Happy Birthday to Hell. Pt. 1

( Part 1 to the story "Happy Birthday to Hell". By Dave Louapre and Dan Sweetman Unmolested by me. I really want to change the fact that there is no such thing as 4-door Laguna, much less in convertible fashion. As a car guy, you have no idea how tempting it is to do so.)


An angry young man has very little chance in the confines of Heaven.

Hi, my name is Wally, but you probably know me better as Satan, Beelzebub, the Prince of Darkness, or the Devil. I could go on all day. I don't know why those names stuck. I guess it's just one of those things, like when you're young and somebody calls you "stinky." The name stays with you forever. Actually, I don't mind most of the monikers, but the one I could live without is Lucifer. I'm not sure who thought that one up--one of the seraphim, I think--but someone yelled it when they kicked me out of the Pearly Gates, and the name stuck. Lucifer. Yech! What the heck is a Lucifer? Why not Gabriel? Now there's a name. Gabriel! But that was taken, so I got Lucifer, Lord of the Flies. I'll tell you, there are some sick people in Heaven. Anyway, my real name is Wally and I live in Hell.

To set the record straight, I wasn't asked to leave Paradise for trying to take over. The truth is, they said I was a bad example. You see, I never wore socks, and there's a rule up there that says you have to. I hate socks. The elastic never lasts, and they always end up around your ankles, or they rip at the big toe. I like tube socks, but you just can't get them. There are no tube socks in Heaven. Also, there's a rule that says you have to use a coaster when you set your drink down, because the furniture in Paradise marks pretty easily, but I never did. There never seemed to be any around when I needed one. And it had to be a "regulation" coaster too, not just a stray magazine.

I'm not saying Heaven was a bad place. On the contrary. In fact, it was quite nice. Almost too nice. You must understand that I lived there from the beginning, being one of the first things created and all, and over the years of eternity, a lot of things got on my nerves. Little things. Stupid things. Like the static electricity. Heaven is full of it. It's one problem nobody, not even Him, can remedy. It's terrible; all those little shocks, hair standing on end, your robe clinging to your legs.

And the halos! Hundreds of saints walking around with these luminescent globes of ethereal light circling their heads. Sure, they look impressive, but they also attract bugs like a magnet. It's embarassing. One of them will take the time to stop and chat, and right in the middle of some great story about a miracle, or a stoning or something, ZAP! A fat bug flies right into his head and sizzles to a holy crisp. Warm nights are sheer torture for saints. No one will go near them, and when it's really bad, they'll bury their heads in the dirt. All of these very nice people, who just happen to have halos, jamming their heads in the ground so the bugs won't mat in their hair.

And it's true that the streets are paved with gold, but there are lots of potholes, and it takes forever to get them replaced.

The main reason I wasn't very popular, though, was because I wouldn't fly. I just didn't care for it. I only put my wings on once, then took them off for good. Those paintings you see of me with wings--what a joke! I drove a four door, aquamarine Laguna convertible with white vinyl apholstery and electric windows all around. The last car in Paradise. Yes, they were created sometime between the fourth and sixth days, but only for use in Heaven. I thought it was a great idea, everyone in Heaven driving Laguna convertibles.

But it turned out to be the biggest flop He'd ever created, because shortly afterwards, someone thought up wings, and the rest, of course, is history. Well, I liked mine, and kept it when everyone else traded theirs in.

I'd cruise through the heart of Paradise, out into the deserts of Heaven, just to escape the incessant singing. Quiet. Pure, honest peace and quiet. On one of those jaunts, long ago, I drove further than ever before, out past the point where the gold roads turned into sand. And it was there that I found the angel bones. I was staring off into the pit of the universe, watching the twinkling stars glow in the blackness like aching suns when that blessed fossil caught my eye. At first, I thought it was alive, the way the rolling mist bobbed along its back. But it was not alive, and lay there, wholly intact like some gutted umbrella, staring past me. I'd never considered a dead thing in Heaven, much less seen one, and it occurred to me that someone was here before. Someone who stood on the same empty spot and looked to the dying stars. Someone who felt strangled by the loving arms of Heaven, who found a flaw in the fabric of eternity when they realized there was no alternative to Paradise. Someone with no place to go. I drove away feeling I'd witnessed something I shouldn't have. A fragmented mistake, not for me to touch. And when I returned, they told me to get out.