the king of pigland circled round us on the branches below. he was mad. madder than i’ve seen anybody in a long time. grumbling. something about stolen corn and smallpox. icepicks dropped from our belts. sailed down, sinking in the snow beneath us. i’ll be back to devour you, he growled. and jumped nimbly down, running off. we were left staring in the wind. holding on with just our hands.

we imagined that the mice were next. smelling our trail of breadcrumbs. and following behind them, the hawks. leather jackets. bamboo rain sluices. jungle midgets casting spells. specific tortures in store for us, should we ever return to their hidden temples. ugly thugs, all of them. bastards of a demon goat god. spawned on hairless forest monkeys. brutal upbringing. the peasants in neighboring villages knew best how to avoid them.

the shopping lines in hell were long. interminably long. are you surprised? you shouldn’t be. that’s what we spent most of our time there doing. waiting. queuing up. collecting numbered tickets. shuffling back and forth from office to office. the actual torture sessions were more of a relief than anything. a break from the bitter monotony of standing around. and we were forbidden to talk to each other. of course, or look at each other. no magazines. no newspapers. no televisions or background music. you kind of got used to it though. the constant silence.