Hell

This is Hell.  The one and only Hell.  It's not a city, nor a state, unless, of course, it's a state of mind.  I am the owner of Hell, but I'm not the Devil, as people refer to him.  Or her.  Or it.  For the sake of consistency, I will refer to him as him.

I rent Hell to the Devil, but he does not pay me in cash.  Damn.  He pays me in stories.  Stories of those wanting to get out, others of those wanting to get in.  He's a pretty good story teller.  Once, he even told me a joke.  It had something to do with a priest, a rabbi and a horse walk into a bar.  I don't remember the rest.

I've only seen the Devil a few times, though.  When he signed the lease, when his furnace broke and once when the building inspector came out.  I have been to Hell without him being around, though.  Once when I accidentally swallowed a mouthful of chewing tobacco.  Another time when I drank too much gin until two in the morning and then went Marlin fishing on a small diesel powered boat two hours off the coast of Cabo San Lucas, Mexico and... that's enough for now.

As you can see, I do not have Hell for sale.  It is for sale, though.  If you want to be the proud owner of the one and ONLY Hell, make an offer.  Make it nice and fat, though.  It is Hell, for God's sake!  Be careful before you make an offer, though, because Hell is not for everybody.  There are a ton of responsibilities that go along with it.  The gas bill, for example.  It's never a cold day in Hell!

Well, thanks for dropping in.  You're free to leave.  This time.