A Hell of a Pain in the Neck.

Photograph and text by Stephen Becker

Jake Trombersak woke up with a splitting neck ache. He chalked it up to sleeping funny, and made a mental note to finally buy those new pillows he’s been eyeing at the department store. Holding his head stiffly, and pointed slightly to the left, Jake awkwardly headed for the shower, hoping a nice hot one would help with the pain.

What he didn’t realize was, between the hours of 7 and 7:30am, Satan re-located all of Hell to Jake’s left sternocleidomastoid muscle.

Satan got his hands on a rather important Soul on its way to Heaven, nicked it, and bound it to the deepest Bowel of Hell. Knowing God would catch on sooner than later, and show up in a hurry looking for His missing new Tenant, Satan figured Hell’s hasty relocation would help keep God out of his horns for a while. An average, non-churchgoing guy, Jake seemed a good choice. At the very least, God would take just a little bit longer to find It, a good thing for Satan. The longer a Soul stays in Hell, the harder it is to get that Soul out again, even for God.

Which was not good news for Jake. He climbed into the shower, cranked the `H’, and leaned under the water. It took a minute for Jake to realize that water was not reaching his neck. He felt the comforting sting of hot water on his head, on his back, but his neck was still dry, hot, a bit throbby. Curious, he wiggled himself around, trying to get a good angle on the mirror. All he could see was a wall of billowing white; steam had filled the room so completely, he could barely see the edge of the shower, let alone the mirror on the other side of the room. Startled, Jake slipped, and fell backwards, his neck landing on the enameled edge of the shower.

Jake blinked thrice, tentatively took a couple of deep breaths, and Thanked God that he wasn’t dead or paralyzed. His next thought was about calling into work sick, but before he could decide for sure, a close, acrid smell of burning filled his nose. Quickly lurching up, he twisted around to see what it was, and was even more surprised to see a neck-shaped singe in the enamel. He stood staring, brow furrowing deeper, and deeper, in a vain attempt to understand what exactly was happening.

Applying the logic of modern biomedical sciences, as filtered through shock-journalism, Jake incorrectly deduced that he must have come down with some rare tropical-fever disease. He had been out at the International Terminal at the airport just last week, and must have been on the receiving end of an improperly contained sneeze. Tropical diseases did weird things to the body, so an infection so hot it actually burned didn’t seem too hard to believe – besides, his brain must be fever-addled, and everyone knew that could cause hallucinations. He managed to convince himself that he heard about something similar while flipping through a FOX broadcast. It was time to get to the nearest clinic.

In his rush to high tail it to a doctor, old habits died hard. Quickly forgetting the singed enamel, Jake threw a shirt on, only to throw it off halfway out the door when it started to smolder. Taking the Lord’s Name in Vain, he grabbed a cap and sunglasses, and tried to steel himself before he hit the street. Wearing expensive running shoes, khakis, Oakleys, a hat that says `I’m With Stupid’, but no shirt, in the middle of February, does not project an image of mental stability, especially when radiating oven-like heat, and smelling slightly smoky. On top of his worries about infecting anyone else, his appearance made him give up his taxi-flagging endeavors pretty quickly, and decided that he’d best try and jog.

Thirty minutes later, after a slight delay encountered while putting out a small bush fire, and lots of weird looks at the trail of melting snow that he left in his wake, he managed to convince the intake nurse that he was ground zero for this year’s SARS. He was rushed into a quarantined exam room, where he sat waiting for a couple of minutes, and slowly melted into the plastic covered gurney.

Hands suddenly appeared in the clear vinyl gloves sealed to holes in the wall; the doctor had appeared, and started to prepare instruments for the examination. He crackled over the intercom, asking Jake to come closer. A stethoscope, also plugged through the wall, was readied, and placed up against Jake’s left side, just under his shoulder blade.

As the stethoscope pad touched Jake’s skin, the usual thumps and quiet gurgling the doctor expected were absent. Instead, what was heard was the sound of Hell: an unearthly roaring, the screaming of millions of tortured Souls, fire crackling and exploding, all blending into an unbearable cacophony. His hair and eyes turned instantly white, and the force of the noise sent him flying across the room.

Simultaneously, God and Satan appeared, fist-fighting Old Testament-Style. While out looking for His missing Soul, God had heard Jake’s Prayer and Curse, singled them out as particularly queer, and headed Jake’s way. But, just outside the clinic, Satan ambushed God, and cold-cocked him in the Beard. Bashing through the examination room, They tumbled past Jake; a stroke of Luck, and an expert judo hold, pinned Satan against the cabinets just long enough. God reached out with His unoccupied Hand, and casually plucked Hell out of Jake as if brushing lint off his shoulder. After what sounded like the opposite of an explosion, the room was empty, save for Jake, out cold, and Hell-free.

They released him after a week of tests, symptom-free, with only a strange discolouration on his neck that, from the right angle, looked suspiciously like flames. His first stop was the department store, where he picked up those new pillows, and silently vowed that he’d never take his neck for granted ever, ever again.