Eric

the thing that answered the door was a nightmare. Nightmares are usually rather daft things and it’s very hard to explain to a listener what was so dreadful about your socks coming alive or giant carrots jumping out of the hedgerows. This thing was the kind of terrifying thing that could only be created by someone sitting down and thinking horrible thoughts very clearly. It had more tentacles than legs, but fewer arms than heads.
    It also had a badge.
    The badge said: “My name is Urglefloggah, Spawn of the Pit and Loathly Guardian of the Dread Portal: How May I Help You?”
    It was not very happy about this.
    “Yes?” it rasped.
    Rincewind was still reading the badge.
    “How may you help us?” he said, aghast.
    Urglefloggah, who bore a certain resemblance to the late Quezovercoatl, ground some of its teeth.
    “‘Hi…there,’” it intoned, in the manner of one who has had the script patiently explained to him by someone with a red-hot branding iron. “‘My name is Urglefloggah, Spawn of the Pit, and I am your host for today…May I be the first to welcome you to our luxuriously appointed—’”
    “Hang on a moment,” said Rincewind.
    “‘—chosen for your convenience—,’” Urglefloggah rumbled.
    “There’s something not right here,” said Rincewind.
    “‘—full regard for the wishes of YOU, the consumer—,’” the demon continued stoically.
    “Excuse me,” said Rincewind.
    “‘—as pleasurable as possible,’” said Urglefloggah. It made a noise like a sigh of relief, from somewhere deep in its mandibles. Now it appeared to be listening for the first time. “Yes? What?” it said.
    “Where are we?” said Rincewind.
    Various mouths beamed. “Quail, mortals!”
    “What? We’re in a bird?”
    “Grovel and cower, mortals!” the demon corrected itself, “for you are condemned to everlast—” It paused, and gave a little whimper.
    “There will be a period of corrective therapy,” it corrected itself again, spitting out each word, “which we hope to make as instructive and enjoyable as possible, with due regard to all the rights of YOU, the customer.”
    It eyed Rincewind with several eyes. “Dreadful, isn’t it?” it said, in a more normal voice. “Don’t blame me. If it was up to me it would be the old burning thingies up the whatsit, toot sweet.”
    “This is Hell, isn’t it,” said Eric. “I’ve seen pictures.”
    “You’re right there,” said the demon mournfully. It sat down, or at least folded itself in some complicated way. “Personal service, that’s what it used to be. People used to feel that we were taking an interest, that they weren’t just numbers but, well, victims. We had a tradition of service. Fat lot he cares. But what am I telling you my troubles for? It’s not as if you haven’t got plenty of your own, what with being dead and being here. You’re not musicians, are you?”
    “Actually we’re not even dea—” Rincewind began. The demon ignored him, but got up and began to plod ponderously down the dank corridor, beckoning them to follow.
    “You’d really hate it here if you was musicians. Hate it more, I mean. The walls play music all day long, well, he calls it music, I’ve got nothing against a good tune, mark you, something to scream along with, but this isn’t it, I mean, I heard where we’re supposed to have all the best tunes, so why’ve we got all this stuff that sounds like someone turned on the piano and then walked away and left it?”
    “In point of fact—”
    “And then there’s the potted plants. Don’t get me wrong, I like to see a bit of green around the place. Only some of the lads says these plants aren’t real but what I say is, they must be, no one in their right mind would make a plant that looks like dark green leather and smells like a dead sloth. He says it gives the place a friendly and open aspect. Friendly and open aspect! I’ve seen keen gardeners break down and cry. I’m telling you, they said it made everything we did to them afterward seem like an improvement.”
    “Dead is not what we—” said Rincewind, trying to hammer the words into a gap in the thing’s endless monotone, but he was too late.
    “The coffee machine, now, the coffee machine’s a good one, I’ll grant you. We only used to drown people in lakes of cat’s pee, we didn’t make them buy it by the cup.”
    “We’re not dead!” Eric shouted.
    Urglefloggah came to a quivering halt.
    “Of course you’re