My good friend confided in me last night as we were heading home from a night of galivanting that he had discovered one of our friends to be a sex worker. This news, while I was already aware of it, brought us great despair, so we decided the best way to deal with this sentiment was in greasy, cheesy escapism. And we looked, and behold, a pale storefront, and a sign that sat atop it reading “PIZZA.”

We entered in our delinquent and subverted state and ordered not one, but two slices each of the triangular bliss from the kind Middle Eastern fellow behind the counter. It was then and there, sitting down and consuming true sickness, that I was reminded of a deluded apparition from some months prior: we’re already in Hell.

I told my friend of this and he concurred. We must have been some sick fucks in the realm before. Slavers, catamites, heretics: the mind wanders. It was thus asserted that this plane we dwell in now is already Hell and it’s full of us, the Damned, and those who thrive on our suffering, the Demons.

“At least they have pizza here,” we shouted and cackled at the lunacy of the idea. “Pizza! In Hell! Imagine that!” By now, the other patrons of the establishment had grown distraught by our abrasiveness, both in conversation and comportment. Nonetheless, we began to inquire amongst them. “Did you know that you’re actually in Hell right now? At least they have pizza!”

We finished our evil grease and walked out into the blistering Northern wind as brothers reborn, the shackles broken. On our way to the bus stop, we felt the atlas stone lifted; the knowledge of our damnation had set us free. We made certain to remind the Demons and the Damned wandering the early morning streets of our banishment to the Underworld.

We laughed, we howled, we cried. We ate pizza. In Hell.