Article 78, Section D, Paragraph 13 of the Amendments to the Heavenly Constitution is commonly referred to as the Waiver of the "You Can't Take It With You" Clause. It reads as follows:

Souls sentenced to the 25^th Circle shall be permitted to bring with them earthly possessions of an amount that will fit into at most one piece of carry-on luggage. They may also personally convey, and are indeed strongly encouraged to do so, hard currency in the amount of up to the equivalent of ten thousand US dollars. This waiver applies only to the 25^th Circle. Souls committed to the original 24 Circles of Hell shall, as before, be allowed but a single toothbrush and no more than two rolls of dental floss.

As the loathsome green mists of yet another disheartening morning in the 25^th Circle drift skyward, only a single window in but one massive gray high-rise within all of Sector 9 is illuminated. A 55-watt bulb is burning in the tiny apartment that Marvin J. Cuddlesworth reluctantly calls home.

Marvin has been up all night, reading, thinking, worrying, and — most of all — calculating. The floor about him is strewn with a mix of peanut shells and crumpled pieces of paper. The chrome dinette table upon which the extraordinarily pale little man now rests his callused elbows is covered with folders, photos, business cards, a K&E slide rule, one well-worn copy of the 1957 Edition of the CRC Standard Math Tables, lines and lines of penciled calculations, and a legion of wild ideas. However, at this particular moment, Marvin J. Cuddlesworth is busy probing the inner recesses of his left nostril with the index finger of his right hand.

Ultimately Marvin finishes the subconscious and unsettling exploration of his proboscis. He rises stiffly from his straight-backed chair and walks, somewhat unsteadily, to the window. High in the sky over the 25^th Circle, the massive and omnipresent LCD displays the local time. It reads MON:5:23:12AM. Marvin turns and stares at the calendar on the wall directly behind him. Beneath the sketch of a beaming smiley face the calendar displays today's date. It is DAY 362: YEAR 3,423,584,999. Below that, in much smaller letters, is the equivalent Earth date. There, Marvin notes, it is the 27^th of December 1999. Time, Marvin realizes, is about to run out.

Returning to his chair, Marvin picks up the thick folder that contains the voluminous file of one Lester Richard Smart. He has read every word of every page of that particular file at least a dozen times since it came — surreptitiously — into his possession; yet he feels compelled to thumb through its contents one more time. This file, Marvin is becoming convinced, may well be that of the single most important tourist that Marvin will ever be given the opportunity to guide across the bleak expanse of the 25^th Circle.

The most current photograph in the file is about three months old. In it, Lester Smart, or Les as he prefers to be called, is mowing his tiny front lawn. The man, Marvin notes with some disgust, is using a riding lawn mower to accomplish a task that the average person could do in a few minutes with a pair of dull shears.

Les Smart is, thinks Marvin, perhaps the most average looking individual he has ever seen. Possibly a shade over six feet tall, the bland-looking 30-year old is already nurturing a hint of a paunch. The man's dishwater blonde hair is beginning to recede, and he is becoming increasingly far-sighted, although he steadfastly refuses to wear glasses.

Marvin places a magnifying glass over the photo. A wisp of a woman is standing on the porch of Les Smart's unremarkable house, her hands resting on her bony hips. Lucy Smart is watching her husband mow their miniature lawn. The woman might have been pretty at one time. Now, Marvin notes, she exudes an air of disdain — or even meanness. Marvin feels confident that, if he ever has the chance to know her, he won't like her.

Suddenly there is a single, sharp knock on the apartment door. Marvin leaps from his chair and races across the room. An envelope has been shoved under the door and Marvin bends down to retrieve it, his hands trembling in anticipation.

Marvin rips the envelope open. Adjusting his glasses, he reads the brief message. It simply says: APPROVAL GRANTED: RENDEZVOUS MON:10:00:00AM. Under that is a particularly official looking smiley face.

Even though the Welcome Center is but a few hours' walk, Marvin feels compelled to begin the trek immediately. He takes one last look at the photograph of Les Smart and then retrieves his umbrella from its place of honor. He pauses a moment to savor, for perhaps the thousandth time, the brief inscription on the ornate handle of the oversize parasol. It reads: TOUR GUIDE; 25^TH CIRCLE.

Several miles away, in yet another region of the 25^th Circle, Harold Hathaway is asleep. The tall, thin, angular man is snoring contentedly. On the wall beside his bed hangs his uniform. The badge on the jacket reads: SECURITY GUARD; 25^TH CIRCLE; SECTOR 15. On the floor beneath the uniform is a pair of shiny black Doc Martens.

With the exception of the bed, the only other furniture in the bleak one room flat is a cheap wicker nightstand and a well-worn reclining chair. There had been a bookcase when Harold was first assigned the room, but he had given that unnecessary piece of furniture to Mom, the waitress who shares a room with her paramour directly below Harold's own flat.

The only personal item in the sparse room is the framed 8"xll" photograph that sits on the nightstand. It is a picture of an extraordinarily beautiful young woman, perhaps 18 or 19 years of age. There is a message written on the photograph. It reads: TO HAROLD, FROM HORTENSE, WITH LOVE ALWAYS.

Suddenly there is a sharp knock on the door. Harold rolls over, rubs his eyes, and removes his blanket. Now fully awake, he curses and rises to his feet. On the other side of the room, directly in front of his door, an envelope rests on the floor.

Harold opens the envelope, slowly and deliberately. It contains but a single sheet of paper, embossed with the official smiley face. Below that is a list of seven names. The third one from the bottom is that of Marvin J. Cuddlesworth. Harold commits the list to memory, tears it into small pieces, inserts the fragments into his mouth, and swallows.

One death rattle and seven times infinity light-years away, another man lies sleeping. He is Lester Richard Smart, and he too is about to receive a wake-up call. But let's let him tell his side of the story. After all, he's about to go to Hell.

Last Monday started off pretty much like every other Monday has for the past six miserable years. I wanted to sleep in but my pager started beeping at precisely 6:30 AM. Lucy, my wafer-thin wife, swung a skinny elbow that caught me square in the kidneys. As if it were my fault.

I’m a telemarketer. Not one of the junior types who calls you on the phone just about the time you reached the shower, or are seated comfortably on the throne, or in the middle of dinner. No, not Lester Smart. And, by the way, just call me Les.

I manage a boiler room operation on the South side. I oversee a staff of two dozen highly trained telemarketers. Well, maybe not highly trained. But they do get a half-day of instruction under my direct supervision. Our phone bill each month is astronomical. So is the noise in a boiler room when you have 24 people yelling on their phones at once. So are our profits. Of course the big boss manages to keep most of those for himself.

Monday is supposed to be my day off – my only day off, but it never fails. The boss always finds something that needs to be done, something to be looked into, something that only I can handle. That morning he wanted me to, as he put it, ‘haul my flabby butt to the office supply store.’ A boiler room on the other side of town had run out of micro-cassettes – you know, those things you stick in tape recorders. The mall is halfway between my house and the other operation. The boss suggested that I get some micro-cassettes to the other boiler room … fast. Since the mall doesn’t open until ten, I couldn’t help but wonder why the hell he had to buzz me at 6:30 AM.

Did I mention that I hate my job?

I took a quick shower and then checked my email. Nearly three dozen messages, most from the boss. I’d like to strangle the person who taught him how to use email.

On my way out I grabbed a couple dozen of my wife’s fat-free cookies. Why the hell she has to buy such tasteless crap is beyond me. She’s already skinny enough to be mistaken for an X-Ray.

I got into my 1978 Toyota Tercel and prayed that it would start. After about six attempts, it finally did. As I backed out of the driveway, partially engulfed in a plume of gray smoke, I noticed that the shingles on the roof of my house needed replacing. I could also see, quite clearly, the outline of the huge cellular tower that recently had been installed directly in front of our subdivision. It was bad enough, I thought, to have to live in a creaky, leaking 1300 square foot box, but now they had to go and put up that damn butt-ugly tower.

Did I mention that my life sucks?

The drive to the mall seemed to take forever. Some white-haired little old lady in a Ford Taurus was doing all of 28 mph on the freeway in – of course – the freakin’ passing lane. She must have been deaf. Horns blared, middle fingers were thrust skyward, and yet she seemed not to notice. If anything, she slowed down a bit.

I finally got the chance to pass her on the right. Gave her the ol’ finger-roo as I zoomed by. The old gal had her eyes straight ahead, her gloved hands gripped a steering wheel that she could barely see over. Damn! It was my mom.

I got to the mall maybe a half an hour after opening time and managed to find a parking spot only about a quarter-mile from the main entrance. It being the first shopping day after Christmas, the place looked absolutely jammed. Everybody in town was probably trying to return some unwanted Christmas gift. That might turn off most people, but not me. Some people hate malls. Me, I kind of like them. At least I used to.

When the family’s not with me, my first stop is always the poster shop, just inside the main entrance. Every chance I get, I check out that store. I’m always on the lookout for new additions to my private collection – the one I have to keep in my attic.

I wasn’t disappointed. The latest Pamela poster had just arrived. In this one she’s laying on her stomach on a chaise lounge, wearing just the bottom of a thong bathing suit. They call it the Pamela for the Next Millennium Poster. Rumor has it that they’re going to retire this print after only 100,000 copies are sold. Should be worth ten times what I paid for it by next month – like I would ever sell it. The hell with Beanie Babies and Internet stocks, a retired Pamela poster is the investment opportunity I’d recommend.

I bought two copies and asked the clerk to put them in layaway for me. He gave me a receipt that I poked into my shirt pocket. Gotta remember not to let the wife see that. She’d scream her skinny head off. I don’t smoke, I don’t drink – well, not much – but I do have one vice. I’m nuts about Pamela.

After giving the complete collection of Pamela posters one last look over, I left the shop and headed toward the office supply store. It's definitely my second favorite store in the mall. They've got a particularly impressive collection of computers, computer software, and all the other fascinating gadgets and gizmos that you can hook up to your very own PC. The poster in the window proclaimed the grand opening of the newest addition to the store’s wares, a zone on Virtual Reality – whatever that is. Sounded neat.

I made my way through a crowd of surly teenagers, shuffling old farts in tennis shoes, and obnoxious pairs of yuppies pushing their $1,500 radar-equipped baby strollers. OK, so maybe the part about being radar-equipped is a bit of an exaggeration.

As I approached the office supply shop, I noticed something odd. I seemed to be the only person in the mall headed toward that particular store. I should have turned around then and there, but how could I have known what would happen next?

The automatic doors to the office supply shop opened obligingly and I walked inside. The lights were on, the doors had certainly opened, but there wasn’t anyone in sight. Not a soul. Hey, if I were so inclined I could have walked out with a computer, or fax machine. Maybe both. Instead I just grabbed a Year 2000 day calendar and stuck it in my back pocket. Hey, don’t judge me. Besides, it had a picture of Pamela on its cover.

I walked toward the rear of the store, in the general vicinity of what I thought might be the employees’ lounge. The last thing I remember was a couple of neon yellow signs on the floor. They read, as I recall, something like PRECAUCIÒN, SUELO RESBALADIZO. That’s about the time the lights went out. Not the store lights; mine.

Ever have a dream in the middle of the night where you’re falling, then wake up with a start? That’s pretty much how it felt. Except I kept falling, and falling, and falling. It seemed like a good ten minutes before I hit bottom. Flat on my back. The wind was knocked out of me and I couldn’t get my breath. Standing over me was some character with a huge umbrella. He was poking the end of the thing into my chest. But I had double vision at the time and saw two old guys poking me with two umbrellas. I tried to say something but no words came out.

"You’re OK," the old guy said in a small low voice that sounded like a mouse farting. "Just take it easy, don’t try to talk for a minute."

I couldn’t have uttered a word then if my life depended on it. So I did as the man said.

"While you’re laying there, let me introduce myself, "said the stranger. "I’m your guide. Don’t ask me my name, some days I remember it, most days it just hangs there on the tip of my tongue. I am, after all, very old and very learned. So you can just call me the Tour Guide."

I wasn’t sure about the learned part, but the guy was definitely old. Easily 45 or 50. And lord, could he have used some help getting dressed.

Just my luck, I thought, I take a fall and wake up with a nut case standing over me. The bespectacled little dude was wearing a Harris tweed sports coat at least two sizes too large. Badly worn leather patches held the elbows together. He had on a rumpled polyester dress shirt, adorned by an oversize blue and gold bow tie that was more than slightly askew. His pants were threadbare at the knees, revealing just a hint of chalk-white skin. His shoes, then about six inches from my head, were white loafers of the type favored by those old geezers that you see perched on park benches all over Florida.

I finally got my breath back and slowly rose to my feet. My head hurt and the world had yet to return to proper focus. I was still seeing double, maybe triple.

"What the heck did I trip on?" I asked. The question was ignored. I tried an easier one. "Where is everybody?"

"You’ll meet some of the regulars soon," replied the stranger. "Now that you’re up, follow me." He raised his umbrella over his head and started walking away.

"Just a second fellow, why in the world should I follow you?"

"Because, Les, like I said before, I’m your guide," he replied. "I am the Tour Guide, Les, or didn’t you hear me before?"

"I don’t remember telling you my name. And why would I need a guide in the freakin’ mall?"

"Your name, Les, is on my program," the Tour Guide said as he waved a rolled up leaflet at me. "And, if you take a closer look you might notice something different about this mall." He was clearly irritated, although I couldn’t figure out why.

By then I was convinced the old guy was certifiable. Still, I did take a look around me. Everything slowly returned to focus as I scanned my surroundings. I was in a large room, but it definitely wasn’t the office supply store. There were no gadgets on the counters, only stacks and stacks of slick brochures. I picked up the nearest one. It read: Ten Things Everyone Should Know About Hell. Beside it was another titled: Know Your Rights: You have none.

"My god," I muttered, "am I dead?"

"Not at all Les. You’re just here for the tour," said the Tour Guide.

"I don’t understand," I replied. And I didn’t.

"You will, once we’ve taken the tour. At least you might. Of course, you’ll forget most of what you've seen once you return to your world. Until then just place your trust in me. I’ve done this hundreds of times before," said the Tour Guide, sighing heavily.

"Why do I have to take a tour? Can’t I just go home? I’m sure that there must be some mistake."

"No mistake Les. We don’t make mistakes here. At least not very often. You can go home once you’ve completed the tour. Until then you are in my capable hands."

"But can’t you at least tell me where I am, and just who the hell you are?" I begged, wanting desperately to delay the ‘tour’ for as long as possible. Or at least until I woke from this nightmare.

The Tour Guide muttered something I couldn’t understand. Something about ‘being nice.’ He started to walk away, seemed to think better of it, and then strode purposefully back to where I had taken root.

"All right, I’ll answer your questions if you promise to stop whining and follow me once I’ve finished my story," said the Tour Guide, this time brandishing the tip of his umbrella under my chin.

I nodded in the affirmative. The Tour Guide sat down on the nearest counter. I pushed some brochures aside and took a seat on another.

"To answer your first question," said the Tour Guide, "you are in the Welcome Center of our very latest addition to Hell. The only addition since Hell was first created. In fact, parts of it are still under construction. Some call it the 25^th Circle. Whatever you want to call it, this is High Tech Hell, and you – whether you want to or not – are going to take the full tour."

The Tour Guide looked me in the eyes, through a pair of badly smudged patchwork horn rims. On closer inspection, I noticed that they seemed to be held together by duct tape. Wherever we were, and wherever we were heading, it was evidently going to be a low budget excursion.

"No questions. Good," said the Tour Guide. "Now let me tell you about myself. Or at least what I can remember."

"The family’s a blur. Must have had one, of course, but all I can remember is an irritating cat, or perhaps it was a baby sister." The Tour Guide frowned, picked his nose, and then continued.

"As I recall, I entered college at the age of 15, youngest freshman at MIT, or was it Cal Tech? Oh well, it was a beautiful campus, but I hardly noticed. Instead I was entranced by the words of my mentor, Professor … Professor … . Damn, I can’t even remember his name – something to do with lunch meat, or maybe hamburgers. But I can see his face, the face of a man who knew everything!"

"Everything?" I interrupted. "That hardly seems … "

"Do you want to hear my story or not?" said the Tour Guide huffily. I vowed to not interrupt again.

"Anyhow the Professor introduced me to computers. Not just computers but also cybernetics, artificial intelligence, and even self-organizing systems. Day after glorious day, night after blissful night, I drank at the font of knowledge. I read; I attended lectures; and then I read some more. Soon even she became but a faint memory"

Breaking my vow, I interrupted again. "She? Who was she?"

"She was the most beautiful creature to ever latch on a pair of Birkenstocks. She was my one true love. Damn, I wish I could remember her name. Emily, or Evelyn, or maybe Harriet. Who knows? Who cares? It no longer matters."

"But did you marry her? Did you date her? Can’t you even remember if you had casual sex with her?" I asked.

The Tour Guide looked befuddled at the mention of sex. Staring glumly at his white loafers, he answered haltingly. "There may have been some … um … inappropriate behavior, but there certainly was never any sexual relationship."

How sad I thought, as the Tour Guide continued his story.

"As I was saying, I became so wrapped up in my studies that people, even whatever her name was, no longer mattered. No one mattered. I even stopped going home on holidays. At first I would send my parents a letter, than a postcard, and … finally … not even that. But" said the Tour Guide, his face suddenly brightening, "it all paid off."

"How so?" I asked.

"I was awarded a scholarship for graduate work. I received a Ph.D., and then I was hired by one of our nation’s finest universities. Three grueling hours of lectures a week, and the rest of the time devoted to my research. Now not only could I continue my pursuit of knowledge, I could even infect my students with my love of technology."

"Well," I said, "so far it all sounds only a little sad."

"If that’s what you really think then I can more fully appreciate why I have been asked to guide you. But, back to my story. For years I toiled – no, make that savored every waking moment. I published, received prestigious grants, and then one day came the ultimate discovery."

The Tour Guide paused, looking at me intently through the wreckage of his glasses. I wondered how much longer the freakin' story would take.

"You wonder what the ultimate discovery was; I can see it in your face. Let me tell you, for I am sure that, even if you understand it, you will soon forget it."

The Tour Guide paused for a moment to let his words sink in, then he continued. "I discovered that logic is illogical!"

"You’re right," I replied, "I don’t understand."

"Foolish man. Logic is the foundation of all science. Without logic there would be no science, no computer, not even a pencil sharpener. Instead, there would be only chaos. But what I discovered was that nature is not logical, and yet we are all products of nature. Thus we are illogical. And, if we are illogical, then all we do, all we invent, is also illogical." The Tour Guide sighed, poked his index finger deep into the recesses of his left nostril, and sighed once more.

"I guess I understand," I said, averting my eyes from the nostril mining, "but what does it all mean?"

"It means, you twit, that everything I worked on, everything I treasured, is meaningless. It’s like I built a magnificent mansion on a giant block of ice – and then, one day, the sun came out and melted its very foundation." The Tour Guide’s chest heaved once, and he continued.

"I wrote the theorem, the irrefutable proof that logic is illogical, in the margin of my Advanced Calculus book. Well, at least I started to write it; it was a little too long to fit in the margin. I can only pray that one of my students has seen the notation, and that he or she will finish the proof, and tell the world the bitter truth. I can only hope," he moaned.

Tears began to stream down the tortured face of the little man. My heart went out to him. But all I could manage to say was "I’m so sorry."

"So am I, so am I," replied the Tour Guide, his face now etched in remorse. "But enough of that. It's time to go. We’re late as it is." He slid down from the counter and headed in the direction of the door, again holding his umbrella above his head. I followed.

The Tour Guide stopped at the doorway to retrieve a cheap looking and badly worn book bag from one of numerous hangers positioned along the wall. Each hanger had a different book bag, all equally frayed. The one the Tour Guide took was a bright blue satchel emblazoned in gold lettering with the name of a particularly obscure university. It read simply: AKRON STATE.

Slipping the bag deftly onto his back, the Tour Guide opened the door. As we walked out of the Welcome Center I could see nothing but an immense empty expanse. It was flat and featureless. In the gray sky above was a gigantic liquid crystal display. It read MON:10:09:49AM. Its greenish glow provided the only illumination in that god forsaken place.

"Follow me Les, our first stop is that shop on the horizon," said the Tour Guide, using his umbrella to point toward a destination that I could not as yet make out. As he walked away I could hear a squeaking noise coming from, I assumed, his cheap shoes.