Mother Teresa opened her eyes to complete darkness. Her soul was filled with an overwhelming sense of doom as she realized she wasn’t in Heaven. Heaven would be filled with an all-consuming light and she would be enveloped in a sense of peaceful bliss. All she could feel was pain.
Her shoulders burned and her hands tingled immensely above her head. She felt her body pendulum. Her feet were not touching the ground. She was bound with rope and suspended. The rope dug into her fragile wrists – cutting off the circulation.
Panic gripped her chest. The sound of an endless racket toiled through her brain and the noise echoed in her brittle bones. The howl of the tortured was barely distinguishable from any of the other chaos. Somewhere a chainsaw ran constantly. And millions of dogs barked out of sync, creating a maddening and unbearable chorus.
She composed her foggy thoughts and wondered why she was here. She knew this had to be Hell.
“This was a mistake,” she said.
But she went unheard amidst the song of the damned.
The world slowly came into view as her eyes adjusted in the dim light. A faint red haze covered black jutting shapes resembling stalagmites and stalactites.
People mulled about. But they appeared as shadows in the poor lighting, inky outlines distorted. She knew they must be demons.
A group of three figures appeared before her, brandishing acoustic guitars. Their hands were grossly distorted, almost phallic. The figures struck up a folk song barely audible over the other racket. She couldn’t quite make out the lyrics, but she was certain it was a love ballad of some sort.
“Why am I here?” she screamed.
The figure in the middle wailed the chorus and slapped his dick-like fingers on the strings of his instruments.
“This is a mistake! I’m Mother Teresa! I’m God’s bride!”
The trio stopped, stared at her for a beat, and laughed manically at her. They clutched each other, doubled over, and slapped each other on the back with their cock-fingered hands, enjoying some joke between them.
“This is not funny! Let me go and take me to Heaven this instant!”
One of the shadowy men approached Mother Teresa and rubbed his penis fingers on her face. She winced away in disgust and spat in his blackened face.
The figure laughed at her disdain, the sound like rusted metal rubbed together. He said, “Your husband made a deal with our boss.”
“Liar!” she proclaimed. “My God would never make a deal with the devil!”
“Your God has had nothing but virgins since the beginning of time. My God has had nothing but whores. They came to an agreement upon a trade. But the transaction cannot be completed until the whore dies, which is in another ten years. Until then,” he waved his cock fingers toward the other two, “we’ve been instructed to romance you for his coming.”
The trio laughed and played folk music for the next ten years.
C.V. Hunt is the author of HOW TO KILL YOURSELF and some other unpopular books. She lives somewhere in Ohio and spends 71.2% of her time throwing her life away. Her power animal is the sloth. You can find out what she's not doing by visiting her site: www.authorcvhunt.com
Copyright 2013 CV HUNT