“You love to have a conniption right before going on family trips! Sometimes you even sabotage them! Sonya is gone now, having never understood what we all went thru. I will never forgive you for what you did to us!” bog witch Bernadette Moran Cacca yells at her mother, shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture, self-righteous narcadoodle and sterile supply clerk Carla Moran who puts the rage into rage-cleaning.
“You know that guy Greg Schneissder you used to romance on the side?”
“Don’t bother telling Peppi, he ain’t gonna care!”
“Well, I also fooled around with Undead Greg.”
It’s the early 80s. faux wood paneling painted black, dark green shag carpeting and brown floral sofa with matching loveseat.
Carla and Greg are watching “The Aaant! & Ding! Show.” Greg hands Carla his empty cup, his entitled mindset expects Carla to not only read his mind — but also do whatever the feck he wants with that stupid cup that he could have done himself.
Carla gets the clicker — a literal clicking remote control with 14 loud plastic buttons, attached to the television set with a curly telephone cord — and tries to change the channel. The two lovebirds get into a pecking match over the TV show and then Greg complains about Carla having spent 19 cents on a can of beans. Roll that beautiful bean footage!
Carla storms outside to smoke a cigarette.
Greg whistles at Carla like he’s calling a dog in an attempt to get her back inside, however she flies the coop, never to return.
Greg’s flashbacks continue to haunt him all the way through the smokey black tunnels until his descent terminates, wrinkly butthole to the cold rocky floor. He is greeted by a 69 foot creature with glowing red eyes, surrounded by flames.
“I see you made it back. GET IN LINE!”
Undead Greg arrives at the back of the 666 mile long of other newly damned. “Hey, you look familiar,” Greg calls out through the echoey halls to intake clerk Lucy Furr.
“Since I’ve been here before, can’t I jump the line?”
“No. There are millions of other people ahead of you. Your visit is important to us. Please continue to hold.”
“I want the manager then.”
“Satan’s busy now.”
Undead Greg stirs up the other condemned souls, egging them on, trying to take over Hell like countless evil souls before him.”
“You rang?” Hell Incorporated Chief Executive Officer Satan says over the intercom from his basement C-Suite.
“Just let me jump ahead. You know me.” the dead-again zombie and once-corporal narcopath demands.
“Nooooooooooooooooooo!”
Satan’s voice echoes throughout Hell’s entrance chamber, his corporal-stench-morning-breath mixes with the rotten-egg aroma blasting from his massive bum, instantly blowing Greg to the back of the line.
Satan makes some of his employees — usually megalomaniac world leaders and billionaire CEOs with a history of subjugating human beings — work every day without a break in the boiler-room call center, kind of like the one at CRASS but worse.. Sometimes he just throws in regular morons like Undead Greg, Demanda Broccoli and Smokey Ashe to work along side the snooty rich suckers like slumlord Sonya Marie Smith Moran. The call center is always open because the gates never close; neither does the country club.
Half the floor makes calls interrupting people’s suppers asking dumb survey questions and selling them crap they don’t want; the other half makes calls to medical patients hounding them in a recursive loop about the same appointment at least six days in a row, even if the people expressly ask them to stop calling because they don’t consent.
A lot of people block the 666 area code to stop the incessant calls. The autodialer uses Artificial Idiocracy (AI) to spoof the number on the caller ID so the damned bother as many people as possible. Every day those souls are randomly assigned to one call center branch or the other, so they never know which one they’re going to get.
The recent arrival, Divided Healthcare CEO snobbily complains to Satan: “I don’t like this job. Put me somewhere else. Don’t you know who I am?”
“No. Does your daddy?” Satan replies.
“Get me out of this job. I’m too good for this work. I’m in charge of a trillion dollar corporation you know!”
“No, I’m in charge of you now, ya doofus!”
“I quit!”
“I don’t want any freeloaders around here! You should be thankful you’re not out on the street starving in the cold! There are so many people worse off than you!” Satan gaslights, behaving like a typical toddler-minded narcissist.
Hell Incorporated call center staff continue to complain to the CEO.
“Well I tell ya what. We have positions open in the jagged rocks and boiling excrement pits…
The former health insurance CEO sighs…”I’ll take the bubbling poopoo pits.”
MoronicArts 
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