Chapter 1 - G.C. Goes to Hell

After the old wedding (you know how those go) things settled down for a while. Very suspicious. I knew another abstract disaster was just around the corner. That was why I extracted the youngerberry juice from the fridge with extra care as I listened to the man on the 7:71 M.M. news.

"…As for tomorrow's weather, it seems like it's gonna be pretty sweaty, and the plate will be shining. You might need to wear your shirt! The high is 63; first Fahrenheit, then Celsius, then Kelvin. We also have a &Baines% chance of dust devils and falling doors during the 3 O'clock hour. If you can, get outside and smash that greasy air! Lorrie the talking but not walking walnut, back to you."

"Thank you. In other news, little Jack Horner sat in a prison, eating a poison pie. He put in his eviction and pulled out a cleaver and said, 'what a bouncy murderer am I!' That's right folks, he just won't take parole – or Nixon's cryogenically frozen right hip – as an answer!"

Unfortunately, I had forgotten about my slowly cooking Eyed Freigs while I was listening. The terrible smell from the stove reminded me of them.

"Ahh, Dad-boomity-drum it!" I exclaimed. My Freigs were now burnt black. "This is what I get for buying that cheap off-brand junk…" In my raging rant, I forgot the lid to the juice wasn't on right. As I shook the jug in anger, the contents poured out all over the frying pan on the oven, making an even worse stink.

"Great! Just great!" I said in disgust, mad at myself now. "What a mess. A day couldn't start off worse than this, I guess."

Of course, that was a bad thing to say. Suddenly, before my very eyes, a blood-red hole opened up, and I was sucked inside it. After a few seconds, I landed in a completely normal-looking lobby. Confused, I approached the front desk.

"Welcome to Hell," the lady who obviously had problems working there said casually. "Are you here for business or torture- wait a minute, you aren't dead! How did a living human being find the secret combination to the esophagus to Hell?"

"Wait," I said slowly. "So… you open the portal to Hell by pouring youngerberry juice on Eyed Freigs?"

"Expired youngerberry juice," she corrected me. "It has to be expired."

"Wow," I marveled. "I've always been searching for the answer…"

"Well, enough wondering." The lady grabbed a nearby trident. "We need to get you to the boss."

"Hold on," I interrupted. "Isn't there some further interaction we're supposed to be having?"

"No, the author wants this done fairly quickly. Let's go." I needed no coercion but the prod from her Italian purplish-green weapon to walk through the triplet doors marked, "THE PITS OF HELL – BILLIONS AND BILLIONS SERVED! AND TONY STEWART!"

We went down a long hallway – I mean, it was really long, let me tell you. And the floorboards were slanted to the left quite a bit. Maybe I'm just out of shape. Anyway, at the end of the hallway, we reached a person with the back of his T-shirt (which said "B'Qwiet") facing us. The lady marching me said, "Here, take him," and proceeded to walk away in a funky sashay-shanty style while Rod Stewart's "Da Ya Think I'm Sexy?" began playing from out of nowhere.

After that had subsided, I asked the man (HE WAS A MAN, I SWEAR TO EVERYTHING HOLY – Ed.) "Umm… who are you?"

"Who do you think I am, bub; for lack of a better word," he answered, and turned so I could see him in all his full frontal nudity.

"Oh my gosh!" I yelled in surprise. "You… you're Don Cheadle! You're the devil?"

"No, I'm the janitor, here to take you to the devil. Or maybe I'll just pull a fast one like that lazy clerk did and pass you off to someone else." With that, he proceeded to turn left and lead me down another super-long, slanted, iguana-infested hallway. When we reached the end, I noticed another person facing away from me.

"This guy need to go to the boss," Cheadle said, and, just like the lady before, walked away.

"…And you might be?" I inquired of the new stranger, strangely fearing the absolute worst.

"Your worst fears confirmed, nobody," he answered. I recognized the voice even before he grabbed my armpit hairs and began lugging me over his back.

"NO! WHY?" My worst fears were confirmed. "BRAD PITT! YOU'RE THE DEVIL! WHY?"

"Calm down, loser who obviously has never taken a trip to Florida," he responded sarcastically while switching his grip to my calves, making my head drag on the floor, which honestly felt like concrete. "I'm simply a gate-keeper; taking you the next person higher up. Oh, and I have type 2 diabetes by the way, so don't sneeze, make insensitive comments about me on Twitter, negatively critique any of my movies, or ever create a Mr. Beast clickbait video."

"Aw, man..." I pathetically whined, and resorted to just accepting the torture for the next two unbelievable long hallways. Finally, after what seemed like 3.24 eons (give or take .657423445 eons) I was mercilessly dragged into a large throne room, where an extremely grand cheese-dunking festival was taking place.

At last, I reached the final boss. Brad Pitt set me down in front of the throne while singing tunelessly, "Your lordship! Some random loser who is still alive and should be bald but isn't is here for you to punish unusually! Now can I please go back to the Whack-A-Squirrel machine?"

"Fine. Do so, you almost buff, immoral, vagrant, penniless, usually drunk wheat flake," the person responded. As the man preformed a handstand and started singing a sea chantey while clambering away, I – for the final time – looked up at my captor. Personally, I didn't think anything could surprise me now, but this once again proved me wrong.

I staggered back in shock. "EMILY BLUNT? I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! YOU'RE THE – oh, well, actually, that makes sense."

"Finally! Someone who understands!" She threw her hands in the air as if implying 'about time'. "And since you do, I'll give you a chance to forget everything and get out of here. I'll give you one chance to tell me a joke that will make me laugh; if you do, I'll wash your probably abnormally large brain with purple carpet cleaners and send you back to earth. Otherwise..."

I grimaced. Although I should have been glad that a chance had been given me, the prospect of attempting to make Emily Blunt laugh (a near-impossible one, as all know) made my head spin. I needed a good joke. A really good joke. And fast.

And then it hit me.

"Why did the music producer go to the tattoo shop?"

"Um... huh, I've never heard this... why not?"

"To get labeled."

Three seconds passed in silence. Ten seconds. The agonizing mark of thirty seconds. She got up out of her chair, raised her Giraffe-necked scepter named Porche dramatically, opened her mouth, and began busting a gut.

Needless to say, this tale would not have been recounted to you just now if I hadn't succeeded.