Excerpt seven

from Jack's Inferno, chapter 6

I felt like I needed a change of scenery. Taking the luxury sedan to Limbo might be just the thing for it. Nine out of ten theologians agree: Limbo's not that bad. Plus, there was talk of a mansion. They say money can't buy happiness but guess what, neither can food stamps. And poverty can't buy anything.

And goddamn, this is a nice car.

"You like it?" he asks, beaming with pride. "Custom made. This baby was all painstakingly hand-crafted and assembled in Lee Iacocca's secret underground auto shop. Best child labor money can buy. She's one of a kind. Beautiful, isn't she? She's solid platinum with a reinforced titanium frame, polished to a mirror finish. All the windows are diamond coated. Completely unbreakable. Even got my family crest engraved in the rims."

"Wow, that's really--"

"She runs on plutonium." He talks over me, obviously not finished with the speech. "The design came to me very vividly in a dream. She's enchanted by demon forces. I bathe her in the blood of virgins twice a month."

"Yeah, okay."

"I left very specific instructions in my last will and testament to be buried with her. Knew I'd be coming here so I made some calls to the other side, greased a few palms and dropped a few names. Had to get all the proper arrangements in order. They know me here. I'll be well taken care of."

"Uh huh. Well, it certainly is a nice car."

"Her name is Sheila!" he snaps in a bizarre Jekyll-and-Hyde fit of unprovoked rage. He then fidgets with his tie and lets out a forced chuckle in an attempt to regain his composure.

"I mean, that's what I call my car. For fun. Oh yes, that reminds me, I haven't properly introduced myself. My name is Francis." He extends his hand in greeting. His smile is vacant. His words are cold and hollow, wrapped in an eggshell-thin layer of politeness.

"Nice to meet you Francis. Name's Jack."

"So, if you could just point me in the right direction?"

"Yeah, I should probably just ride with you. There's a lotta tricky hidden backroads and dead ends. You might get lost." I intend to milk this for all its worth.

He gives me a wary glance but just says, "You're sure it wouldn't be any trouble?"

"Not at all," I assure him.

I have no f*****g clue how to get to Limbo. That's only a minor setback as far as I'm concerned. So what if we get lost? The plush interior of the ride with its precision climate-control and gently vibrating reclining seats alone make it worth the risk. Hell, I could live in this car if I had to. Naturally I'd have to kill Francis for food. Or maybe just on general principle.

Not even the most eloquent and knowledgeable purveyors of consumer electronics could properly put into words the divine grandeur of the stereo system. The very air around me throbs with Mozart's Symphony no. 40 Molto Allegro. It fills my head and courses through my veins.

Joy is not the right word for what I feel. I feel...pretentious. Raw unadulterated pretentiousness. And that's an incredible feeling, my friend. A despicable character trait in others, maybe, but that mostly stems from the common man's bitter envy of the carefree snobbish lifestyle.

"You're...certain...that you know the way there...right?" Francis eyes me suspiciously.

"Yeah, sure. Take a left here."

Gravel road. Barren black trees with twisting branches like the limbs of a contortionist. A haunting bluish-gray fog floods the road ahead and the dead forest all around us. No moon. No stars. Just the spectral glow of the mist.

We're probably going the right way.

"We're going the wrong way, aren't we?"

"Relax Francis. Just keep straight, we'll be there in no time."

"Hmm. You know, it's strange," he says, studying me closely. "You don't strike me as Limbo material. It's a very...exclusive community."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing. You just look poor, is all. You smell poor, too."

"I'm an eccentric billionaire. I like slumming. Got a problem with that?"

"No need to get defensive. I'm sure you come from good stock. Every family has a few black sheep in it."

"I'll have you know that my father owns five Death Stars, and my grandfather is the King of Switzerland." I should really learn to make my lies less outlandish sometimes.

"Ah. My mistake," he says with a mocking smile. He drops the subject and we ride in silence.