Dave had always been bad. At three, he tore the wings off bumblebees and laughed as they met their slow, pathetic end. At ten, he told smaller kids on the playground there was no Santa Claus or Easter Bunny because the Boogeyman had killed them. At nineteen, he scratched up the side of a car with his keys after the toddler-toting woman who owned it took the parking spot he wanted. At twenty- five, he kicked an old man in the head during a mugging for the fun of it.

And these were just the things I can mention in pleasant company!

Luckily, whatever higher power had been watching over Dave's fate finally intervened. At thirty-three, Dave kicked the bucket. Bit the big one. Bought the farm. Gave up the ghost. Met his maker. Began pushing up daisies.

In other words: Dave died.

But to no one's surprise, it would soon turn out that it wasn't a higher power at play, after all. It was a lower – much, much lower – power guiding Dave all those years. And then suddenly, thanks to running a red light and crashing into an ill- placed semi-truck, Dave was finally where he truly belonged . . . for eternity.

Because when Dave arrived at the mouth of Hell (you didn't think it would be the Pearly Gates welcoming him, did you?), he saw a familiar face.

"Dad!" Dave exclaimed, as the fires of brimstone lapped at the laces of his Yeezies. "What the – uhm, this place – are you doing here?"

The older man with red-tinted skin, pointy, black horns, hipster goatee and a grin that could only be described as wicked, greeted him with a hug. "Funny story, actually." He stepped back and looked his son in the eye. "Surprise! I'm the Devil."

Dave frowned. "Is that why Mom left you when I was little?"

He shook his head. "She never knew, but you on the other hand were already quite the little psychopath by the time she bailed," the Devil said.

The young man scratched his temple. "Well, apparently my dad is Satan, so can you blame me?"

"Touché." His father slapped him on the back. "But enough chit-chat. Let me show you around."

With the help of a pitchfork poking him in the ribs, Dave jumped into the pit. It smelled of sulfur and the screams of the damned surrounded him from every side.

"Welcome home!" his dad exclaimed, spreading his arms to the desolate landscape. Glancing at Dave, he frowned. "You look sad, son. How about a joke?"

Dave waved him off, absent-mindedly following with his eyes a giant bird. Looking like a chickadee but a thousand times bigger, it swooped down from above and swallowed a naked man whole. Apparently, he was in a Hieronymous Bosch painting. "Nah, I'm good."

The Devil, however, either didn't hear him – Hell was kind of a noisy place with all the suffering and torment – or didn't care. "Two guys walk into a bar; the third one ducks," he said before bursting out laughing at the punch line. Puns were always his favorite.

Dave grimaced. "Yeah, just as expected." 

His dad was undeterred. "Did you hear about the man who invented Lifesavers?" he asked as they continued to stroll, taking care not to step on the bones of the desolate.

"No, dad. I didn't." Dave rolled his eyes.

Satan could hardly hold back his laughter. "They say he made a mint." He slapped his knee and guffawed.

Dave sighed. "God, that's even more awful."

"Don't say His name here!" His dad exclaimed. "But that actually reminds me: do you know how they make holy water?"

Dave sped up, passing a woman projectile vomiting cats. "I really don't care."

"They boil the hell out it." The Devil was crying tears of joy from all his laughter.

Seeing a fish with butterfly wings riding a man like a horse, Dave realized something. "I'm hungry," he said. Maybe a lunch break would distract his dad from all the lame jokes.

"What do you want to eat, son?" Satan asked, looking concerned for the first time.

Dave thought for a second. "Got any chicken?"

"Sure do. We keep our own here." His dad pointed to a small shed in the distance. Although a harp with a naked woman strapped to its strings sat on its roof, there were also a few feathered beasts running around that could pass for poultry. "Nothing beats organic, farm fresh. I built the coops myself. Hey, do you know why chicken coops have two doors?"

He didn't know the answer, but he could guess it was going to be stupid. "Please stop."

"Because if they had four, they'd be chicken sedans!" The Devil clapped his hands together in praise for his own humor.

Dave couldn't take any more chicken jokes. "Dad, just make me a sandwich," he pleaded.

His dad waved his pitchfork around. "Poof, you're a sandwich."

Exasperated, Dave put his hands up. "Never mind. I've lost my appetite." "Are you sure, son? I could—"

Walking around a puddle of oozing goo, Dave interrupted. "No, I'm fine. But I do want to know why didn't you ever tell me you were the Devil?"

Satan put one hand on his shoulder. It was the most fatherly he'd acted in years. "This wasn't always my job, you know."

Dave was intrigued. "Oh, really?"

"Sure," his dad said. "I used to work at the calendar factory, but I got fired because I took a couple of days off."

Dave was now getting a headache. It could have been from the noxious fumes and decaying bodies, but it was probably from the horrendous jokes. "I'm sorry I asked."

Noticing his son's draining enthusiasm, Satan attempted to cheer him up. "Oh, hey. Let me introduce you to some people." He stopped at a woman lying in a gilded bed with a cover made out of live rats. "Cindy here beat her husband to death with a guitar. She died in prison, poor thing."

Dave looked at the woman, her face gaunt and her eyes filled with terror. "Wow. That's terrible."

"Yeah." The Devil nodded. "The judge only had one question for her before he sentenced her."

"What was that?" Dave asked as the rat bedspread undulated from the critters' attempts to move to and fro.

His dad continued with the story. "So, the judge asked her, 'First offender?'" Dave looked at him, not knowing where this was going. "What did she say?" 

"No, it was with a Gibson. Then it was with the Fender." The Devil pounded the base of the pitchfork against the ground and laughed again.

"Good grief." Dave put his hand to his head. "I think I need to lie down."

"Sure thing, son. I can lead you to your room. I do hope you can get some rest.

I've been having trouble sleeping myself," Satan admitted.

"Is that right?" The question slipped out from Dave's lips before he could stop himself.

"Yeah. I had a dream last night where I was a muffler. I woke up exhausted!" 

Dave shook his head and resolved not to engage his dad any further. Maybe after some rest, they could start over sans jokes.

The Devil led him into a cottage shaped like a mushroom. Inside was a rather ordinary looking bed. Before leaving Dave alone, he had one final thing to say. "After you take a little nap, make sure you're not late for choir practice."

The revelation took him by surprise. "Hell has a choir?" Dave asked. 

His dad smiled. "Of course we do. But don't forget your bucket."

He knew he'd regret asking, but it was impossible for Dave not to. "Why do I need a bucket?"

Satan winked. "To carry your tune, of course!" He turned to go, but Dave got an idea.

"All right, Dad. I'll bite. Give it to me: what's your best dad joke?" Maybe if he played along, the old man would get it out of his system once and for all.

The Devil slapped him on the back and grinned. "You, Dave."

Dave rolled his eyes. He was wrong. There was no end in sight to the dad jokes. This really was Hell, and it was going to be a long Eternity.

THE END