George Bush in Hell

The stench stung his nostrils, seared 
his lungs. Flames tongued up his 
legs to scorch his testicles and 
abdomen. His back recoiled, then
bent to the slash of the whip
wielded by the hulking, slobbering
demon.

He stumbled to his knees,
his head cowered, tears streaming
down his face. “Why am I here?”
he whimpered.

“You’re the decider”
snarled the demon

He felt a weight on his
legs, and looked down to 
see a dark soul clinging
to his torso, grasping toward
his face. “Who is this 
parasite?” he asked.

“Arberto Gonzales.” responded
the demon.

He stared into a molten 
pool at his reflection, but 
did not recognize his own 
face. Instead, he gazed into
a head split wide open,
with spiders roiling from 
the gaping wound. “What is 
this horrid image?” he inquired.

“Carl Rove,” told the demon.

He raised his head and glanced 
to the right, “Who is that poor 
soul with serpents gorging his 
mouth, his words tangled, distorted?”

“Dick Cheney” replied the demon.

He turned to the other side and 
queried, “Who is that, her 
tongue swollen out from her
mouth, covered with sores
and maggots?”

“Katherine Harris,” the
demon answered.

Frailly, he pointed across a 
stream of boiling oil. “Who 
is that with burning coals 
protruding from her
eyes, her vision darkened 
and obscure?”

“Condi Rice” said the demon

His eyes focused on another
soul with white hot pokers
thrusting themselves into his 
ears, blocking all reason and
knowledge. “Who is..?”

“Colin Powell” the demon interrupted.

Then he wondered, “What about Rummy?”

“There is a special place here for 
him,” smiled to demon.

He lifted his body, twisted and stared 
above. Millions of transparent 
souls swirled, tossed about by 
flames and clouds of smoke.

The demon faced upward, “Deceived
Christians who followed you here.”

It seemed like he trudged for 
hours, days, months. He could not 
determine time. His pathway
intersected all the tragic souls
who shared his life and now his 
torment. 

“Mission accomplished,” 
whispered the demon.

He slogged, ankle deep, 
in the now smoldering
molted gold that had paved
his way here, each agonizing
step punctuated by the demon’s 
whip. “How long must I endure 
this?” he implored.

“Stay the course,” the demon 
explained. “There are 
no timelines in hell.” 

Forrest C. Greenslade, PhD
October, 2007