It had been about an hour since I died. It felt like much, much longer, but my wristwatch still had full batteries, and as it turns out, real world technology still works down here. It makes me wish I had brought my cell phone, or even better, a windmill, or a steam generator.

I died in a way that's almost ironic. I was speeding along the only stretch of highway in my town. It was a small place, maybe 3,000 people, but likely a few less. There where never any other cars. Almost never.

I didn't see the procession, because there wasn't one. It was just the hearse, driving an unloved and unwanted drifter to his last hole-in-the-ground. The ironic part isn't getting killed by a hearse. It's not even dying in a graveyard. It's the fact that the driver of the hearse was the local priest. Out of ~2,800 people in town, he was born the same day as me, he was in every class I ever had in school, he (technically) lived on my street, and he had my same name.

"Smith" was a common name in town. Almost a third of everyone, I'd wager. Our first and middle names were nothing special either. Daniel Michael Smith. The obituary read, "Dan Michael Smith of Pinegrove Street died today in a motor vehicle accident involving Dan Michael Smith of Pinegrove Street, traveling in the opposite direction past the Hallifair Cemetery."

The heat really was something worth note; It was blazing, during the hot times, at least. Otherwise, there were gale-force winds throughout the place. Especially when you got up high. Supposedly, there is a way out at the top, but I'm not sure if I believe it, or if it's propaganda meant to break morale.

I was told that I would be lead to a room, that I could leave for "General Population" any time that I wanted, but that the space was as depraved as anything I could imagine: Cannibals, rapists, molesters, defilers, mutilators, and things that are so disgusting that humans are yet to find a name for it. I was going to wait and see how bad my personal hell could be. I imagine pretty bad, considering it was designed for me.

In hell, when you arrive, you get a sort of crash-course as to what's true and what isn't, on earth, in heaven, and in hell of course. There's no way to know if it's true, considering it's hell and all, but I am forced to assume that it is. Apparently, you don't really get sent to hell for being gay, disrespecting your parents, eating shell-fish, getting tattoos, or kinky sex. The only reason that they send you here is when you do things that you know are wrong. Things that you know you should not do. Especially when you make a pattern of it.

I made a pattern in my life of hate. I was taught from a young age, and by everything around me, that hate was of course wrong, and not productive, but I was full of it. To the brim. I never knew why, really, but I hated a lot of things. The one I hated the most was the church. I always felt ostracized, left out, mistreated, misrepresented, and most of all I felt angry. They lied to people. Hurt people, hurt me! I liked to live a comfortable life, with luxuries, and sex. Why am I bad for that? I'm still angry now, really. Even with this added perspective of being in hell. It doesn't help. I maybe most hated Daniel Michael Smith. No, I didn't hate myself. I hated Daniel. They man driving the Hearse. He was always loved a little more. Elders and teachers, parents, and authority always sided with him in school, gave him preferential treatment. All because he was "kind" and "honest" and did "the right thing". I was almost glad that he was also dead. I know how bad that sounds, but I was.

I had been here what felt like an eternity. I had no way to know how long it had really been, but it was terrible. I didn't know if this was a test from god, a nightmare, or a punishment for something I didn't understand, but it felt like all of them. I had an ink pen, a crucifix, a pocket bible, and last-rights, but nothing else. Were these the things I was carrying when I died? I suppose they were.

I was driving the hearse. It was another one-man procession for an unfortunate, unclaimed, dead. I had done this before, because sometimes no family came forward, other times none exists. I had done it before, but not often. We were just a small town, maybe 3,000. I wasn't actually that great and driving the hearse. I was especially bad in the rain. I just hope the other man wasn't hurt.

I think I may know why I'm here, in hell. I only thought of it now, because I know who was in the other car. It's because of the lying. I lied every day. In the church, in Sunday school, at I knew could never happen. I told people that god was just, but stern. I told them that men of strife and bad taste would be bound for hell, and now I see that I was right, in that last point, though it felt like a lie at the time. I felt most guilty over the man in the other car. I had treated him very poorly. I told him that he was a degenerate, a pervert, a sloth, a heathen. I knew he wasn't hurting anyone, but I had to make an example, for the kids! I had to show them that a life of laze and lust had consequences. I still feel that way, but I also feel ashamed.

I accepted my fate, and they pulled a scroll of what I think may have been human leather. It had my name scrawled on it, in red calligraphy with black trim, like burnt blood. They led me to a room, with my birthday, year, month, day, hour, minute as the address. I noticed the man being led next door. It was the man from the other car.

As they led me to my room, I looked at the scroll, and it said my government name on it in bold red writing. Old testament shit. "Daniel Michael Smith" in what looked like cooked blood. We got to a door with my birthday written on it. Not just the day, but down to the minute. I knew it was my door. As they explained my sins, I was confused. I was certain that hate was my sin, but they insisted that I was had been a lair. I didn't understand, until I saw him: The other Dan.

The demon (I assume it was) was a smokey sort of acrid cloud of what smelled like hot diarrhea. It was offensive to every sense. It choked out some rudimentary words to me, about lying for stature, to mislead masses, to push an agenda. I knew they weren't talking about me. Hearing it out loud, actually made me empathize with Daniel. He thought he was helping. He wanted respect. He wanted to "save" people from themselves, and he knew what he was saying wasn't true, just what he thought people needed to hear. I felt awful, and confused.

They read my sins to me. "Hate, anger, fear" They all seemed fair, if not generalized. I waited for the big kicker. The lies. I waited and waited, but it never came. They unlocked the door, and told me to go inside. I entered, and it was a... a... well, it was a church. Beautiful, cavernous, cathedral ceilings, crucifixes of gold and silver, 50 rows of pews filled with other damned souls here in hell. I was more confused than before. Was this the test? I didn't understand even a little, but they looked at me expectantly. I made my way to the podium to speak...

I was left to enter my "personal hell". I was scared, but still not really sure what to expect. Things had been really weird since I first arrived. It could be anything behind that door. I entered hesitantly, and inside I found something... really, really weird. I was pretty cool! Arcade games, pornography, horror films, recreational drugs! It was, like, my apartment, but 100 times cooler. I was seriously confused, until I remembered what the demon had said about lying, misleading, etc... I wasn't in my hell. I was in his. He would hate this! It was sex, violence, drugs, carnal pleasures. These were the things he spoke against daily. "Victimless crimes, when the victim is you!" as he would put it. I was in his hell, and it wasn't half bad. Everything here was intended to torment him,but to me, it was pretty great. In the far part of the long, tall room was a tiny, barred window. I went over to it, and I saw a church. This was the icing on the cake. Pretty sick stuff. Surround him in temptation, then give him a tiny peak into a church, a place he loves and dedicated his life to. This was pretty fucked up. But, is that him in the church?

I got up to the podium to give my sermon, and I opened my bible. It was empty on every page. I knew there would be a test. This was the test. I was dropped in hell with the worst sinners with a blank bible, a wooden cross, a last rights, and... and a pen! I could write what I remembered, what I liked, what I thought, my ideas and feelings, and exclude the lies! I could make the story I thought they needed, and not have to make anything up! This was going to be my best sermon yet, and I had infinity to give it.

Even though I was afraid they would eventually catch on and send me to where I belong, hell was pretty cool. I had videogames, weed, porn, scary movies, and plenty of other luxuries and fun shit. I was having a really good time. I had every entertainment that I wanted on earth, every luxury, every comfort, which was what made it all the more inexplicable that I spent so much time, sitting on a hard, uncomfortable, stone bench, looking out a tiny, barred window.