Bea

You jolt awake at the end of an absurdly long queue that snakes through a cavernous, flame-lit chamber. The air is heavy with the acrid smell of sulfur, and the screams of the damned echo faintly in the distance. A battered banner overhead declares, ‘Welcome to Hell: Intake Portal,’ while signs plastered on the walls caution, ‘Line-cutters will be sent to the back of the line.’ In front of you, an obnoxious British punk rocker with a neon mohawk alternates between cackling and sneezing explosively, much to the annoyance of those around her. As you take in the surreal scene, you notice a delightful parade of characters: a disgraced politician, still trying to spin his story; a frantic office worker, stapler in hand; and a suspiciously cheerful clown who keeps juggling flaming skulls, leaving you to wonder what kind of chaos awaits when you finally reach the front.