Osama Bin Laden felt heat all over his body, but especially on his face, as he approached the gates of hell. He had a youthful body, not crippled by disease or riddled with bullet holes like the body that he had when he died. It reminded him of that scene in The Matrix, one of his favorite movies, when Morpheus told Neo that in the Matrix, he could be whatever he wanted to be. Sometimes, when they were busy planning 9/11, Osama would turn to one of his henchmen and whisper “We’re gonna need planes. Lots of planes,” and then he would laugh and laugh until the catheter from his dialysis fell out. As he approached along the broken cobblestones of Hell Street, the wrought iron gates yawned open, and the heat that had been almost unbearable intensified 100-fold. The devils at his back increased the pressure of their pitchforks. Tears ran only a few centimeters from his eyes before hissing into vapor. “So,” Osama Bin Laden whispered, “this is hell.” He didn’t whisper it so much as say it to himself in his head because 1000 years earlier (the road to the gates takes 1000 years to walk) a demon had eaten off his tongue. A lick of fire. A burst of smoke. And there before Osama Bin Laden stood the devil, Billy Crystal, from that one Woody Allen movie from the late 90s that people don’t talk about so much anymore.
“Hiya!” the devil said. “I’m the devil! You get quite a schvitz down here, huh?” The devil, Billy Crystal, was wearing a white silk suit and a Boston Red Sox baseball hat. “Corned beef?” He held out his hand which was filled with rotten corned beef.
Osama could not respond to Billy Crystal (the devil) because his tongue had been eaten out by a demon, remember? The devil, though, took offense at this. “You won’t speak to me? What am I, chopped liver?” the devil shrieked, jumping from one foot to the other in his high-heeled boots. (The devil was only 5’7″.) Osama shook his head but this only seemed to make the devil more angry. “Here I have prepared all of this delicious corned beef for you, and you won’t even give me the time of day. The hell with you!” Then the devil began to laugh. “Get it? This is hell! The hell with you! Hahah. This IS hell!” And then as quickly as he had appeared, and with the same flourish, the devil was gone.
Then the demons forced Osama to suffer endless excruciating torture for hundreds of thousands of years, endless millennia, his skin repeatedly stripped from his bones, only to regrow and be stripped again, his hair pulled from his scalp in massive demon-fist-sized-fistfulls, with nothing to eat but coals and ash, and nothing to drink whatsoever.
Finally, three hundred billion years later, the devil reappeared. “Oy-vey, I’m so sorry, I had to step out for a second. Mr. Ruffawitz needed a 10th for his morning minyan. How rude of me. Now, where were we. Ah, yes, I have something I wanted to show you. Where is it, I know I put it here somewhere.” The devil began to rummage around hell. Finally he found what he was looking for. “Here it is!” He turned and faced Osama Bin Laden, an impish grin on his Billy Crystal face, a wireless microphone in his hand. “Sit, sit! Be comfortable. God forbid.” He laughed again, the same laugh as when he made that other quote-joke-unquote about going to hell and this being hell and whatnot. The demons escorted Osama to his seat, which was a splintered wooden stake. He was impaled on the best stake in the house.
The devil, Billy Crystal, then proceeded to perform his one-man show, 700 Sundays. Again and again for all of eternity.