Lawyers in Hell (50 page)

Eyjolf Bolverksson approached the seated witness.  “Mister Catesby, I believe you know Mister Guy Fawkes, is that correct?”

“Yes sir, he was an associate of mine in life.  A good friend,” replied Catesby.

The lawspeaker continued, “And you were both devout Catholics in life, were you not?”

“Yes, we were.  I still am, even though I’m damned,” Catesby added defiantly.

“So the Gunpowder Plot of November, Sixteen Hundred and Five, was a response by you and other angry and frustrated Catholics who were mistreated by the Protestant Church of England, which by then held powers and allegiances previously enjoyed by the Roman Catholic Church and the Pope?”

“Yes.  Something had to be done about King James and the House of Commons’ mistreatment of Catholics.”

“What was your solution to the problem?” Bolverksson asked.

“Myself and twelve other faithful Catholics committed to destroying the Palace of Westminster, Westminster Hall, Westminster Abbey, the House of Commons and House of Lords, along with King James the First and all of the British parliament members.  If successful, we would have rid England of an unjust king and wiped Protestantism from the country.  It would have been a complete coup.  Catholics once more would have controlled the throne and the parliament, as God intended.”

“And was Guy Fawkes one of these faithful Catholics?” Bolverksson asked.

“Yes.  Mister Fawkes was a co-conspirator in what became known as the ‘Gunpowder Plot,’” admitted Catesby.

“What would you say was his involvement in the plot?” inquired Bolverksson.

“Fawkes was to ensure the gunpowder was properly mixed and emplaced undetected in the cellar under the House of Lords,” said Catesby.

“And Mister Fawkes performed these tasks successfully?”

“Yes, he did, but unfortunately our plot was uncovered.  One night, on the fifth of November, as Guy Fawkes was checking the powder, the authorities discovered him leaving the cellar.  Finding thirty-six barrels of gunpowder, the guards arrested Mister Fawkes.  Fawkes was questioned and tortured.  When the police tried to arrest me and my fellow conspirators, I and some of my cohorts were shot and killed, the rest captured and put to death by order of the king.  Had we succeeded, the Catholic Church would have lauded us as heroes. 

But we failed, and history is written by the victors,” stated Catesby.

“So your failed plan to overthrow the King and the Anglican Church resulted in Guy Fawkes’ trial and execution by an unjust government?

“Counsel will refrain from prejudicial statements,” Judge Bean instructed.  “The just or unjust nature of the British government in this era is immaterial.  Witness, answer the question.”

“That is correct,” replied Catesby.

Bolverksson took a step toward the judge.  “Should failure be considered just cause for damnation?  We maintain that it should not.  Thank you Mister Catesby.  You may step down.”

Judge Roy Bean asked, “Does Appellant have any other witnesses?”

The lawspeaker called Eyjolf Bolverksson answered, “No, Your Dishonor we do not.”

“Then sit down, damn it.  Will counsel representing hell come forward?  And don’t dawdle!  I’ve got a full docket.”

William Jennings Bryan, wearing tan slacks and an open-collared white shirt, ambled toward the Judge’s bench.  Perspiration stained his shirt’s armpits and shone on his face.  He held a small electric fan, which worked fitfully, and then only when he shook it violently.

“Your Dishonor, I will show this court why Mister Guy Fawkes has been damned to hell, and why he should remain here for all eternity.”

“Get on with it Mister Bryan.  Who is your first witness?” demanded Judge Bean.

“Your Dishonor, I call James the First, former King of England,” Bryan declared.

Fawkes gasped as James I, an august figure, tall and resplendent in regal robes, and finely woven silken clothes, proceeded to the witness box.

“James the First, former king of England, tell the court the charges of which Mister Guy Fawkes was found guilty by due process of the day, resulting in his execution by hanging,” said William Jennings Bryan.

“Guy Fawkes and his co-conspirators amassed some thirty-six barrels of gunpowder in the basements beneath the House of Lords; enough explosives to blow up the Palace of Westminster, Westminster Hall, Westminster Abbey, myself, my family, and all the members of the House of Lords and the House of Commons!  His act was treasonous.  His intent was to murder every high official in England so his Jesuit Catholics could take over the country,” replied James I, formerly James VI of Scotland, in a resounding voice.  “Fawkes shall always be remembered as a traitor and a terrorist.  Mister Fawkes also took his own life, leaping from the gallows scaffold rather than face the torturous execution that was his due.”

Fawkes rose and, before Bolverksson could stop him, proclaimed, “That’s a Protestant lie, Your Dishonor!  James the First is the traitor to the people of England who believe in the sanctity of the Holy Catholic Church and the laws of God and the Pope.  It was James the First who took my life that day.  My neck was broken by the providence and mercy of the Lord God almighty, and his son Jesus, may they both be praised, Amen!”

Judge Roy Bean leapt to his feet, banging the makeshift gavel on the block so hard that the handle broke.  The gavel’s head flew up into the air and landed on the floor with a thud.  “Order in this Courtroom
now!
  Guy Fawkes, you stand in contempt of court!  I’ll not allow you to obscenely praise Satan’s opponents in this Hall of Injustice.  Furthermore, based on this witness’s testimony and because of your outburst, I hereby deny your appeal.  You are damned and you will remain eternally damned, without possibility of redemption!  This court is now adjourned!  Now, you damned bastards get out of my sight before I have you all flogged!”

*

“Mother Mary, Jesus, and God Above!  That didn’t go very well at all,” sighed Guy Fawkes, putting on his tall, wide-brimmed hat as they were leaving the courtroom.

Eyjolf Bolverksson winced and said,
“Please
watch your language here.  So much for finding a judge sympathetic to your politics or to the Catholic Church.”

“Hrumpf!  In hell?  This godforsaken place is full of Protestants and pagans.  Four hundred years I’ve been here suffering, waiting for Jesus to set me free; hoping that one of the popes would declare me a martyr for what I tried to do for the Catholic Church in England!” Fawkes said, exasperated.

“Don’t get snippy with me, Guy.  I’ve been here a thousand years myself.  Because of the things I did in life, I hold no hope for personal salvation.  So I try to help others gain redemption through the Injustice System.”

“For you help, I’m grateful, Eyjolf.  I let my anger and frustration get the best of me.  This whole ordeal has me mightily vexed.”

“I understand,” Bolverksson replied.  “Hey, New Hell’s not so bad, really.  Hell isn’t all like the Irish Monks described it:  lakes of fire, pits of vipers, eternal suffering and torture.  Okay, so it is pretty hot here, but after a lifetime in Iceland I welcome the warmth to defrost these cold old bones.”

“It reminds me of summers in Spain, fighting Dutch Prot-estant reformists and trying to start a rebellion in England,” said Guy Fawkes.  “I was young and idealistic.  We Catholics thought we could save the world from the evils of Protestantism – or at least save England.”

Bolverksson nodded.  “England always needed a good kick in the ass!  My ancestors once did a fair job, though more for riches, land and slaves than for religion.  But in the year of Our Lord One Thousand, my people took Christ into our hearts and became peaceful, God-fearing folk.  Catholicism was good to my country, though we never truly abandoned the old ways and our beloved ancestral gods.  We just added the ‘Father, Son and the Holy Spirit’ to our pantheon.  It worked well enough.”

They reached the elevators in the Hall of Injustice, New Hell’s tallest skyscraper.  Bolverksson paused and looked at the shiny steel doors with trepidation.  “Uh … maybe we should take the stairs.  My office is only a few floors up.”

Guy Fawkes agreed, and they climbed the adjacent stairwell to the sixth floor.  When they reached the door to Bolverksson’s office, Fawkes saw the gold numbers on its door:  666.

“Surely you jest?” Fawkes breathed.

“Great isn’t it?” countered Eyjolf the lawspeaker.  “I worked hard to get this suite.  It’s in very high demand.”  Bolverksson opened the door and led Fawkes into a sparsely decorated but neat office, nodding to his secretary as they went through to Eyjolf’s inner office.

“Let me just check the hex machine for any incoming documents.”  Bolverksson walked to the machine and pulled a piece of paper from the printer tray.  Fawkes followed.

“Hmmm.  Seems I have another potential client.  I’ll just send this back to him with a meeting time and date confirmed.”  Putting the paper in the feed tray, Bolverksson hit a red button on the machine.  “Ouch!  Damned hex machines, I hate these infernal things!” he complained as the button pricked his index finger and transferred a signature writ in his own blood to the bottom of the document.  “Guy, I’ve work to do now, but perhaps you’d come by tomorrow.  We can begin drafting your next appeal.”

Fawkes grimaced and shrugged.  “Another appeal?  Judge Bean just damned me to hell for all eternity, with no reprieve, no clemency – how can I appeal?  And to whom?  The only ‘justice’ in hell is the kind Erra and the Seven have been dispensing, and I want no part of those auditors from Above, I assure you.”

Eyjolf Bolverksson frowned.  “They say Erra and the Seven have committed countless atrocities.  Hundreds of demons slain, pestilence and mayhem spread throughout the hells, and thousands of damned sent to the Undertaker’s slab – so many that there’s a huge backlog in Reassignments.  Some damned fool even approached me about bringing a case against Erra for wrongful death and suffering.  Ha!  I told him I wouldn’t take on the Akkadian plague god and his seven personified weapons for all the diablos in hell!”

The lawspeaker sighed and put his hand on Fawkes’ shoulder.  “Let me draft another appeal.  Maybe your luck will change.  A different judge in a higher court could overturn Bean’s verdict.”

“We’ll see.”  Guy Fawkes walked out of the lawspeaker’s office.

*

Anton LaVey opened his shop, ‘Hellish Curiosities Clothiers,’ in the basement of an apartment building in New Hell that was dusty and damp.  The lighting flickered incessantly.  The air conditioner worked intermittently.  The shop was always too hot.

LaVey didn’t mind the shop’s heat or its malfunctioning equipment.  Hell would be hell.  He put a few newly-acquired items in a cabinet behind a bookshelf in the back room where he kept special objects never displayed or sold over the counter – rarities, in high demand.

Buyers for such treasures would come along.  One remained cautious, dealing in illicit items:  LaVey must avoid repercussions from the Administration and other dealers eager to muscle in on his
objets d’art noir
business.  Old dead and demons were his main competition in hell’s black market.  So be it.  LaVey would thrive and prosper:  he’d stay on His Satanic Majesty’s good side, service the Welcome Woman on demand, and make what allies he could.

The Welcome Woman had titillated him about the infernal joys of his future in hell.  She’d promised him a position someday with The Devil’s Children, His Satanic Majesty’s own secret service, but the first task she assigned him was paltry, bereft of cloak or dagger:  run this shop, selling eccentric objects and clothes to the wretched damned of New Hell.  The Welcome Woman deemed him destined for greatness; he awaited a chance to prove himself worthy.

And that Harlot of Hell could screw for an eternity.  He thought she might yet suck him to his second death.  If the tales about the Undertaker were true, he hoped to avoid the Mortuary.

If only he could reach sexual climax…. 
That
was a little detail WW had not mentioned, and which became apparent only after hours of agonizingly unfulfilled sex.  Inability to ejaculate was the worst part of hell for LaVey.  The Welcome Woman couldn’t climax either, despite his best efforts.  Never before had LaVey failed to satisfy a woman;
he
wasn’t the problem, he’d thought, until he realized
he
couldn’t reach orgasm with her.  It was embarrassing.  Still he was sure the problem stemmed from the Welcome Woman, not his own failings.  Her lot in hell was to be forever frustrated sexually.  He’d heard that other demons of hell could climax.  He wondered what she’d done to deserve such punishment from His Satanic Majesty.

LaVey’s assistant shuffled into the shop, a short dumpy woman with a broad Slavic nose, and a piercing gaze that seemed to look right through him to somewhere beyond.

“Hello, Helena.  I trust you are having a hell of a day,” LaVey said as she clomped around behind one of two long glass display cases at the back of the shop.

“That’s ‘Madame Blavatsky’ to you, Anton,” she said dryly.  “I founded the entire Theosophist movement – you can show me a modicum of respect, you young Satanist.”

“But of course,
Madame,”
he replied.

Suddenly Madame Blavatsky stood straighter, her eyes went blank, and her left hand went to her temple. 
“Privyet!”
she exclaimed in Russian.  “A vision!” she cried theatrically, her voice dropping an octave.  “I’m seeing … a man,” she chanted, “a man looking for something … something he needs, desires.  He’ll pay handsomely for it.  Well shall you profit, but there shall be a price greater than diablos to be paid, by both of you.”

LaVey shook his head and chuckled.  “You old bat, it’s probably just another fool trying to buy a ‘Get Out of Hell Free Card.’  They come in here all the time.”

The front door opened with a ring of the latch bell and in waddled LaVey’s first customer of the day, a middle-aged soul, dressed like one of the new dead.  Madame Blavatsky snapped out of her trance and got busy sorting and hanging various outfits on racks spaced throughout the store, ignoring the newly-arrived patron.