I’m currently burning in hell and my only job is to do the Devil’s laundry.

I don’t know why that’s the only task they’ve given me so far; I mean, sure, it’s not exactly “fun,” but there are certainly worse jobs down here, many of them involving hot oils.

Here’s how it works: Every morning I get up at around 7:30 a.m., grab a bagel (dry), and take an elevator down to the “Laundry Room of Fire,” which is decidedly less dramatic than it sounds. It’s basically just a regular laundry room that is surrounded by a ring of unending flames.

When I get there, I put on a hairnet (made of thorns, of course) and start loading a Maytag washer with the Devil’s dirty clothes, which are stacked nearby in a pile the size of the Mount Fuji.

The nice thing about doing the Devil’s laundry is I don’t have a worry about separating the darks from the lights; naturally, it’s all darks. And while the literal mountain of clothing is certainly daunting, they actually do not smell as bad as one might think. I’m told the Devil gets a lot of these clothes new in the mail and just wants to “give them a quick cycle” before wearing them. I’m also told he rarely works up a sweat anymore, so most of the time the clothes I’m dealing with are just wrinkly.

The laundry room is one of the rare levels of hell that also has satellite television. Of course, I don’t get a say in what channel it’s on, which can be frustrating. Still, it’s kind of nice to listen to what’s going on out in the world as I load the Devil’s dirty laundry and then fold his clean clothes.

There’s only one washer and one dryer, so the work is painfully slow going. The Devil uses off-brand detergent, so sometimes a load will need to go through twice before it’s really clean. Not super energy efficient. At noon I get a three minute break during which I can do as I please. Most of the time I’ll just do some stretches or maybe eat a granola bar.

Mike, the demon who oversees the Damn General Services Department, which includes the laundry room, is considered fairly lenient with his spiked lava whip. I can usually wrap up a day with just a few “stern warnings.” He has what he calls a “Three Strike” policy, but most of the time he forgets how many strikes he’s given.

[Mike, my supervisor]

After 5 p.m. the whistle blows and I’m tarred and feathered. After that, I hit the showers and I’m usually back in my room by no later than 7 p.m.

Honestly, it’s hard not to feel a bit embarrassed when I’m asked by the other damned about what my duties in hell are. Josh, my bunkmate freshman year, was part of the flaming human roadway used for chariot races (gambling is huge here), and Sven, my other damned acquaintance, is an acid heat tester.

Sure, I’ll try to embellish my daily toil a bit if I’m asked about it, mention a few bruised fingers or that time I got soap in my eye, but it’s hard to compete with Sven’s bubbling flesh smoldering right in front of me (he also doesn’t get weekends off).

Anyway, like I said, I’m not exactly having the time of my life here. Still, I suppose it could be worse.