heelers inferno

The seventh ring of hell.
Satan is sitting in the canteen with a caffe latte brooding over the vicissitudes of life.
The groans of those in torment rise from the workshop floor but the prince of darkness is oblivious to them.
At this moment he finds no joy in the suffering of lost souls.
He is preoccupied.
Enter Asmodeus stage left.
Asmodeus works as a supervisor keeping an eye on the demons of temptation who toil in Sector Seven G.
"What's up boss?" he says sitting down.
Satan glowers.
"It's those arse wipes in the Johnston Press," he mutters bitterly.
"What about em?" wonders his minion.
Satan's glower grows more heartfelt.
"You know that Heelers thinks they've offended God by firing Ireland's greatest living poet," sez Satan.
"By firing who?" sez Asmodeus.
"Heelers means himself," sez Satan.
"Okay, so what?" sez Asmodeus.
Satan's glower becomes positively poignant.
"Think about it," he grates. "If the heroes of the Johnston Press have genuinely offended God by firing Heelers from the Leinster Leader, what do you think God will do about it? What if he smites them? What if he gives them a good smiting in the balls? Imagine it Asmodeus. What if he sends them all here? We'll be putting up with low rent little spiv parvenus clutching accountancy and marketing degrees for all eternity."
Asmodeus gulped.
"And computer certificates," he spat. "They've got lots of those. You really think God would add to our punishment by sending those sh-t heads here? Heaven help us."
Satan nodded.
From outside the canteen the cries of the damned seemed strangely fervourless today.
Maybe they'd heard the rumour.
"We'll have to put up with the bloody ephin Johsnton Press crowd until the end of time," went on Satan morosely. "It doesn't really bear thinking about, does it? Damnation is one thing. But damnation with parvenus. Why, it's an abomination."
The gargoylesque visage of Asmodeus was a study.
He spoke as if from far away.
"The Johnston Press," he shuddered. "F--king hell!"