Pissville

Mike lived in hell. Actually, he lived in a suburb of hell between purgatory and south central hell. The town he lived in constantly changed names as it grew and shrank due to lava flows and insanity. Currently, his town was named pissville.
Before that it was named assneck after the famous televangelist Jerry Falwell. They had a parade for him when he died and a couple of orcs continually shoved his bawling head up his own ass while they forced him barefoot along the jagged streets into hell. He had to toss his own salad just to get enough breath to scream.
Oh yes, another thing about hell is that the current slang for demons is Orcs. "Demon" sounds so medieval. Orc is kind of cool and contemporary. You would think that a place of eternal torment and damnation would be rooted in tradition, but it's not. Everything keeps changing arbitrarily at a maddening pace. It's one of the more subtle punishments especially since so many souls here are old and peevish and they hate change. Besides, like the rule book says, "if you do anything long enough you'll get used to it..and we can't have that".

Mike was running late for work as always. He didn't have time for breakfast so he grabbed a moldy poptart and bolted out the door. He lived on the bottom floor of a two story brick house. There was an industrial noise band that lived upstairs. This guaranteed that he only got four or five hours of sleep a night. Last night, they were using a desert eagle .357 magnum pistol and an oil drum to lay down a rhythm track on their new album. The house had white picket fence and he walked down the sidewalk strewn with fast food wrappers and mickey's big mouth bottles. This was a sure sign that orcs had been hanging out last night. Sure enough, there were greasy hand prints on his windshield and a ropy turd on the hood. He caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and moved aside just in time to avoid two orcs throwing what looked like Donald Trump on the hood of his car laughing and shouting, "You're FIRED!! now eat that shit, beeyatch!" They were frog marching him around and his trousers were down around his ankles. They moved on.Eventually, Trump would get sucked in to hell where the real torture would start.
Mike was not slated for extreme damnation. He was an atheist who was never fully evangelized. In fact, he never heard about God and Jesus until he was in his thirties and that was mostly in a litrature class he was taking at the local community college. It never really piqued his curiosity. He led a quiet, decent life with more ups than downs and ended up getting hit by a bus while walking to the store to get his girlfriend a hershey bar and some tampons. See, a pretty nice guy.
This morning, though, he was running late for his job at the Infernal Review Service. He worked as a claims reviewer at the IRS. You see, there is a special phone deep in the bowels of hell which the damned struggle to find, and after much hardship, they reach it in hopes that their pleas for leniency will be successful. Usually they are put on hold where they are forced to listen to the most horrible music ever for ....a very..long...time. Then, they are told to leave a voice mail with a call back number and their Soul Index Number. Not one of them has a phone with any bars and no one has ever really been given their Soul Index Number. Mike is there for the ones who actually get through. He begins to tell the frantic callers how they can in fact, get their Soul Index Number and file a form to have their iniquities reviewed. It is usually at this point that the phone cuts out and the caller hs to try again and again. Of all the souls who have tried, only a handfull have gotten reviews and had their sentences reduced. This seems to be a punishment reserved for bureaucrats and health insurance executives who put people through bureucratic nightmares while they suffered and died waiting for help that the company just needed a little more time to get the right forms filed.
Mike hated his afterlive, but he had to admit it wasn't all bad.