Hell in February
“Just got to get my steps in, hon!” Judy shouted from the doorway. She tapped the thingy on her wrist that counted her steps.
“Jesus Christ, Judy!” Satan shouted back. “Will you give it a rest, already?”
The gates to Hell opened up and Judy bounced merrily back to the land of the living and up toward the park with the good walking path, the one without too many dogs. The dogs detested Judy. They thought she smelled of sulfur and that awful amber musk perfume.
Back home, Satan wondered if he should have gotten Judy something else for Christmas. Ever since December, she spent all her time pacing around the kitchen island and insisting they take the stairs rather than the elevator when they went out. The other day, she parked their Jeep at the back of the parking lot so they had to walk all the way across the blacktop to get to the shopping center entrance. What a joke. But mostly, Judy just wasn’t home. She was walking in the park, walking at the mall, walking with friends from her book club. The dogs on earth were going mad and Satan couldn’t remember how to turn on the dishwasher, or where they kept the antacids.
Jerry from next door had commented on it. “Sure looks like Judy’s been getting out and about, eh?”
“Cram it, Jerry,” replied Satan.
Satan thought about locking the gates to Hell back up so Judy would have to stay in the neighborhood, do all her walking around the cul de sac, or laps on the track at the community center. That would show her.
