporter, “Is it true you went to Hell?”

“Yeah,” said the mayor.

“Now that you know that Hell is real,” said the reporter, “Will you become a more just mayor?”

“No,” said the mayor, “The only thing that could make that happen is if someone else wants this crummy job.”

As I sat down to take a slice of pepperoni pizza, my roommate turned to me.

“Hey Falk,” he said, “Maybe you should run for mayor.”

“No.” I said.

My roommate got up and left. I continued to sit on the couch, and let the bright light of the television wash over me as my mind let loose.

Why did I quit the police force? Was I losing my dedication to justice? Was I tired after all the ass-kissing, ass-kicking and ass-leaking? Was I feeling scared after gambling with the devil one too many times? Did I even gamble with the devil? My memories of that whole ordeal were getting hazy. Why was the mayor talking about Hell? And why did they put me in the morgue instead of the hospital? Did I die? I feel like I would remember if I died, wouldn’t I?

In any case, each question led to the feeling that there was more to life than just catching criminals. That feeling had been bothering me for weeks, and it even caused me to retire as a policeman about a month ago.

This feeling confused me though. I had no idea what I wanted to do outside of being a policeman. Maybe this feeling was actually the result of some mind weapon being used against me without my knowledge.

Oh well. I’ve got plenty of free time now that I’m unemployed. I’m sure I’ll figure it out.

THE END