Eternity in a Pickle Jar

"And the Lord said, 'Get the fuck out',

And the Adversary, Lucifer, Serpent in the Garden, Faith Crusher, Destroyer of Worlds said, 'Fine. Be that way'."


Edgar tumbled over the edge of the precipice and into the lurid city, into the light at the end of the tunnel. Unfortunately, the was nothing in the way of ground on this side of the passageway, so he tumbled right on through the air and landed on unforgiving pavement. You would think that with the ground being asphalt, this could be an incredibly dangerous and potentially fatal event—at least that's what Edgar thought. But surprisingly, it only hurt like a bitch because of course, Edgar was already dead.

"Holy Judas fucking Christ!" he wheezed, stunned. "I am definitely not going back up that way."

"Even if you wanted too," a droll voice informed him, "you couldn't."

Forgetting about his possibly exploded spine for the moment, Edgar leapt to his feet and twisted to face whoever had witnessed his embarrassing fall. There, in all his swirling glory was-

"Lucifer?" gasped Edgar, taking in the supernatural figure's twisted ram horns and skeletal face. Holy mother of God, the devil was tall!

"You know, that's not really my name. Lucifer was a king, and not nearly as handsome as I," he corrected his guest, partly annoyed and partly amused. "I would prefer you to address me as Mister—ah no," he paused, looking up and down Edgar's figure critically, "on second thought, 'Señor Diablo' will do just fine."

"Right," nodded Edgar, who incidentally had never really believed in the Devil by any name before. "Ah, Señor, what brings you… here?"

"Oh, I was in the neighborhood—or rather, in the house." Señor Diablo grinned at his own joke, though Edgar hadn't the slightest idea what he was talking about. "And you're a bit of an event yourself, Mr. Vargas. Rather a point of interest for me, in fact."

Although he was still tense, still contemplating turning tail and running right the heck out of that alley, Edgar was curious enough to ask, "Interest? I think you may have the wrong man."

Satan smiled at him in a way that said I pity you because your pitiful human mind refuses to comprehend what is obvious to my Supreme self. "My good man," he said instead, "I am never wrong. You will find that... certain things become clearer as you go. Or perhaps not. I do love a good struggle in the dark. That would be something that we agree upon actually."

"We?"

"Not you and I," Señor Diablo replied, "but rather I and another interested party."

Edgar decided then and there that he didn't like the Devil much at all—reminded him too much of his old boss, and the preacher he'd had as a kid. He wanted nothing to do with anyone who could pack that much arrogance into one sentence. What was worse, apparently he was serving as some kind of entertainment for the Ruler of Hell, like a... a supernatural soap opera or something? Although he couldn't imagine his life being too entertaining—pitiful, perhaps, when... no. Nothing about that. Besides, the most television-worthy moment of his life had in fact been his last moment of life.

And, with that thought in mind, he found himself experiencing a faint pang of loss for the man who had killed him. A little.

True, he'd spent only minutes with… Johnny, wasn't it? Yes, and 'Nny' for short. Only minutes, but those minutes had been fascinating, and it was pleasant (despite the unpleasant situation) to be looked at as an Admirable Person, albeit an expendable one. Johnny had been so earnest in his manner, so clearly intelligent despite displaying every classical sign of paranoid schizophrenia and crippling misanthropy. Edgar could tell from the get-go that Nny felt he was doing the right thing, you could see it on his face. The body language said it all, and you know if you really looked you could tell he wasn't bad looking, even if he'd been sort of an emaciated insomniac—

Edgar shook his head, willing away the random tangents. Something about being dead was making it hard to keep them under control. Needless to say, he hadn't thought any of that last bit during the time spent trying to avoid death. Even in life, sometimes he really struggled with that train of thought, but there was something about being in mortal danger and faced with the enigma of a century that rendered those questions… irrelevant, at best. Also, there had been the pain...

"Mr. Vargas?" Señor Diablo cut in, brow raised. "Are you ignoring me?"

"No!" Edgar snapped back into reality, properly abashed. And also suddenly nervous. "I was… thinking about my death." That was reasonable, wasn't it?

"Ah, the fatal encounter with Mr. C," Diablo noted, with a look that clearly said, I know what you were really thinking, you little embarrassment.

To his credit, Edgar's poker face remained intact.

The devil frowned, his skeletal face twisting down into a boney expression of disappointment. "You know, it seems like this form just doesn't scare people anymore…" the Devil murmurred to himself, contemplative. "Perhaps a mime?"

Edgar seriously hoped it wouldn't come to that.

"Still yes," Diablo went on, "Johnny is another interesting abnormality. Hideously insane, but I'm sure you noticed he's surprisingly lucid. Not to mention the monster in his walls…"

Edgar blinked, taking half a step back. "What? You mean the… the Thing he needed my blood for actually exists? You can't be... Sweet Jesus."

"He's really not very sweet," Senior Diablo mused. "And yes, my good man, the Moose are very real."

The Devil made a 'shall we walk' gesture, quite difficult for someone with no visible arms, and headed off toward the city. Edgar rushed after him.

"The Moose? Well that definitely inspires fear in the hearts of men." Edgar paused to consider. "On the other hand, it's no weirder than Muffin, I guess."

"You spoke with Muffin?" asked the scourge of the underworld, sounding a touch surprised. "Hmm… well, you've clearly explored Heaven to your satisfaction; I suppose it's only fair that I offer you the same hospitality."

He slowed as they entered a looming gate, high and dark cement walls on either side. An inscription over the entrance read:

I am the way to the City of Woe, I am the way to the Forsaken People, and I am the way to Eternal Sorrow…

"…'Only elements time could not wear were made before me; beyond time I stand. Abandon hope all ye who enter here'," read Edgar, taken aback. "Dante?"

"Oh, yes. A bit of a joke, that. Neat, huh?" Señor Diablo grinned, perhaps pleased to have a guest who could actually comprehend the word 'forsaken'. "The best sort of joke is the kind that's true, wouldn't you say? It's really rather complicated. You have to understand, Mr. Vargas, things were different in the beginning. I dare say Muffin doesn't know the whole story, though no one really does. Before Men and Mortal Things…"

The Hellish figure stopped outside a McDevil's, whose sign read 'We'll steal your Soul!'

He had a strange look on his unearthly face, wistful, perhaps. "God was… awe-inspiring, in those days. I would not tell you otherwise. Oh, I did believe in him, I had such faith. Powerful, brilliant, all of creation at his fingertips. I..." The Devil glanced down at the dead man, whose expression was carefully neutral.

"Ah, well I do believe I'm rambling. Anyways, this is your stop. Go in and get a visitor's pass."

Edgar stared hard at the building in front of them, with its brightly colored posters and tiny windows, as if it would yield the secrets of the underworld if he just put enough pressure on it. It occurred to him as he focused on the architecture (bleak and uninteresting) that this place wasn't too different from the city he used to live in, except for its much stronger sinister aura. That, and he didn't see any trees. He turned to ask about that… but Senior Diablo was nowhere in sight. The Dearly Departed shrugged slightly to himself; the owner of Hell had a right to disappear spookily if he wanted to.

Five minutes of customer service literally from Hell, and Edgar sagged out of the unnecessarily large building with a little blue card and a guest pass around his neck. Why he even needed a guest pass was beyond him, unless it was to keep pitchfork-carrying demons away from his squishy bits.

Unlikely.

In fact, as Edgar strolled down the dirty streets of that red-tinted city, he found that it really was no different from Earth; save the way these eerily monolithic buildings seemed to lean inwards and loom over him. Actually, the structures themselves were odd too, in an abstract way. Like something straight out of Gotham City—dark and weirdly pointed.

An odd, jumpy pace developed in his walk, tensing as he passed signs proclaiming 'Dead NUDE girls!' and 'Smoke! You're already dead!'

Strike what he'd said, this place was way worse than home. After his encounter with the shrieking lady at the help desk, he was dreading confrontation with the citizens of Hell. The few he'd spotted so far had stared at him with narrowed eyes and slunk into the shadows before he could address them.

There was still the matter of 'others like him', though. The chair creature had said something about a circuit… reincarnation? Possible. Either way it sounded like he wasn't going to find anyone in quite the same pickle as himself. On the other hand, in a system set up for only two kinds of people, there were bound to be other misfits floating around here. Someone searching for another like himself or herself… and maybe…

What was that?

Edgar looked up into the reddish smoggy sky where the sun should be. Was that... was that a giant floating eyeball? What in the name of Dolly Parton was that doing up there? And more importantly, why was it staring at him?

Hesitantly, the dead man pointed to himself and mouthed 'me?', which made him feel utterly ridiculous a moment later, but did its job.

The eye jiggled in a 'yes, you' gesture, and looked meaningfully at a nearby roof top. Okay, that was not normal. So, feeling like he'd recently escaped from the crazy house for boys, he dutifully trudged across the street and into some sort of boutique. At the counter sat a blond woman with a nose ring and a terrifying scowl, reading a trashy magazine. Under the sudden fearsome power of her scrutiny, the goatee-ed man managed to forget about the lonely eyeball hovering outside.

It is important to note that in life, Edgar had been entirely a mild mannered man. The superman lurking under his Clark Kent managed to burst to the surface only on rare occasion—one of those rare occasions being the moments before his untimely passing, for all the good it did him. Death had left him feeling liberated and almost chatty up until now, but the flesh-peeling glare on that woman's face was enough to jolt him back into high school meekness.

"Um… do you… can I use your roof?" Brilliant, Edgar.

"Dude, what the hell is with your nose?" she snorted, actually setting down her magazine.

"I… don't… know?" Edgar managed, feeling vaguely like a deer must feel under the glare of headlights with a two ton truck rolling up behind them.

"I mean, it's like a fuckin' mountain!" the woman shrieked, giddy with sheer spitefulness, "And oh my god, your shirt totally clashes with your shoes. Who the hell taught you how to dress?"

It does not clash. The dead man clenched his fists so tight the skin turned chalky. "Can I use your roof? Please," he hissed through clenched teeth.

"Sure, whatever. You better hope the Eye doesn't spot your circus get-up though." She pointed lazily a door, perfectly pleased to stew in her own loathsome company.

"The eye?" Edgar stopped with a hand on the doorframe. Now he remembered what exactly he was doing here.

"Oh, you're a noob, huh?" she sneered. Edgar had no idea what a noob was, but it sounded insulting enough. "Yeah, the Eye. 'S always watching us down here. Well, mostly me, but it might see you too, since you're nearby."

"Right," Edgar frowned slightly, wondering how long it would actually take to figure out this whole afterlife business. "I'll just show myself up, then."

"Later, effete," the blond called after him, returning to her magazine.

The man slunk past a rack of near-see-through blouses with his head down, trying not to wish too fervently that someone with fewer morals than he would come along and stick a blunt object through her head. Maybe multiple blunt objects.

Also, he wondered what a… lady, like that was doing with a word like 'effete' in her vocabulary. As he climbed the seemingly endless staircase, he considered darkly that she probably didn't even know what it meant. Just that it was rude and sounded ungodly pretentious.

Definition: weak, worthless, feminine. Origin came from the Latin word for 'worn out from bearing children'. He'd taken part in a few brainbowl sessions during his time on Earth. His team took home second place last semester.

Edgar had one Very Bad Feeling that this brief incident was only the start of things. The first of many, as it were. God, what if everyone here was like her? What if... Oh, a door!

He shook his head and focused on why he was here in the first place.

Edgar wrapped a well-manicured hand (note to self: never let anyone down here find out about that) around the doorknob and pushed. The hinges creaked like a gunshot, but the door swung open easily. Stumbling, the murdered man stepped out into the lurid city light.

...And shrieked, tipping over backwards to land undignified on his butt.

"Ugh. It's always with the shrieking… Why do they always do that?" a deep voice bemoaned.

Edgar did a double take. That pathetic voice with the mild English accent was coming from the looming, massive eye floating about two inches from his nose. How was that possible?

"A-are you talking?" the spirit stuttered, right hand clutching at where he assumed his heart would be.

"Nooo, I'm dancing the Macarena—Of course I'm talking! Why does everyone find that so hard to believe?" It floated a little higher.

"Uh, well," Edgar said, swallowing hard, "I imagine most human beings aren't really used to… talking eyeballs."

"Honestly… Aren't you going to ask why I called you up here?"

"Oh. So… why did you call me up here?" Edgar asked, meanwhile making a point to ignore the grossness of the situation. He stopped himself from wondering, vaguely, if the eye was gooey.

"Because I wanted to meet you, of course. I'm so tired of watching the idiots flaunt their newest fad. And they're always looking at me…" the eye whined. "It's so uncomfortable!"

"I can imagine," Edgar attempted a sympathetic tone while teetering on the brink of full-scale laughter. Hilarity won out over grossness, once again. "So what do you do, if not pass constant judgment on people's clothing?"

The eye blinked. "I don't really know. I think Senior Diablo uses me to keep an eye on the masses. He won me from the oracle of Delphi in a poker game. I'm an All Seeing Eye, you know."

"No, I didn't. What's that?" An Oracle? Wasn't that Greek Mythology? That raised a whole new set of unanswerable questions.

"It means I'm… kind of like a TV. But I think it works on both ends, too. Haven't tried it."

"So… hypothetically… I could use you to look back at Earth?"

"Hypothetically, yeah. Pretty nifty, huh?" if disembodied eyes could smile, it would have been beaming.

"Yeah, nifty. Um… Mr. Eyeball?"

"You can call me Al."

"Alright, Al. How would you feel about putting that theory to the test? I've got a couple places back on Earth I'd like to check in on."

And so began Edgar's Afterlife. In the next few months they spent literally uncountable hours working out the kinks in their experiment, with the dead man alternately wandering the streets of Hell and resting in Heaven. Little by little, the streets of the underworld became as familiar as the hallways he'd walked daily in life; little by little, the patterns of its inhabitants were mapped out just as clearly. And every so often, Edgar dropped back by to focus his borrowed vision on two locations: one dull looking high school full of fairly unremarkable teenagers, and a broken down shack of a house in the same city. Number 777, home of one homicidal maniac, Number of the Moose.

That's the end of the beginning. It would be a waste of time to recount those days further, curious and formative though they were, for one very good reason:

By the time that all was said and done, Edgar would hardly be able to remember an afterlife before the Meeting.

TBC