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Birthday in Hell

“Go on,” the demon said, “open it. It's your birthday present.” Hesitantly, Darrell reached for the package. This had to be a practical joke. But every moment of a practical joke was a blessed time in which he was not suffering excruciating torment. He had lucked out drawing Slapsteickkior as primary tormentor. Carefully, so as to prolong the absence of torment, he peeled back the silver-foil wrapping paper, striving to avoid tearing it. He almost had it off, but the last piece of tape stubbornly refused to yield no matter how he pried, teased, rolled, or tugged. After five minutes of this, while the demon drummed his fingers ever more loudly on the table, Darrell just ripped the last corner off. The box inside was so black he couldn't see the edges of the flaps. He found them by feel and pulled them open quickly. He was too anxious to stall any more. Plus, the demon always punished him for stalling, and the longer he stalled the more it hurt. Inside, a rolled scroll was tied with a pink ribbon sporting a frothy chrysanthemum-like bow. He slid the bow off the end of the scroll and unrolled it.

“This certificate entitles the bearer to one year off his sentence for good behavior. Happy birthday.”

He sighed, knowing that the worst part was still coming. Slapsteickkior delighted in explaining his jokes. You had to listen, because there would be a quiz at the end. If you missed any questions, well, it didn't bear thinking about.

“You see you get a whole year off, but naturally your sentence is of infinite duration; you don't get that year off until the end, and there is no end. What I'm trying to tell you is....”