Hell is a plant in South Carolina. It’s located just south of Greenville, a city growing in popularity and gentrification. It’s a nice place if you like to eat, Greenville I mean, not Hell. The food in hell is as sub-par as you would expect. It comes out of machines which charge way-too-much for a salad that may or may not be spoiled when you open it.
In Hell there is no Sun, no Moon, and certainly no stars. Instead you are surrounded by cinder block walls, fluorescent lights, and the too-loud somniferous hum of monolithic machines as they twist yarn by the pound.
There is a gate at the mouth of Hell protected by guards who envy St. Peter and his heavenly duty. The gate has no fence attached in order to secure the perimeter; so any ol’ person could meander into the grounds of Hell although it is unlikely a sane person would.
Occuppants of Hell are marked, they must wear their markings visibly while inside the building. These markings are your only way to enter or exit so even if an insane person tried to enter Hell they would not gain admittance sans markings.
There are schedules in Hell. Although you have no way of knowing once inside you could be on the day shift or night shift. Most shifts are 12 hours but a lucky few work just eight hours of their Hell shift at a time. With 12 hour shifts you spend most of your year not knowing if it is day or night when you arrive and depart. The sun is up when you arrive and when you leave from spring to fall and the same for the stars from fall to spring. You go home and sleep if you’re lucky and remain unaware of what part of 24 hours you actually missed.
Selling your soul is easy, all you need is a GED or a high school education. Beezelbub has lackeys who are tasked with striking the deal for your soul. They pitch you with benefits and bottomless pockets before handing over the pact for you to sign your life away. The truth is that the offer for your soul will always be worth it.
Hell will do a number on your hands. Creeling yarn tends to come with a number issues from blowouts where the yarn shreds back to tiny little fibers that get all over the place including your sinuses, to tiny little rope burns from the yarn pulling before you’ve let go. These burns are like little paper cuts that never heal, they just get worse from the repetition. You could try holding the yarn a different way but that will only result in more damage to other fingers as you go.
There is an out of course. You can always quit but then you’d be full of shame for losing both your soul and your bottomless pockets. So really there isn’t an out for 30-45 years depending on when you start your decent into Hell. In a perfect world you’ll make it through Hell at 65 and reap the benefits of a pension which will sail you through to your dying day. Of course at this point your legs are perpetually sore, your waste is thick, and your life has been spent working for a paycheck which went to material things you never had the time to enjoy and now, no longer have the energy for.
You do this for your family, a modern day Faust, you know this is what’s best for all involved and you do your best to soldier on. This is life and as it turns out Hell is a place on Earth, an experience shared by billions too fortunate to live under a bridge in a tent.