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The Halfway House was the best bar in Purgatory. This is not to say that it was a great bar, or even a good bar. Like everything in Purgatory, it was mediocre. The beer was lukewarm, flat, and domestic; the wine and liquor were insipid variants from places no one had ever heard of; the food was bland, and also lukewarm. The house served ice cream, or steak fresh from the grill, at about the same temperature. Even the service was listless, but competent. Still, as places to kill time go—and the denizens of Purgatory have a lot of time to kill—it was ... adequate. On one particular Sameday, one patron was drawing an unusual amount of attention. In a room filled with the not-too-sinful, dressed mostly in well-worn jeans and sweatshirts, the man stood out. He wore a blindingly white shirt buttoned from beltline to Adam’s apple, a tasteful silk tie that must surely have cut off the blood supply to his brain long ago, a dark suit of conservative cut (a little too large in the shoulders), and polished wingtip shoes. It was the stench of brimstone that set him apart from the crowd, literally. People in Purgatory have an instinctive aversion to anything that reminds them of Hell—after all, there, but for a slight lack of imagination in the sinning department, go they. There were a half-dozen empty seats around him. Emmanuel (‘call me Manny’) Gutierrez, the bartender, sidled over and poured a shot of an obscure brand of whiskey, distilled somewhere in Southeast Asia, for his well-dressed new customer. “Looking good,” Manny said. “But friend, I gotta tell you, you smell like Hell.” The man sighed. “Yeah, I know. I keep hoping the smell will fade with time, but I think it may actually be getting worse.” “You’ve been there, haven’t you? To Hell, I mean.” “Is it that obvious? Aside from the odor?” “Look around,” Manny said. “Everybody here, including me, was a sinner, but we were all kind of lackluster about it. We racked up too many venial sins to check in Upstairs when we checked out on Earth, but none of us had the maracas to do any of the biggies. We’re stuck here for—well, for as long as it takes to work our way Upstairs—and we dress accordingly. You ... you dress like you just got here, or you’re about to leave. And you don’t smell like somebody heading for the Pearly Gates.” “I’m stuck here forever.” The man sighed, the shoulder pads in his jacket rising and falling like stunted wings. Manny gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder, but snatched his hand back with a yelp. “Whoa! Still a little warm there, pal!” “Sorry. I really don’t belong here. I belong in Hell.” Manny shook his head. “Come on. If you were a big-time sinner, they wouldn’t have let you out. We get your kind here every once in a while, guys who were just nasty enough to deserve a little time in the Pit, but not nasty enough for eternal punishment. It’s an adjustment, I know, realizing that you’ve done your time.”  The man reached into his jacket and withdrew a leather identification card holder. He opened it and held it up for Manny to read. “George Stillwater, IRS, Audit Division ... you were a tax auditor? Wow, you really do belong in Hell!” Stillwater hung his head. Chairs scraped and thumped as the empty space around the former tax man expanded. “Ah, sorry George,” Manny said. “I didn’t mean to ’out’ you like that. I guess you’ve been having a hard enough time finding anyone to talk to without people knowing that you were ... you know.” “I’m not ashamed of what I was.” Stillwater sat up straight and adjusted his tie, his jaw thrust forward almost far enough to overshadow his Adam’s apple. “It was a nasty job, but someone had to do it, or there’d be no money to run the government. Without auditors to keep them in line, even more people would cheat on their taxes.” Manny rolled his eyes. “Yeah, those solid-gold toilet seats gotta come from somewhere.” Stillwater ignored the remark. “What I am ashamed of, or should be, is that I loved my work.” “You bastard,” Manny said. “How did you ever get released from Hell? You might as well say that your hobby was torturing puppies!” “I liked puppies!” Stillwater said. “Also kittens, small children, apple pie, and baseball. The problem was, I loved forms. And nobody has more forms than the IRS, except—” “Except what?” Manny asked. “Social services? City permits offices? The Army? I can’t imagine anyplace that wastes more paper than the IRS.” “Hell. Bureaucracy was invented in Hell. All the major government offices use training manuals that originated Down There. Come to think of it, some of the consultants that they brought in to train us smelled kind of the way I do now.” “Wow. Makes me glad I didn’t indulge some of my nastier impulses. Well, okay, they were other people’s impulses. I just read about them in magazines.” “Lack of imagination, or lack of initiative, is next to godliness, at least when it comes to sin,” Stillwater said. “Man, I never imagined that Hell could be that terrible.” Manny shook his head. “I mean, torture, sure, they tell you to expect that. But forms, and line-ups, and more forms—” “They make you fill out forms and line up to get tortured.” Stillwater gave him a wistful smile. “Um, George, you’re drooling a little.” “You have to use your own blood for ink, of course,” Stillwater went on. “And you don’t want to know what the forms are printed on.” “Okay, George, I think I’ve heard enough.” “Everything has to be filled out in quintuplicate, and there’s no such thing as carbon paper Down There. Then, once you’ve finished the forms, they destroy four copies, while you watch.” “George, you are seriously creeping me out!” “If you make a mistake, you have to fill out more forms to get replacements for the ones you’ve spoiled.” Stillwater was almost swooning with nostalgic joy. Manny hauled off and slapped him. Both men yelped, the former tax auditor from the stinging impact on his face, Manny from the first-degree burns on his hand. “Sorry.” Stillwater whimpered, holding back tears. “I really miss that place.” Manny looked up from the ice bucket into which he had plunged his scorched hand. The ice, of course, was lukewarm anyway, so it did little to reduce the pain. “You miss being in Hell?” “Yeah. It was a career bureaucrat’s dream, even on the receiving end. Rules and regulations for everything, and forms to go with every rule and regulation. Even the chaos was orderly, if you know what I mean.” “Geez. You are one sick puppy, George,” Manny said. “I liked puppies.” Stillwater’s eyes seemed to focus on something far, far away. “You have to fill out forms to adopt a puppy, you know.” “Don’t make me slap you again.” “Huh? Sorry.” Manny pulled his hand out of the ice bucket and inspected the damage. There was no blistering; in Purgatory, even burns tended to be mediocre. It still stung quite a bit, though. “What did you mean about being stuck in Purgatory forever?” Manny asked. “I can’t get into Heaven, of course,” Stillwater replied. “I mean I was an IRS auditor who loved his work. They’d make me ride a camel through the eye of a needle to qualify. A big camel. A small needle. Probably side-saddle.” “But they released you from Hell?” “Released me? They threw me out!” Stillwater sobbed. Manny blinked in confusion. “I don’t get it.” “Hell is the ultimate punishment, right?” Stillwater blew his nose into his sleeve. Manny nodded. “It isn’t punishment if you enjoy it,” Stillwater said. “Oh crap. I see what you mean. The worst thing they could do to you was to put you somewhere with no forms—namely, Purgatory, where all you do is wait to be called. It’s like the old joke—the worst thing you can do to a masochist is nothing at all.” Stillwater nodded. Since his head was only an inch or two above the bar, each downward motion ended with a loud thunk. Manny grabbed Stillwater’s hair using the bar towel for insulation and pulled the ex-auditor upright. “It’s Catch 666.” Stillwater sniffed. “If you want to be in Hell, you can’t be.” Manny pulled an unopened bottle of whiskey from under the bar and set it down in front of Stillwater. “This is the good stuff, relatively speaking. It’s all yours, on the house.” “We can’t get drunk here, can we?” Stillwater asked. Manny shook his head. “Not really. You could chug that whole fifth and never get more than a mild buzz. On the other hand, you can’t get a really bad hangover, either.” “Have one with me?” Stillwater asked. Manny shrugged. With Stillwater’s amazing ability to repel customers, the bar was almost empty. Fortunately, working in the bar was just a way to pass the time; nobody needed money in Purgatory, as the Powers that ran the place provided everything. He poured two big glasses. “Here’s to Hell.” Stillwater raised his drink. “To Hell with you.” Manny did the same. They tossed back the whiskey and it almost burned its way down their throats—in a bland, unexciting kind of way. “Seriously, man, I have to get out of here.” Stillwater stared at his shot glass with an expression of mild disappointment. “That’s what we all say,” Manny replied. “But we get to leave when we get to leave. It isn’t up to us.” Stillwater groaned. He grabbed the almost-full whiskey bottle and poured half of it down his throat in a series of half-hiccupping / half-gulping spasms. “You get to leave,” he said. “I have nowhere to go.” “Maybe there’s some way you can earn your way out, Upstairs, I mean.” “Would there be lots of rules and forms there?” Manny shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe for you there would be, since you love that sort of thing so much. For the rest of us, I sure hope not.” “Are there forms here?” Stillwater asked. “I could fill out the forms to request a review of my case—” “I’ve never seen any paperwork here, and I’ve been here a long time. I didn’t even need a permit to open this place. And that review thing, well, I think your, uh, assignment is based on the way you lived. Once you’re here, all you can influence—maybe—is how long you have to wait to move on.” “Then how did I wind up here after going to Hell?” “That’s a very good point. Maybe if you got a good lawyer—” “All the lawyers are in Hell!” “Not quite all,” someone said. Manny and Stillwater turned and located the speaker at the far end of the bar. The man was dressed in the de facto Purgatory uniform of sweatshirt, jeans, and athletic shoes, but they were all expensive name brands instead of the more generic kind worn by nearly everyone else. “You’re a lawyer?” Stillwater asked. The man stood and walked closer, apparently unaffected by the pungent sulfurous odor surrounding Stillwater. “Axel P. Boomhauer, at your service,” he said. “I handled criminal, corporate, family law, and even some tax cases in my day. Did pretty well at that.” “If you’re a lawyer, why aren’t you in Hell?” Manny asked. “As far as I know, you’re about the only lawyer in Purgatory.” “I did lots and lots of pro bono work,” Boomhauer replied. “I was widely known for being the defender of the downtrodden back in Ocean Springs, Mississippi.” “Then why aren’t you in heaven?” “I defended lots and lots of clients I knew were guilty. Unfortunately, I miscalculated the weighting that my less savory work would be given, and here I am.” “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Boomhauer,” Stillwater said. “I’d shake hands, but—” “I’d have to sue you for burning me.” Boomhauer winked. “I noticed Manny’s reaction when he touched you. Speaking of which, if you’d like to sue him—” Manny scowled. “Thanks for the suggestion! Anyway, you can’t sue anybody here. There aren’t any courts.” Boomhauer laughed. “Au contraire, my friend. There are mediocre courts with mediocre judges, and the laws themselves are downright uninspired. But they exist.” “Do you think you can help me?” Stillwater asked. “I’m a man without a fate, stranded between worlds, and it’s killing me—well, figuratively, anyway—I guess we can’t die here.” Boomhauer tilted his head to one side, considering the matter. Then he smiled. “Two words spring to my mind. Let me say them out loud, to see if you can guess where they lead: wrongful dismissal.” Manny frowned. “That’s labor law, isn’t it? Being condemned to Hell and getting thrown out isn’t like getting a job and being fired, is it?” “That, my friends, is for the courts to decide.”  Some time later, insofar as Time exists in Purgatory, Boomhauer and Stillwater stood before Judge Adziel, a middle-rung angel of average power and glory. Manny sat in the back of the courtroom, curious to see the results of Boomhauer’s efforts. “Your Angelicness, my client was condemned to Hell for good reason,” Boomhauer said. “He was an auditor for the Internal Revenue Service of the United States of America, and as such, ruined many lives with his rock-steady adherence to every petty rule at his command. It is, in fact, pretty much standard procedure for people in my client’s former profession to be damned.” Adziel snorted and sat up suddenly, his wings and halo vibrating from the abrupt motion. Manny would have sworn that the angel had been dozing off, except that as far as he knew, angels didn’t sleep. “Harrumph. Yes. Of course it is,” Adziel said. “He went to Hell as per expectations, and was well into the process of being, er, processed when without warning he was removed from his position.” Adziel frowned. A potted ficus plant near the window burst into flames and crumbled into ashes, then reconstituted itself when the angel noticed its demise. “That is most unusual,” he said. “Your Angelicness, it is my contention that my client was wrongfully dismissed from his proper fate, for reasons that this court must recognize as going against all Holy Writ and tradition.” Adziel adjusted his halo, scratching behind his left ear as he did so. “According to the affidavit provided by the infernal authorities, your client liked being in Hell. Something about bureauphilia—love of bureaucracy?” Boomhauer shook his head sadly. “It is true, your Angelicness. George Stillwater loves bureaucracy, forms, rules, regulations. He might even be said to have enjoyed that aspect of his stay in Hell. But—George, please tell the Court whether you enjoyed everything about Hell.” Stillwater stood, but took a moment to think before he spoke. “Your, um, Angelicness, I can’t lie to you. I did enjoy the bureaucratic procedures Down There, since they represent a perfect system, which all other bureaucracies aspire to emulate. The forms, the rules, the endless line-ups—those were wonderful. But the torture itself? I really can’t stand pain. If I could have the procedures without the actual physical torment—” Boomhauer raised his hand. “Please, George, nobody likes a whiner.” “As you can see, your Angelicness, my client is a physical coward. If you will review his life record, you will see that his fear of physical pain led him to betray friends, lie, and cheat to avoid situations where he might be injured. Those acts alone might be enough to earn him eternity in the Pit, and that fear alone ensures that his stay there will be punishment, in spite of any pleasure he may derive from the paperwork—er, parchment work—er, my client tells me that the forms are made from stretched and tanned human skin, which is periodically removed from the, er, form-filler-outers themselves.” “I have heard enough,” Adziel said. “From the expression on your client’s face, I see that Hell is the place for him indeed. I hereby reverse the ruling of the lower court and order his immediate return to the Pit, for a term not less than the remaining existence of the physical universe.” Boomhauer smiled and thumped Stillwater on the back (with an oven mitt to protect his hand). “We’ve won, my boy! You’re going back to Hell!” Stillwater smiled weakly. “You know, now that you’ve reminded me about the torture thing, I’m having second thoughts. I wasn’t in Hell very long—I don’t think I even heard of some of the really nasty torments. Do you think you could—” But the bailiff, a minor demon who resembled a famous roly-poly midget in scaly red long johns, had already slapped the red-hot cuffs onto Stillwater’s wrists. A moment later, the two of them vanished in a sulfur-scented burst of blue and yellow flames. “I wonder if that one will count for me or against me?” Boomhauer asked. “Beats me.” Manny strolled over to inspect the place where Stillwater had been, wrinkling his nose at the sharp tang of fresh-from-the-pit brimstone. “But it’s worth a round of drinks.” “Works for me.” Boomhauer slapped Manny’s arm. “Even mediocre whiskey is a blessing when it’s free.” And with that, they headed back to the Halfway House.
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