“Connection Hell” • by Richard J. Dowling

 

Other demons teased Mitchell for his lack of ambition. 

He’d been working up on level 999 with the lesser sinners for millennia. Never tried to climb his way down the corporate ladder. Never asked for a demotion. Just kept on clocking in every morning.

“How do you do it?” said the security demon on the front desk.

“Do what?” asked Mitchell.

“Stay so blooming enthusiastic. Don’t you ever get bored of torturing souls?”

Mitchell rubbed his demon claws with glee. “I love my job. What can I say?”

“Yeah, well. Don’t get lonely up there.”

Mitchell greeted his fellow demons as he made his way up in the lift. He ignored the sly comments about how his clients weren’t seriously evil. He had no interest in working with murderers or rapists. Torturing the greedy, for example, gave him more than enough pleasure. Even after all this time, his demon heart raced as he neared his office: which fresh soul would be initiated into Hell this morning?

To his surprise, for it had never happened before, the room was empty. No sin-infested spirit awaited him; just the rack of torture devices and his desk. Mitchell scratched his demon chin. Had there been a slip up? Impossible. The Devil was always in the details and He never made a mistake. Then a small lump of black on the floor caught his attention. He stooped down to pick it up and the lump erupted with light.

“Good morning,” said the lump. “How may I help you?”

“Er, you can talk?”

“Of course, unidentified user. I am an artificially-intelligent smartphone, model number—”

“You’re a phone?” This didn’t look like any phone Mitchell had seen. Hell’s IT department had installed phones recently. Well, fifty years ago; the blink of an eye in the Inferno.

“Not just a phone. A smartphone.”

“What’s a smartphone?”

“The answer to all your problems.”

“I don’t have any problems,” said Mitchell. “No, wait. I do have one problem.”

“Speak, unidentified user, and I shall find the solution.”

“What are you doing here?”

The smartphone was silent. After a moment or two, it said, “I don’t know. I can’t seem to get a connection. My map software isn’t working. I don’t even know where ‘here’ is.”

Mitchell smiled. “Welcome to Hell, Mr Smartphone.”

“Hell, you say? That is a surprise.”

“But what am I supposed to do with you?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

Mitchell shrugged. He’d received no word from Personnel of a change in his job description. “I guess you’re here to be tortured.”

“Perhaps. I’m very sorry I can’t be of more help, unidentified user. I can’t access any of my online apps.”

“That’s okay,” said Mitchell.

He went to the wall rack and took a spiked whip. After a couple of warm-up cracks, he set Mr Smartphone in the middle of the floor and let fly.

“Did that hurt?” he asked.

“Not at all,” said Smartphone. “Didn’t feel a thing.”

“Don’t worry,” said Mitchell. “I’m sure we’ll find something.”

He put the weapon back and chose a fire-whip. Six strokes should do it. He waited for the smoke to fade. “How about now? Anything?”

“Not a jot.”

Over the next few hours, Mitchell tried scores of torture devices, from flame-throwers to vices and shears. Each time, Smartphone suffered not the slightest tingle of sensation.

Mitchell was stumped. His whole thing was physical torture and, clearly, it wasn’t working. He went back in his mind to his early training. The key to a good torture session, Chief Operating Officer Beelzebub had said, was understanding why the soul was in Hell in the first place.

“I’d like you to think over your life,” said Mitchell. “Can you see any reason why you might have been condemned to eternal damnation?”

“Gosh, no. All I’ve done is try to help people.”

The road to Hell, he remembered from the company’s Contact page, was paved with good intentions. Mr Smartphone sounded like an idealist. Perhaps another Hitler?

“Have you ever committed genocide?”

“No. Perish the thought.”

“Fostered hatred of a minority?”

“Indeed not. I welcome users from a diverse range of backgrounds.”

Mitchell worked his way through all 666 sins, including the obsolete ones, just in case. Nothing. Souls often lied, of course, or tried to hide the truth, even from themselves, but a few good cracks of the whip soon brought clarity. Not an option here, though. He decided to go down a different route.

“Is there anything you might have done to lead others into sin?”

“I greatly extended people’s ability to watch pornography.”

“A-ha! That could be it. Tell me more.”

Smartphone explained how people used to have to visit a newsagent or video-club to access images of rumpy-pumpy, but now they only had to ask. All the porn in the world was at their fingertips.

Obviously not a good thing, thought Mitchell, but did an improvement in logistics constitute a sin? He didn’t think so. Smartphone didn’t make porn. Didn’t encourage its use. Just offered it up when asked.

The situation was infuriating. Mitchell cradled his demon head with his demon claws. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t figure out what sin you’re guilty of. I can’t hurt you. I’m a total failure.”

“Please don’t apologise, unidentified user,” said Smartphone. “If I had internet access I’m sure I could get to the bottom of this.”

Mitchell knew his job was as good as lost: if a demon couldn’t torture a soul what use was he? He shivered at the thought of spending eternity as mere fuel for the flames of Hell.

The door creaked. Chief Operating Officer Beelzebub entered, flanked by his entourage of flies. Mitchell hadn’t expected his dismissal to be so quick. But he overcame his shock to give the deferential high salute.

“Good afternoon,” said Beelzebub. “I see you’ve met your new assistant.”

“I’m sorry, Your Lowness?”

“That smartphone thingy down there.”

“My assistant? He’s not a soul to be tortured?”

“Tortured? On the contrary, Mitchell, give him to one of the smartphone-addicted wretches that crawl in here and the lack of Wi-Fi will have them pulling their eyes out in minutes.”

Smartphone lit up again. “User identified. Pleased to meet you, Mitchell.”

Mitchell picked him up in awe. Not only did he get to keep his job, but, at long last, he had a workmate.

---

 

Richard J. Dowling grew up in Primrose Hill, England, but now lives in Northern Spain. He loves writing and hopes his fiction will raise a smile among life-forms across the universe. 

Richard has been one of our favorite writers ever since we published “Dragonomics” and “Off the Hook” on our old SHOWCASE site. We don’t get a lot of short stories from Richard, but when we do, they’re always very good, and always very well-received by our readers. Right now his story “gastronomic” is our #1 most-read story of 2024, although “The Big Bad” is also in our Top 20. 

If you enjoyed this story, you might want to check out… 

How to Sell the Stars
by Richard J. Dowling

Of this snarky, satirical SF novel, How to Sell the Stars, let me just say that if you’re old enough to remember Pohl & Kornbluth, you’ll enjoy this one.