Bob, Accountant Of Hell

[Iun]

“But if you could just tell me what it was, it would really lay my mind to rest…” The fussy little man in a blue pinstripe suit said, looking despondently at the demon in front of him.

 

The demon shrugged his shoulders and smiled sadly. “Sorry Bob, I don’t get told that information. Would it make any difference? It could have been a car accident, falling off a cliff, a knife in the back while you’re making love to your boss’ wife…”

 

Bob looked shocked. “An affair? With Gordon’s wife? That’s ridiculous! I’m an accountant!”

 

“Good, well, at least you’re going to spare me THAT question!” The demon laughed with a forced cheerfulness.

 

“What question?” Bob replied, a puzzled frown creasing the brow under his neatly-combed hair.

 

“It’s usually the first question everyone asks me – ‘What am I doing here in Hell?’”

 

“Good point,” Bob raising a finger to his lips. He wagged the finger at the demon. “What am I doing in Hell?”

 

Now it was the turn of the demon to look puzzled. “Well… you’re an accountant aren’t you?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“There you go then!” The demon sat back in his leather chair, smiling again.

 

“Are you telling me ALL accountants end up in Hell? Why?”

 

The demon nodded a little sheepishly and tried to convey by the wringing of his hands that there were those in the Underworld who thought Hell was far too good for the likes of Accountants, but taking them on was an act of charity that could be written off against taxable income every April.

 

Bob looked crestfallen. He sniffed a little and looked around at the red walls of the cluttered office. “So I suppose I’m going to be tortured for all eternity?”

 

“Absolutely.” The demon said apologetically.

 

“Fair enough,” Bob sighed. “Let’s get on with it. What will it be first – few centuries on the rack to warm me up, then cut out my entrails and make daisy-chains with them?”

 

“Oh no,” the demon shook his head with a … demonic smile. “Something much, much worse…”

“Oh lord,” said Bob, his eyes wide. “Something personal? Something specific to me?”

 

The demon’s smile widened: he was clearly enjoying himself.

 

“You’re… you’re going to send me to a true-to-life recreation of Ramsgate where I have to eat watery ice-cream and get terribly sunburned in an endless summer of peeling skin and sand in my socks?” Bob swallowed, the horror on his face was tangible.

 

For a moment, the demon looked nonplussed. “That’s your idea of Hell?”

 

Bob nodded vigorously, barely able to speak. At last he was able to gasp the words out. “My grandmother used to spit in her handkerchief to clean my face…”

 

“Oh that sounds fine, don’t be such a drama queen. There are people here suffering eternal damnation who would give what’s left of their entrails to see their grandmothers again. “

 

“She smelled like old leather and had a tongue like a whip.”

 

“Hah, and there are people here who are really fine with THAT kind of thing… that took us a few centuries to weed out. Now most of them are sitting in a recreation of the London Ritz drinking afternoon tea. The screams are quite blood-chilling, according to some of the demons I know who have to work there.”

 

“What are you going to do to me then?” Bob looked nervous.

 

The demon shifted in his seat and pressed a button on the desk “Angela, be a dear and send in Stet will you. Thanks.” He took his finger off the button and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “It’s like this, Bob: sometimes the people upstairs who make the decisions are a bit stuck on a borderline case - maybe the sins and good deeds are of equal weight and there needs to be a tie-breaker on where they go. Ever heard of the phrase ‘your whole life hangs in the balance’?” Bob nodded, mutely. The demon continued. “In that sort of situation, we tend to look at financial records. Self-assessed income tax forms, VAT records, expense accounts – even if their pocket money was stopped when they were eight for saying something really naughty about the teacher. It will be job to look through all these and submit reports to the higher-ups, who will then make a decision.”

 

There was a loud knock at the door. “Come in, Stet.” Said the demon.

 

A smaller demon entered, wearing a black suit, a pair of thick spectacles, short horns and a worried look of good-natured concern.

 

“Bob, this is your knew boss, Stet, the demon of Leaving Things As They Are. Stet, this is Bob.”

 

“Hello Bob,” Stet smiled wanly. “I’m looking forward to working with you for, um, forever.” Bob nodded, and turned back to the demon at the desk.

 

“So my punishment for all eternity is that I have to be an accountant?”

 

“Oh yes,” replied the demon with a wicked grin. “There will be a cup of really, really WEAK tea on your desk every morning, salty cucumber and tuna sandwiches every day for lunch” He paused, the fire in his eyes growing as he warmed to his subject. “Your secretary will be named Nicki –with an ‘i’- and she won’t know her arse from her elbow, she’ll never tell you about appointments, meetings or clients. Every day the books full of little rows of numbers will pile up on your desk, an endless torrent of carrying-the-one,” the demon was standing now, his eyes ablaze and a fiery tongue lashing excitedly. “VAT calculation errors, stupid people who have added the date and subtracted the day of the week, petty little men in cheap suits in a second-hand car dealership who have tried to apply for petrol as a tax-free allowance! Single mothers running a business making hair clips out of their back bedroom who never finished their GCSEs and DON’T KNOW WHAT A DECIMAL POINT IS! AHA-HA-HA-HA!” The demon threw his head back and roared with cruel laughter.

 

Stet smiled sadly and motioned for Bob to follow him out of the door. Just as he was about to leave the room, Bob paused and turned to the demon. “Are you sure I’m in the right place?” He asked as Stet grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the office.

 

 

 

“Sorry about, that, Bob.” Said Stet as they hurried along the glowing red corridor. “He tends to get a bit carried away. He does so enjoy handing out his ironic punishments.” There were sounds of tortured screams from the closed doors that they passed.

 

“I’m still trying to get to grips with how it is I’m being punished…” Bob said, his voice trailing off.

 

“Now hang on a minute,” said Stet, stopping suddenly. “Are you saying that being an accountant is not sufficient punishment?”

 

“Well,” replied Bob, confusedly. “I sort of CHOSE to be an accountant, up there.” He pointed up at the ceiling.

 

“And now there’s no longer any choice!” Stet said, beaming. “Before, you could have changed and become a-a-a… wind surfer or a … TV repairman! But now, you’re stuck being an accountant!”

 

“Is that a joke?” Bob asked, eyes narrowed.

 

“Yes!” said the demon. “But the joke is on YOU! Ha!”

 

Bob was beginning to suspect that this picky-looking demon was one of those people who didn’t have a sense of humour, and tried to cover it up by being as funny as possible. About everything. It seemed that this was going to be the real torture. He could already see the office – a cheap plastic airplane bought “by my youngest” on the desk, a faded poster stating “You don’t have to be damned eternally to be here, but it helps!” and a collection of pens that would bring the stationery manager to full cardiac arrest and then down here to Hell – where all office stationery managers belong.

 

“Ha.” Bob laughed, humourlessly.

 

Stet smiled. “I can see we’re going to get on like a house on fire, let’s keep going, we’re just through here.” He opened a heavy-looking black door with iron spikes. “oops…” he said.

 

Through the door in the massive chamber that lay before them stood massed ranks of the dead: their flesh was in various states of decay –some were missing limbs, eyes, clothes and even a body. Bob was sure he saw a few heads sitting on trucks with string attached. The horde of zombies turned towards the open door and a cheerful – if slurred- cry of “Braaaaaaiiiins!” rang out from floor to ceiling.

 

“Ah, no, chaps, sorry. It’s not time yet.” Stet shouted to the assembled corpses.

 

“Braaaiiins?” Came the sad reply.

 

“Just took a wrong turn by the look of things. My apologies for disturbing you. Um, treating you alright are they?”

 

“Braaaains.”

 

“Oh, good, good. That’s, uh, good to hear. Anything I can get for you?”

 

“Braaaains!” Came the shouted reply. But Bob was sure that on the very edge of hearing someone had said “ice-cream”.

 

“No trouble chaps, I’ll see what I can do.” Stet waved and closed the door. He met Bob’s questioning eyes. “Er… Zombie apocalypse. Not sure when it’s going to happen. But it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

[S.C.G]

@Iun that's a really nice piece of creative writing.

[bob]

I'm not sure if i should be offended or not.

[jayseven]

Doing your job forever has got to be a contender for Hell for most people, right?

[Iun]

Thanks @bob @S\.C\.G. This is the start of a novella I'm putting together.

 

@jayseven I'd say yes, but the truth is, I've met accountants who really LOVE their job and get NOTICEABLY EXCITED when numbers are present.

[Dannyboy-the-Dane]

I liked it.

[The Peeps]

I enjoyed reading that will there be more?

[Iun]

I enjoyed reading that will there be more?

 

Should be! But it's an as-and-when kinda thing.