666 Feet Under

Chapter 1

     "Son of a bitch!"

     I sat up immediately, startled out of my doze by Amir, who was hopping around frantically, shaking his arm wildly. When he turned to face me, I could clearly see his problem. A Chihuahua-sized, bald-ass, dick-colored rat was hanging off of his limb, teeth sunk deep into his flesh. Gross.

     I felt a smirk cross my lips as I watched my best friend do his little dance. Amir gave me a scathing look and held his arm out. The nasty little rat thing glared at me with red beady eyes as I stood up. I gripped the base of its long tail and looked up at Amir.

     "Want me to count or just do it?"

     "Hannah!"

     I snickered and gave the rat a sharp yank. Amir howled as a chunk of his arm was ripped off. I let go, and the rat hit the ground running, disappearing through a hole in the rock wall. I looked down at Amir's mangled arm in disgust. The bloody edges of his wound were already sealing back together to form smooth, tan skin. In moments, it didn't even look like he'd been bitten at all.

     "Is there any way you can do that without skinning me?" he snapped, rubbing his arm.

     "Relax, you're good as new," I smirked, slapping the area where the bite had been. Amir shoved me backwards, settling back down where he'd been sitting on a rock ledge.

     Tall and muscular with dark tan skin and coffee-colored eyes, Amir had been my best friend since the day I arrived in Hell. He was Arabic, told me he'd grown up in Beirut. His family had been planning to leave, to escape the growing oppression from the Islamic motherfuckers, until, of course, they blew it the fuck up. Amir and his two younger siblings were killed, but he'd never found them down here. Which was a relief. All kids go to Heaven, I guess.

     Amir sighed and pulled out a joint, lit it, and put it to his lips. I came over to sit beside him. He put his arm up and I settled myself into my spot. He offered me the joint and I gladly accepted.

     "Woah, there, pothead," he teased, watching me take a hit off. I gave him a playful glare and slapped him upside the head, before handing him his joint back.

     This was one of our favorite spots to hang out. See, Hell is a lot like New York City. It never shuts the fuck up. So, finding a quiet spot here is like finding an In-N-Out Burger on the East Coast.

     "Wanna go to Dante's?" Amir asked. "I think Adam and Steve are gonna be there, with Jordan and Eleanor."

     "Might as well," I replied. "Haven't seen Eleanor in a while."

     Since Hell is underground (I know, how stereotypical), we don't really ever know what time it is. And it doesn't matter anyway. Time only applies when you're alive. In death, one minute could be a whole year. Time, like many other human inventions, holds no importance once you're dead.

     "Maybe we can finally hook you up with someone," Amir murmured thoughtfully.

     "I hate everyone down here," I replied curtly.

     "You don't hate me."

     "I tolerate you."

     "Aw, my feelings."

     "What feelings?"

     Amir laughed and took another hit off his joint. From where we were perched in the massive cavern that made up Hell, we could see a lot of the busyness as people moved from one bar to the next. And that's what Hell is. A giant pocket underground filled with bars, casinos, and strip clubs. It's basically Las Vegas, but thousands of miles under. And before all you religious mofos start whining about that, just think about it. For the most part, you guys send strippers, prostitutes, drinkers, gamblers, etc. down here. What the fuck did you think was gonna happen?