Week 6

Monday March 9th
Holidays – get in there! As I write I’m sitting in a café in central Reading, and it’s blissful. The sky is a beautiful grey, the air is filled with smog and fumes and everywhere I look I see faces etched in misery. I love it. It makes me feel nostalgic for the good old days, when Hell was dark and depressing and stripped to the bare bones. Those were the days. Before the marketing men and the PR gurus got hold of it and turned the place into a cartoon mockery of itself, with its painted red skies and fake volcanoes. I voted against the changes of course, but I didn’t stand a chance. Their ad campaigns were too good, and the public too gullible. Hell is still my home, and I still love it, but it’s definitely lost a lot of its charm.
My day started painfully. I guess that was only to be expected after mixing Night Nurse and whiskey. When I opened my eyes it felt like my head was skewered with a fence post, and I had to shut them again before it exploded. It was an hour before I dared to open them again, and even then the pain was almost unbearable. That Night Nurse is a killer. There was no way I was ever going to make it as far as the shower but luckily my bedroom is still flooded, so I just rolled off the bed onto the floor and squirmed about a bit, which seemed to do the trick. By the time I’d had breakfast I was feeling pretty normal, thank Christ. The Possession process messes with your DNA anyway, so going through it still drunk would not have been good. I’d probably have come out the other end with my head up my arse or something. As it was it went ok, although I was pretty miffed by how ugly this Phil Crowsley bloke is. He’s got a face like a broken elbow. I normally like to fraternise with the locals when I go away, but with this face I’ve got no chance unless I wear a mask. Or unless there’s a Ugly And Proud rally here this week, which seems unlikely. It’s no wonder he has to get his kicks from Brucie-porn. His flat is really, really odd as well. I’ve seen a lot of things in my time, and most of them pretty sick, but his flat has to be up there in the top ten. For a start he’s covered every single wall with pictures of Bruce Forsyth. And every single picture has those eyes that follow you round the room as you go. Have you ever tried to take a piss while 400 Bruce Forsythes stare at your privates? It’s pretty damn creepy. And instead of carpets he’s got bubble-wrap underneath this weird, stretched out rubber stuff – it’s like walking on acne. Every time a bubble bursts I half expect to get hit by exploding pus. That’s all bad enough, but to top it all he’s got dead bats dangling on strings from the ceiling and row after row of stuffed dormice lining every shelf. I spent an hour there being weirded out and then just left again and booked into a hotel. This guy has got some serious issues. When it’s time for him to die I don’t want him down in Hell, he’s far too creepy. I’ll pull some strings and get him a job in Purgatory, or maybe even sell him as a slave to Valhalla or something, but he’s not living in Hell. If the worst comes to the worst and he does end up in Hell then I’m giving him his own field of Venus Fly Traps somewhere in the farthest outpost I can find, and he can feed them until the end of time. I’ll put a thousand foot wall around the field with barbed wire on top, and he can rot. Weirdo.
Tonight I’m going to go drinking in the town, and then maybe pick up a whore. Reading has lots of them, according to the guidebook, and apparently most of them are ugly so they won’t mind sleeping with old Elbow-Face. Then tomorrow I’m going to do nothing except sit around and enjoy the smog. Probably from a park bench (if I can find one that hasn’t been pissed on by some tramp). I love this place! I’m going to buy a holiday home here, I think. A nice grotty bedsit close to the red light district with views of the canal. It’ll be like my own corner of Hell on Earth. Beautiful.

Tuesday March 10th
I’m home again already. I wish I wasn’t, but on the other hand I’m glad I am because it got a bit mental last night. I blame Phil Crowsley. He’s definitely not coming into Hell now, even if he begs on bended knee. It all went to plan to start with – I went to a pub, got drunk and had a fight with a doorman. Then I went for a kebab and that was ok too. It was only when I went down to the red light district that it all went tits up. It turns out that old Phil has had more than a passing acquaintance with the whores round there, and they aren’t very fond of him. It wouldn’t be going too far to say that they hate his guts, in fact. They’d be very happy if he fell down a mineshaft and never climbed out again. Ever. For what it’s worth I agree with them – as long as the mineshaft is a long, long way from me. Apparently – and I’ve only found this out since I got back – Phil liked to take the whores home to his flat and do very weird things to them. I’m not exactly sure what the weird things were, but having seen his flat there’s nothing that would surprise me. He inflicted himself on a dozen of them before the pimps banded together and warned him off. They said that if he ever went down there again they’d cut off his nuts and thread them through his nostrils ‘til he choked (I know, I know – it’s not very original. We’ve all done that dozens of times - it’s so common that it’s almost trite. But you have to remember that people from the ‘Living aren’t used to torture, so they’re easily scared) and from then on Phil avoided the place like the plague. Until last night, that is, when I took him back again. Typical!
The pimps spotted him / me straight away of course, and before I knew it I was surrounded. Have you ever noticed how gay pimps look when they’re all together? All those medallions and leather jackets and cowboy boots? I didn’t even realise they were pimps at first – I thought they’d got lost on the way to a barn dance and just wanted directions. It wasn’t until they got out their penis-extension flick-knives and threatened me that I cottoned on, and I’m afraid that’s when I lost my temper a little. Well, a lot, to be honest. Sorry Dr Malloy. I blame the 24 Sambucas I’d had in the pub. I always get angry on Sambuca. And I blame the pimps as well. You can’t come up to Satan with a knife and threaten to cut his balls off – it’s just asking for trouble. I was hardly going to let them get away unscathed after that. I’d have never lived it down. Even so, I probably shouldn’t have got quite as angry as I did, but that’s Sambuca for you. After I got angry the inevitable happened, and before I knew it the street was covered in blood and Reading had 12 less pimps for its next barn dance. It was very messy and very loud and sadly, whilst you may be able to get away with that sort of thing round here, up in the ‘Living (even in Reading) it’s kind of frowned upon. They’re a very strange people. Before I knew it there were blue flashing lights and strange sirens everywhere, and it all gets a bit patchy after that. I remember getting very annoyed when some man in a uniform tried to taser me, but then it’s just red mist until I woke up this morning in the Possessions office. I’m still not exactly sure what I did, but there’s blood under my fingernails and a disapproving memo from God on my doormat, so I’m guessing that whatever I did I did it pretty thoroughly. The worst thing is that I was really enjoying myself until then, and now it’s spoiled. I’ll be able to go back to Reading as someone else of course (provided God doesn’t bar me) but it’s never as good second time round. That bastard Crowsley has ruined everything. Maybe I will let him into Hell, just so I can torture him. In the mean time I’ve ripped up that nude photo of Bruce Forsythe, and instructed the Possessions people to cross him off their ‘viable vacancy’ list. He can beg as much as he wants but he’s not getting so much as a fishfinger from us in the future, no matter what he promises in return. Never cross the Devil sonny – I always win in the end.

Wednesday March 11th
Today was quite productive. I’m not due back at work until Monday, so I used the time to do a few chores, pay a few bills, that sort of thing. And the man came round to mend my pipe too, so the house is dry again. I’m going to have to get a new carpet for the bedroom, but Sandra chose that one anyway so it’s no great loss.
I’m still miffed with Crowsley. I’m toying with the idea of putting a contract out on him so that he has to come down here and face me. I’d put him in the waiting room and pull the old shrinking-potion-in-the-tea trick on him, so that by the time he gets into my office he’ll be so small that he thinks I’m a giant. Then I’ll yell at him ‘til his balls drop off. I remember doing that to Rasputin back in the day. He pissed himself with fright and then bit off his own tongue, which gave me the chance to sew it back on again using barbed wire. He didn’t like that. I doubt I’ll get such a fun reaction from Crowsley, but I’d definitely like to give it a try. Then I’ll feed him to those Fly-Traps and let him rot. Teach him to ruin my holiday.
On the good news front Adolf is out and about again, so we’re playing golf all tomorrow. I can’t wait! It’ll be good to catch up, and I can tell him how great Reading is. I don’t think he’s ever been there himself, and he always likes to hear about new places. I think I’ll even buy him lunch too, to say sorry for the supermarket debacle. And I’ll buy some flowers for Eva as well, just to make sure she’s forgiven me.
I’m off to Ming’s tonight for dinner. He’s doing barbecued zebra with stuffed salamander. I wonder if he plays golf? I’ll have to ask. It would be good to get him and Adolf together – I think they’d get on well.

Thursday March 12th
Adolf’s got no hair! He says they shaved it off at the clinic so they could give him the electroshock therapy. He’s still got his ‘tache, so he looks very funny – like a ping-pong ball with a bit of fluff glued to the front. He’s very self-conscious about it, bless him. At first he tried to hide it by wearing a baseball cap, but then there was a freak gust of wind at the third green, the hat blew away and there he was – bald as a coot! Like a Nazi Kojak in plus fours. I have to admit that I did laugh quite a bit – who wouldn’t – but he was obviously down about it so I tried to be supportive. I told him he should try wearing a wig until it grows back again. There’s a pretty good wig shop in town, right by the Torture Museum. I remember Henry VIII raving about it last year when he got that alopecia. It’s call Hell Toupe, if I remember rightly. I offered to give him a lift there if he liked, but he said that he’d rather do it himself because “…there are some things a man just has to do alone.” Then he gazed sternly at the horizon and started wittering on about how men need to be men and how strength of character is more than an iron will, yada yada yada. He was the same last time he came out the clinic too – I think they give them self-confidence classes in there. Either that or Prozac. It’ll wear off in a week or so, and he’ll be back to his old self. Meanwhile all you can do is listen politely, nod in the right places and beat the hell out of him at golf.

Friday March 13th
Interesting call from Gerald today. Apparently someone tried to blow up the office whilst he was out at lunch. They didn’t manage it of course – the place is bomb proof, gas proof, bullet proof and safe from all known germs and diseases – but they did manage to wreck the photocopier. It’s not the first time someone’s tried it and it won’t be the last, so I’m not too worried about it myself, but poor old Gerald sounded like he was having palpitations. I managed to get him calmed down in the end (I dated Florence Nightingale for a while and she taught me about breathing into paper bags) but I think he’s still slightly freaked out. I hope I haven’t employed a sissy – that’s all I need! When he’d stopped gibbering I told him to buy a new photocopier and get Himmler in to see me first thing on Monday. If anyone can find the culprit then it’s him. It’s very odd though. Usually when this happens I’ve a pretty good idea of who it could be, but this time I haven’t a clue. Cromwell is feeding the Fly Traps so he’s out, Sandra’s in Lytham St Annes so she’s out (and she’d too pathetic to try and kill me anyway) and the only other person I’ve annoyed recently is Eva Hitler, and she’s forgiven me. So who the Hell is it? I’m baffled. Himmler will suss it out though – I have more faith in him than I do in myself sometimes. Maybe I should give him a raise. But then again maybe not. He earns more than me already and he’s married to Mata Hari, so he’s doing all right as he is. Some people get all the luck!

Saturday March 14th
It was that bloody poet! I forgot all about her and her stupid rhyming love-notes! I got another one through the post this morning (I’m slightly freaked that she’s found out where I live – I’m meant to be ex-directory) and it admitted that she planted the bomb. What a bitch. I’m going to find her and I’m going to make her pay if it’s the last thing I do. This note was even weirder than the last one – I think she’s delusional:
“I told you that I loved you but you’ve not so much as glanced
At the photograph I sent you or invited me to dance
And you didn’t clap my every hit although I clapped at yours
So I threw those nice red candles through your open office door,
Oh I love you so, Beelzebub I love your sinewed arms
Will you come and play around with me and share my ample charms?
We’ve had a lovely threesome now a two-ball’s what I crave
So be mine at last, dear Satan, or I’ll send you to your grave…”

What the Hell is she on about? She’s never sent me any photograph and we’ve never had a threesome, the stupid bint. And as for my ‘sinewy arms’, well she’s barking up the wrong tree there. I’ve got arms like tree trunks. Cheeky bitch. I couriered the note round to Himmler so he can get started straight away. I want this bitch found, and I want her found now. And when I find her I’m going to set her up with Phil Crowsley. If ever there were two people who deserved each other then it’s them. Why am I surrounded by nutters? The whole place has gone mad!
I’m going round Ming’s for a beer. I need to talk to someone sane before I crack up myself.

Sunday March 15th
A peaceful day at last. I didn’t get up until 11, just lay in bed eating chicken wings and watching Bargain Hunt on DVD. God was right – it does get addictive. I went out to the pub for lunch, for the first time in ages. I used to go every Sunday before I met Sandra, but she disapproved of me coming home with beer breath so I just stopped going. It’s still the same there as it ever was. Same décor, same people, same good grub. It was like being home again. Even old Darth’s still there, sitting in the corner with his whiskey, playing Jedi-mind tricks on strangers. Just like the good-old days. I still remember that time he bet Caligula he could drink a pint without using his hands. He won 4 bottles of Glenfiddich and packet of scratchings, and Caligula got so annoyed that he stormed out and killed a shepherd. I laughed until I cried. Happy times, happy times. Caligula wasn't there today but I had a game of darts with Jack The Ripper and played dominoes with that bloke who shot Bambi (I still don’t know his name, even after all these years) and generally had a lovely time. It’s good to go back to your roots every now and then. It keeps you grounded. And it’s nice to be around friends, not nutters. I think I’ll go there next Sunday too. There’s no Sandra to stop me now, and I owe Darth a pint.