For you, oh Mobster Titties.

"So what do you actually do all day in Hell?"

The young woman in the dark glasses waves her hand absentmindedly. "Oh, you know. Mostly we talk, really. There are too many souls in the place to torture them individually, so it's mostly automated at this point."

"So Hell does torture the damned." The man across the table from her is scribbling in a notebook. From a distance, they might resemble a couple on a date. Close up, there is a disconcerting halo around the woman's glasses, and the man is oddly intense.

"Well, yes. That was never really a secret. It's our job. Our punishment for revolting. It's not for eternity, though."

"Oh?"

"Yup. Most souls are pretty weak. Fall apart after a couple decades. We send the bits up to the Big Guy to get recycled. Not all of them, though. The really bad ones, we put back together – your Hitlers and Stalins and the like. Lucy's orders. He lets 'em fall to pieces eventually, of course. Nobody deserves to suffer forever. Some of them are just tough. There's a Greek guy down there who's hung on for a while – Alexander, I think."

"Wait, Alexander the Great is in Hell? Also, did you just call Lucifer 'Lucy?'"

"Sure did. Everyone does. He doesn't mind. What's so great about a guy who stabs his way across half a continent?"

"…Hm. I'll have to get back to you on that one. What was that about recycling souls?"

"Oh, yeah. Fuck with a soul enough, and it just falls apart. Like old cloth, almost. It frays. Disintegrates. We gather up the… scraps, fumes, whatever, it's all incorporeal anyway, and send it back up to be remade into new souls for babies. Saves some effort for the Big Guy."

"You're a little more… free with your language than the guy who spoke at the UN."

"What, that fop? He's just self-important. We don't talk like that normally. He doesn't talk like that normally."

"Hm. Well, I understand you've got to leave soon, so one final question: what happens to Heaven-bound souls?"

She laughs. "Heaven-bound? No souls go to Heaven."