Welcome to the billionaire’s club

And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever

You know something, it’s not so hot down here — actually it’s kind of draughty and this chain is making my neck sore. I mean it’s not as bad as the cell they holed me up in before I was ligatured with that bed sheet — Jesus that was some work — my eyes were popping — literally out of their sockets. I mean I’m no stranger to auto erotic asphyxiation but I could hear the bone snapping in my neck when they gave that last pull on my legs.

Then it’s a blinding white light and a spinning mandala and I’m floating above it all looking down at a crime scene — the shamed billionaire perp in orange jumpsuit, tongue swollen, face all purple with the knot bunched up at the neck and that burly motherfucker winking up at the surveillance camera as he lets himself out.

Then there’s a kind of noise, like a broken AC and I feel like I am being hoovered up a pipe — you can forget that old line about your life flashing before your very eyes — I could have had most of that running backwards and forwards on slo mo; the sordid splendor of my years, God-like wealth, the pale flesh, endless parties high-fiving royals, statesmen and freaks, the view of my island from my private jet.

And then, all of a sudden, I’m here — Beelzebub’s pin up boy — I used to think that shit was nothing more than an Eyes Wide Shut kink for the establishment freaks across the pond with their cut glass accents and the old corruption. I’ve hosted and supplied plenty of those parties. But it seems that they were in deeper with the Firm than that, and I was just a player. Of course, there were intimations but not being the religious type, I couldn’t for once imagine that this shit is real.

And to be clear, I didn’t want to die. I figured I could buy my way out of this one (of course, I wrote my will a couple of days before the lights went out but that was just securing my substantial legacy). My lawyers were negotiating how they could move me out and put a patsy in my place. I mean, it would be a small price to pay to get a new identity, a makeover and a mansion down South with the boys from Brazil. It’s been done before.

But they lied. Old Jeffy boy simply knew too much. Even billionaires are expendable. I’ve still got the bomb on those freaks if they don’t get to the island before my people do. Either way, that cement truck was one of the best investments of my life to cover up the worst of my crimes but the pay dirt data payload — that’ll give them pause for thought when it drops…

So, hell…Actually, from what I’ve seen, it’s a procession of long corridors in what feels like a low rent flop house when I’m off the leash (which isn’t very often). Nothing remotely gothic about this place and you can forget the scent of fire and brimstone — more like a malarial funk of dead insects, body fluids and boiled cabbage — imagine breathing that for all eternity, sheesh…

Like any cheap hotel, there’s endless goings-on behind those doors — coughing, low moans, gasping, snarls, the sound of people humping or being humped, whimpers, pleading, screams. Just like the parties I used to keep, actually. One time down here I heard some young girls giggling behind one of the doors. I opened it quickly but the room was empty. And when I closed it, all I heard was a sneering laugh.

They’ve got a sense of humor down here obviously.

And you know, this place, it’s not just for the dregs of humanity, the serial killers, mass murderers and child rapists. Ironically, we’ve got a high representation from the Billionaire’s club. Heck, I just saw Koch schlepping down the hall looking disoriented, hair all mussed up like he just got out of bed. He’s in for a shock when he realizes that his money’s no good here.

He’ll have to walk the basement wheel like everyone else here — shuffling around an ancient tower, muttering and mumbling, trying to make sense of their mortal existences. Everybody’s going through the five stages of grief — denial, anger pleading, depression and acceptance, for all eternity.

Anecdotally, nobody gets past the depression stage — I guess that’s why they call it hell.

There are seven types of story on earth but here it all boils down to one — overcoming the monster you became to get here. All that moaning and gnashing of teeth down here –that’s denial — ‘how did I get here?’, quickly followed by ‘how do I get out of here?’ But there’s no appeal process. Everyone is locked in their own personal version of hell — forever. How do you like them rotten apples? And like any prison, this place is a great leveler; the humblest sinner can end up rubbing shoulders with a president, a billionaire or a cardinal. They don’t play favourites. Everybody’s welcome.

You know the only good currency down here? It’s stories. They help pass the time, which as everybody down here knows, doesn’t exist. I’ve got a million of em so I’m quite popular at the moment — especially with the ones who shared my predilection for fresh. I supplied young bones when I was alive, and now I trade in the only thing you get to take with you when you come here — your vile memories.

OK, I was an unrepentant sinner. Even when they convicted me the first time for my ‘lifestyle choices’ — I knew I was going to be all right. And I was, at least for a time. I was wealthy, privileged, connected. I had power, but I came from nothing. Rags to riches with a big brain. They say money can’t buy you happiness but it sure can buy you a private island to indulge your most kink fantasies. Hefner was a schmuck amateur in a dressing gown compared to me. He certainly didn’t make it here.

I had it good; I got to rub shoulders with the wealthiest, most privileged and most corrupt motherfuckers to grace a dinner party. After all, if you are the guy providing the choicest meat for the banquet, there’s always a place at the table — just as long as you don’t bite the hand.

But like all morality stories, there always a patsy that takes the fall while the real sinners can join a chorus of outrage that lets them carry on doing what or who they are doing.

Your sons and daughters are flesh for the table and they always will be.

You can spare me your moral outrage though — in my Testoni shoes, you would have done the same. Am I pissed right now? You bet. But you know the best part? The ones that set me up will be down here soon enough. I’ve got time.

Like the televangelists like to say — the house of the Lord has many rooms but they forgot to mention that God has horns and he’s the landlord running a bug infested motel with no room service.

I can’t wait to see their miserable faces when they get here…



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