When Charles awoke, the first thing he noticed were the quivering pulsations of pain emerging from the center of his brain and driving with quick stops and starts toward its outer fringes. Here the pain would reverberate off the skull wall and sink back into the brain's center where it would gestate for only a moment before erupting like a blood volcano all over the inside of his head again.

He let out a long groan, wondering why he was feeling so much pain when he did not expect to be alive at all.

"Maybe this is death," he said, wincing with the additional pain speaking caused. But he knew it could not be true because he had felt hangovers like this before, especially on days after completing a manuscript.

He slid his feet off the desk and tried to sit up but ended up hunched over in his chair feeling like he was going to vomit, and in fact dry-heaving several times. In the midst of this miserable display, he became aware of a presence.

He looked up and tried to focus through weary, reddened eyes. But he could not decide if he was seeing one man or two, even after the presence began to speak.

"Good morning, Mr. Volker," a distinguished and gentlemanly voice said. "Did we enjoy our little slumber?"

Charles thought he heard two distinct voices chuckle, but he could not be sure. He answered the question with a grunt, a nod, and a slight wave of his hand before attempting to speak. "Who are you?" he managed.

"A welcoming committee of sorts," replied the presence in what sounded to Charles like a British accent. "I am Captain Flander and this is Lieutenant Gelding. We would like to officially welcome you to your new home, and help you to get acquainted with it."

Charles tried to focus through hungover eyes in the limited morning light coming in through a shaded window. The captain and the lieutenant were wearing what appeared to be full dress military uniforms, but not of a type he was familiar with.

"If you're still not certain," said Flander, "let me be the first to let you know that were successful in your endeavor: You are now officially deceased."

Charles was a bit startled at this news, since he had been almost certain that he was still alive. For wasn't pain an indicator of life?

"Why," he asked, wincing, "am I in such pain?"

"You can't expect to drink as heartily as you have and not experience some discomfort," answered Captain Flander, with a nod to Lieutenant Gelding, who grinned in return.

"After all," continued Flander, "even the smoothest whiskey demands retribution the following day."

"Even after death," chipped in Gelding.

"Unfortunately," Flander went on, "the world we now find ourselves in is replete with as much pain as you would find on earth. In fact, some claim to experience pain even more acutely here."

At this thought, Charles let out another long groan, imagining now that this particular hangover was in fact more painful than all the others he had ever experienced. And this, after going to the trouble of killing himself to escape worldly agonies. But was it true? Was he really dead? He sat up as straight as his pounding head would allow and addressed Flander.

"Wait a second...How can I be sure I'm really dead? Can you guys perform some sort of miracle?"

"Of course we can," replied Flander. "And so can you!" He walked in an assured manner across the small room to where a full-length mirror hung on the wall. "You will agree that nothing on earth can pass through a mirror." He motioned with his hands toward the reflection of Charles' cramped little room, then looked over to Gelding.

"Lieutenant, after you."

Gelding stood straight and saluted his Captain, then walked dutifully to the mirror and stepped through into the reflection. He walked to the middle of the image of the room. He stopped, turned and waited next to the double of Charles' desk which was complete with exact replicas of the empty bourbon bottle, the shot glass, the pill vial, typewriter, manuscript and suicide note.

"Mr. Volker, would you like to try?" asked Flander.

Charles, amazed and curious, tried to ignore the pain his head was wracked with, stood and walked slowly to the mirror. He paused for a moment and turned to Flander.

"Will I be able to return?" he asked.

"Yes, but only to this room. Haunt it if you like. The rest of the world, however, is closed off to you. Not that you'll be needing it since you'll be living in an exact replica of the world anyway."

"What about the people?" asked Charles.

"They won't be here except as images when they enter a room with a mirror. When they die, they will either come here or go to Paradise."

"Where is 'here'?" asked Charles, now trembling somewhat over what the answer would be.

"This is the realm of the Eternal Master and Commander-in-Chief of all Pandemonium," replied Flander. "This is the place most people refer to as 'Hell,' but without most of the negative connotations."

Charles backed away from the mirror, bumped into his desk, then turned and ran to his door. He frantically turned the knob this way and that, then tried pulling as hard as he could, but to no avail. He then desperately threw his shoulder into the door but it would not budge. Finally, he gave it a solid kick with the bottom of his shoe, but only succeeded in knocking himself to the floor.

"Really Mr. Volker," said Flander as he walked over to Charles, "none of this is necessary." He reached down and helped pull Charles to his feet. "You'll find Hell is nowhere near as bad as people have made it out to be. The Commander-in-Chief treats us all very fairly. We all have a decent place to live, a job to keep us occupied, and entertainment to keep us amused. Everyone here leads a dignified life. It may not be paradise, but the Commander rewards us as best he can."

"Rewards?" asked Charles.

"Enemy propaganda has many people believing they will be punished for their evils when they are sent here. In reality, the Commander rewards those who have served him while on earth, like I said, 'as best he can.'"

"You are a demon?" asked Charles.

"I am a human like yourself. I was a blacksmith in London in the 16th century. When I came here, I was much more terrified than you are now, having been raised in an era when everyone believed that Hell was a horrible kingdom of eternal torment for sinners. It was a teaching that no one ever questioned back then. So, expecting fire and brimstone, I was pleased to find a civilized society, a society that rewarded hard work. In the quick span of a few hundred years, I've worked my way up to the rank of Captain, with all eternity to reach the level of Colonel."

"But not General?" asked Charles.

"All ranks beyond Colonel can only be held by the original group of angels who tried to topple the God of Paradise from his throne. The rank of Colonel, however, carries with it enough benefits to make anyone from earth eternally pleased. It certainly seems worth striving for to me."

Flander walked back to the mirror and gestured to it with his hand, saying, "And now Mr. Volker, if you will step this way, Lieutenant Gelding and I will escort you to your barracks."

"What will I do there?" asked Charles.

"You will learn your role in the new society you are about to enter. We don't just throw you in and expect you to learn a whole new way of life on your own, so a basic training program has been instituted to show you the ropes, so to speak."

"Basic training?" asked Charles, who had never seen much value in the military, and had avoided it all his life.

"Yes," said Flander. "Sixteen weeks of training at Fort Dix, where you'll be prepared physically, mentally, and spiritually for what is to come. But please Mr. Volker, we can discuss all this in the car on the way."

Charles felt wary that Flander's words might turn out to be lies designed to get him to pass through the mirror, but he did not seem to have many good options.

"Uh...if I refuse to step through?" he asked.

"Gelding and I will be required to use force," answered Flander. "I was hoping such a display wouldn't be necessary."

"I don't suppose," said Charles, "that it would be any use trying to break that window over there by heaving my typewriter through it." He pointed to the only window in the place, a rather small one located on the wall opposite the mirror. Flander grinned and shook his head, saying, "It would bounce right off the glass. You can try it if you wish."

But Charles could now see the futility of resisting or attempting to escape. As frightening as the prospect was, he saw he had to resign himself to his new fate. Maybe Flander was telling the truth after all and things wouldn't be so bad. He couldn't be sure. And he couldn't help but suspect that Flander was hiding at least part of the story. But at that moment he decided there was really no choice but to go along with the grand new scheme of things.

He turned to take one last look at what had been his body. It still lay motionless in the chair with its feet propped up on the desk. The head was cocked to the left with a bit of drool glistening down the left side of the mouth. He wanted to go fix it. He wanted to wipe the drool, to straighten the head, to sit the body in a more dignified position before someone found it. But he realized it would be pointless. The body really no longer belonged to him. Neither did anything else in the room, for that matter. He felt a new and strong sense of detachment from everything that life had ever meant to him. And perhaps, he thought, this feeling was not coming entirely from himself. Perhaps it was nature or even Hell that triggered such a feeling as a way to focus the individual on the future. In any case, he decided to leave the body as it was and to never return to this room, even if allowed to haunt it. It would never again be the same anyway.

He turned back around, looked Flander in the eyes, nodded to indicate his readiness, and stepped through the glass.

Once on the other side, he pondered the oddities of his apartment in reverse. He particularly noticed that the dead body here had its head cocked to the right and drooled from the right side of the mouth. He looked at the hands of the new body he perceived himself to be inhabiting and wondered if his left side was now his right. On this side of the mirror, was he reversed?

Flander stepped through behind him and put his hand on his back. With his free hand he motioned Charles toward the door which Gelding now opened (from the right, Charles noted).

"Now Mr. Volker," said Flander, "we've a bit of travelling to do."

Gelding went first through the door and downstairs, followed closely by Charles, then Flander. Once out on the sidewalk, Charles realized that he was still in his hometown, Mount Holly, New Jersey, except that everything was reversed. Even the heavy rush hour traffic looked about the same except the cars drove on the wrong side of the road.

"Is it all like this?" Charles asked. "Is it all like the earth, only reversed?"

"Hell is a reflection of the earth," answered Flander.

In the better light, Charles could also now clearly see the uniforms of Flander and Gelding. They were a deep reddish-brown color with black insignias of rank on the upper sleeves and gold nameplates with black lettering over the right breast pockets. Flander also had a few ribbons over his left breast pocket.

Gelding flagged down a cab and the three of them got in, Flander directing Gelding to sit up front.

"Fort Dix," Gelding told the driver, who was also in uniform, but with PFC stripes.

"Yes, sir," responded the driver as he pulled back into the morning traffic.

In the back seat, Flander explained to Charles what he could expect during his basic training period. Five days a week, he and his group of about forty "recruits" would rise at 6 a.m., devote three hours to physical training, five hours in the classroom, two hours at weapons practice, and the evening playing sports.

"What about meal breaks?" asked Charles.

"You no longer need to eat," answered Flander. "This will all be explained in your Afterlife Biology class, but in a nutshell we are spirits that perceive ourselves as having bodies like our Earth bodies. They can be improved through exercise, but nutrition is no longer necessary."

Charles was considering what a life without tasting food would be like, but his thoughts were interrupted by Flander's explanation of his classes.

"Throughout your training, class times will vary. In the beginning, you'll have a couple quick courses in biology and the History of Hell, but most class time is devoted to a course called Military Socialization. There you'll learn such things as military etiquette, the political structure, and what is expected of you as an individual. Toward the end of training, you take a course called Hell's Future, where the goals of our society, as well as you the individual, are discussed. Inspiring stuff! Everyone is required to enroll in a Hell's Future update course at least once a year. That way, we're all on the same page."

"Then finally," Flander went on, "just before graduation, you'll report to the Office of Labor where your skills will be matched with a corresponding profession. You are a writer?"

"Yes," said Charles brightly, but then, more meekly, "but unpublished."

"Never mind that," said Flander. "There's plenty of room for writers of all sorts here. The entertainment industry is the biggest and fastest growing field in all of Hell... aside from the military, of course."

Charles was taking all of this in good stride. So Hell wasn't so bad after all? Maybe his writing career had a better chance here, as Flander implied. After only sixteen weeks of training, he would have the rest of eternity to establish a career for himself. He looked out the window at the landscape of New Jersey drifting by (or, at least, thought Charles, the reflection of New Jersey). In a way, he thought, Hell was a lot like life on Earth, maybe even better. It looked the same, and there seemed to be fewer pressures regarding time. He didn't have to prove himself anytime soon. He had forever.

"Faster, driver," said Flander.

"Yes, sir," said the driver, pushing a little further on the gas pedal.

"What's our hurry?" asked Charles, now newly alarmed.

"You're not the only recruit I'm scheduled to pick up today," answered Flander. "I'm in charge of a large zone in New Jersey, and bad people are dying all the time."

"Say," said Charles, "was I that bad?"

Flander smiled. "The criteria for making it to Paradise is very strict. Those that don't make the cut end up here. It's based on a pleasure to pain ratio. To make paradise, you have to have brought about a lot more pleasure to others than you did pain."

"So I brought people more pain than pleasure?" asked Charles, wondering out loud.

"A little more pleasure than pain," said Flander, "but not enough to make the cut. They're real snobs about it up there."

"If only I'd gotten published," said Charles, still wondering aloud. "Then my writing might have caused enough pleasure to put me over the top."

Flander chuckled. "I've seen your writing, Mr. Volker..."

"You have?" interrupted Charles.

"Yes," said Flander. "While you were passed out but not yet dead, I had a chance to peruse your latest. Depressing stuff! It could only have caused more pain."

"But it was the truth about life! It was real!" Charles was getting defensive and argumentative about his one true passion.

"Mr. Volker," said Flander, sternly. "People don't want the truth. They don't want reality. They have to live reality. What they want is to be entertained with fantasy. Agents, editors, and publishers know this. That's why you never got published."

Charles rubbed his forehead with his fingers and groaned, "Aw, you're making my hangover worse." "Here we are," Gelding announced from the front seat.