Hell is that place you should've left long ago, but didn't, and won't.
For me it was called Hamilton. A regal sounding name; full of pride and early American nobility, but don't let it fool you. I don't know where the armpit of the world is, but Hamilton is a little plantar's wart, not far away.
I lived there in a scale model of a mobile home made of 30-weight cardboard and lime-green paint. A small Swiss cheese of a place, and it didn't smell very good, either. Not to mention that there was no heat.
It was fall, and so of course, cold. I sat at my desk and watched my breath, dressed in multiple fleece jackets and a lycra skullcap and gloves, and I listened to the wind swishing in the trees and the neighborhood dogs moaning outside.
I remember wishing I was somewhere else--anywhere else at all--and then amending that wish to exclude large portions of New Jersey.
I tried playing solitaire for awhile, but my heart wasn't in it. They were trying to destroy the world again, you see, and it was up to me to stop them.
An example:
A many-headed demon came in through the window, newly arrived from the ninth layer of Gehenna, steaming softly and reeking of cinnamon and smoking hair. He gave me the once-over, snarled, and then claimed only to have come to borrow a cup of sugar.
"I don't think so," I said, and lunged at him. We grappled, knocking out paper-thin walls; rattling the foundations of the universe. He bit at me with one head, howled with another, and used a third to render a scathing critique of my décor.
"I've seen sections of Asgoth more tastefully decorated than this," he said, and I threw him through the kitchen cupboards.
"You're going back now," I told him, bleeding from a cut on the jaw. "Your time is coming, but it isn't yet."
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