Hellhole by Gina Damico Page B

And to Burg, of all people?
    â€œNever mind,” he muttered.
    â€œWhat happened?” asked Burg. “Daddy wouldn’t build models with you anymore?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy? Because you’re so lame?”
    â€œNo, because I don’t have a dad.”
    â€œOh? Were you conceived via asexual reproduction?”
    â€œOkay, I
technically
have a dad, but I’ve never met him. He could be dead, for all I know. Maybe even in hell. Ever come across a guy down there with persistent body odor and hair shaped like a baseball cap?”
    Burg held up his hands. “No way. Not my department. I’ve got nothing to do with the stiffs, their eternal judgment, any of that.”
    â€œWhy not? You’re a devil, aren’t you?”
    Burg put his hands on his hips, puffing out his voluminous belly. “Think of hell as one big corporation. You got your Satans, in charge of damnation and dead folk and all that heavy important stuff—the CEOs, if you will. Then there’s middle management, the ones who oversee the dispersal of evil into the world. And then there’s me and the rest of the operational staff, doing all the grunt work.”
    Max rolled the model through his fingers. “What sort of grunt work?”
    â€œWell, for example, I’m in the Vice Department,” Burg said. “We’re the ones who cause humans to lust after all the dumb shit their reptilian brains can’t help but become addicted to. Drugs, alcohol, caffeine, sugar, money, television, bacon. I’m an Associate Imp in charge of Salty Snacks.”
    Max blinked. “So . . . you’re not really
evil,
then, are you?” he asked, for the first time feeling some of his panic dissipate.
    â€œOh, I’m evil. It’s just that some devils are more evil than others. I don’t know what goes on in the upper management offices, but I do know that those are the vilest bastards we’ve got. Not that there aren’t some pretty serious assholes in my division. Take the Moneygrubbers, for example—the committee in charge of stimulating human greed. These are fourteen of the douchiest, slimiest guys you can imagine. Anytime you hear about a particularly nasty white-collar crime or bank robbery, that’s all their doing. Then there’s the Donut Team—I don’t need to tell you how wicked those guys are. Oh, and then there’s Rusty, that entry-level kid we got a few years ago. He handles those addictive cell phone puzzle games. Real assgoblin, that one.”
    â€œWow.”
    â€œWe have fun,” Burg said cheerfully. “But I needed some air. Needed to get away for a while. It’s really hot down there, you know?”
    â€œGuess I better go fill that hole in, then,” Max muttered. “Before more of you sprout up.”
    â€œYeah, probably should.”
    Max fumbled the talon. “Wait, really? I was just joking. That’s a possibility?”
    Burg gave an innocent shrug. “Maybe, maybe not.”
    Irritated at his vagueness, Max studied him. “What happened when Lore came down here?” he asked. “Why didn’t you scare her or attack her or something? Not that I wanted you to,” he rushed to add, “but our previous interactions led me to believe that you might rip the head off of anyone who invades your space.”
    â€œNah.” Burg walked back into the den, sank into the sofa, and took a long swig of Mountain Dew. “No challenge there.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    Burg took another sip. “She’s too miserable.”
    â€œLore? She’s not—” Max stopped himself. “She’s not
that
miserable.”
    Burg reached a hand down to the floor and fished around until he found a crumpled-up Mountain Dew can. He held it up to illustrate.
    â€œThis is your miserable friend,” he said. “Already crushed. I can squeeze it into a tighter ball if I want, but