Hell by Robert Olen Butler Page A

wait in line for the seventy-two virgins.”
    “Your intelligence report?”
    “Somebody gave it to me when I got off the boat.”
    “Who was that?”
    “Some guy who met me right there at the dock. He says, ‘Mr. President, here is your intelligence briefing.’ See, I’m back in the saddle here, Hatch. A little heavenly reward.”
    “Pardon me?”
    “I’m just wondering how, if they keep doing the same seventy-two virgins over and over again, then you know, how they’re actually virgins when, like, the second guy does them and so on.”
    “You mentioned a heavenly reward . . .”
    “Well now, Hatch, a reward can’t be the explanation. See, that’s Hell you’re looking at there. Inside that Arab looking building. Osama and those virgins and those other boys are all in Hell.”
    Hatcher turns to George. “Mr. President . . .”
    “Though maybe you’re right. Satan could turn those girls back into virgins each time. That would certainly be Hell. Right, Hatch? Heh heh heh.” George’s chuckling ceases with another male voice baying in pain from the house and then the women ululating and then the exploding and the afterclapping and the thudding to the ground of the body parts. George watches in wonder.
    “That’s not him either,” George says.
    “Mr. President . . .”
    “I’m sure glad I’m not in Hell,” George says.
    “Sir, you are.”
    “Looks pretty rough in there.”
    “Mr. President, it’s Hell out here too. You’re in Hell.”
    George turns to Hatcher. “Heh heh heh. You’ve got your disinformation all wrong there, Snatch.”
    “That was the River Styx you came over on the boat.”
    George puts on a you-poor-dumb-shit smirk. “The reports are clear. You see, we’re standing here in Heaven, and those boys inside that building over there are in Hell.”
    “Look around,” Hatcher says. “Does this look like Heaven?”
    George doesn’t move his eyes from Hatcher’s. “We’re searching now for the WMDs—Wings Made Divine—and we expect to find them soon.”
    A man’s cries, the women’s cries, the explosion—louder this time—and George keeps his eyes on Hatcher, keeps the smirk fixed, and Hatcher feels a sharp hot burn on his forehead, his cheek—a splash of boiling liquid—and another—glowing red—and it’s falling on George too—a splashing of blood on his hair, his face, searing Hatcher and George—and the former president’s eyes widen, though he does not move a muscle. And then a small, flaming object plops onto George’s shoulder. It is a raggedly severed penis, smoking and glowing red, the flames dying at once. George moves his eyes very slightly to look at the object, and then he returns his eyes to Hatcher and waits. Soon the blood strips itself from the two men and coalesces in the air and the penis rises from George’s shoulder, and then the blood and the penis fly off to join the reassembling of the exploded man.
    George’s smirk fades, and Hatcher knows the former president is realizing at last where he is. Then, after a long moment, George clears his throat. His voice is barely a whisper. “So this is where I am?”
    “That’s right.”
    George nods. “Have you seen my dad?”
    “Yes.”
    “And my mom?”
    “I haven’t seen her.”
    George nods again. “She’s probably in the other place.”
    Hatcher holds his tongue.
    “If she is here,” George says, “she’s going to find me and whip my ass. Heh heh heh.” This time the chuckle is small and sad.
    Hatcher wants badly to move away from George now. But before he does, his journalist’s self makes him say, “I do the evening news here, Mr. President. When you get settled, stop by Broadcast Central and we can do an interview.”
    George says, “I’m pretty much on my own here, right Hatch?”
    “That’s right.”
    George nods. “Thanks for asking, but I don’t think I’d know what to say.”
    Hatcher mutters a good-bye and moves quickly up the street, thinking about the hell of