LAVA LAKE

The fiery depths of the underworld, it’s not all pitchforks and brimstone. At least, that’s not what Adolf Hitler says. You see, even in eternal damnation, some people just can’t seem to shut up. And our dear Adolf, bless his blackened little heart, is one of them.

in a vast, bubbling lake of molten lava, the kind that makes your average barbeque look like a lukewarm bath. A perpetually scowling Hitler, clad in what appears to be a slightly singed white Jewish kittel, reluctantly wielding a large, bristly brush. Beside him sat none other than the mighty (and equally grumpy) Joseph Stalin, whose backside is currently providing a rather large canvas for Hitler’s misery. In the eternal punishment department, someone decided that these two delightful dictators should be… well, bath buddies. Or, more accurately, one is the designated bath attendant for the other. And guess who drew the short straw? The man who thought a tiny mustache could conquer the world. And Hitler let everyone know how much he despises this arrangement. It’s a constant refrain, a never-ending symphony of complaints that echoes through the sulfurous air of Hell.

“It’s not fair!” he’d bellow, his voice cracking with the sheer indignity of it all. “I, Adolf, the leader of the Third Reich, forced to scrub Stalin’s… posterior! It’s barbaric! Unthinkable! Don’t you know who I am?” But he had no choice but to rub and massage and cover every region, including the Russian dictator’s waste department.

The demons, who had seen it all, pretty much ignored him. A few of the younger ones might snicker behind their leathery hands, but for the most part, Hitler’s lamentations were just background noise to the eternal torment.

The scrubbing, he claims, is the least of his problems.

“The man is like a walrus!” he’d proclaim to any imp who’d listen. “His skin is like leather, and the amount of bodily waste he collects and excretes is… appalling! I have to scrub and scrub and scrub!” He’d demonstrate with dramatic arm motions, occasionally flicking bits of waste and algae onto the hapless demons. “And the smell! Don’t even get me started on the smell!”

One would think that in hell, smells probably didn’t make anyone bat an eye, but apparently, Stalin’s particular brand of grime was exceptionally odious.

“And then,” Hitler would continue, his pitch rising to a frantic shriek, “he just sits there! Like some bloated, lava-soaked Buddha! Not a word of thanks! Not even a grunt of appreciation!”

He’d then mimic Stalin sitting in the lava, his eyes half-closed, a look of utter indifference on his face. “He expects me to do everything! He never even offers to… well, never mind.” He’d trail off, his face contorted in a mixture of rage and mortification. It was clear that Hitler deeply yearned for the mutual respect returned.

“How about it, you smelly Russain brute?” Hitler screamed, “Care to return the favor?”

But Stalin just sat there, only his chronic flatulence stirred the air.

The indignity of it all! For the man who envisioned himself as the supreme ruler of a thousand-year empire, the thought of tending to Stalin’s backside was a crushing blow to his already fragile ego. “He’s supposed to be my adversary!” he’d say, his face turning a shade of purple that would make even a devil blush. “Not… not my bath buddy! It’s an outrage! A travesty!”

One particularly long-suffering demon, a small imp named Beelzebub Junior (or B.J. for short), dared to ask why he didn’t just refuse.

Hitler glared at the demon. “Refuse? Are you mad? Do you think I can refuse? Have you seen the size of that demon standing over me? He wields an iron matzah made of pure brimstone. I’m not going up against that. Plus, the demons in charge said if I don’t scrub, I’ll have to spend the next millennium listening to Y.M.C.A. on repeat in Hebrew. So, scrubbing it is.”

Even in hell, one had to make some compromises.

His complaints became more creative as time went on. He’d complain about the absence of rubber duckies. Or how the lava was the wrong consistency, melting Stalin’s behind, and he would have to wait for his rump to form again. He even attempted to petition the higher-ups for a more ‘hygienic workspace,’ claiming Stalin’s chronic flatulence was a breeding ground for ‘lava-bursts’ and ‘unsanitary toxic deposits.’

Down in the fiery depths, Hitler wasn’t exactly living his best afterlife. He’d pictured a more distinguished punishment, perhaps overseeing the eternally-heated ovens, not scrubbing Stalin’s… well, let’s just say Stalin’s back. Every day, it was the same routine: Hitler, armed with a molten lava sponge, would dutifully work his way across Stalin’s expansive topography, muttering to himself about ‘unhygienic dictators’ and ‘lack of professional consideration.’ “I give the man a full spa treatment!” he’d whine to anyone who’d listen (usually just a bewildered demon), “I even get the hard-to-reach bits! I scrub, I massage, and I get splashed! And does he reciprocate? No! He just splashes, grunts, farts, and demands more…scalding water!”

Seems even in Hell, some people are just bad at bathtime etiquette.

And so, the complaints continue an endless lament echoing across the fiery landscape. Hitler, the eternal complainer, was forever destined to scrub Stalin’s backside in the molten depths of hell, while simultaneously demanding a more comfortable scrubbing brush, a fire-resistant gas mask, and a thoroughly grateful recipient.