WE ARRIVE IN HELL – PART 27

 

WE ARRIVE IN HELL – PART 27

We gathered one last time in the hotel bar, our sanctuary of bad coffee and desperate optimism, for the next episode in our ever-deepening descent: life aboard the Greek Cruise Ship.

Now, if you’re wondering, “Wait, weren’t we promised single rooms?”—you’re not alone. Yes, we were. In black and white. In our contracts. But who actually reads contracts, right? Certainly not the Company. Or maybe they do—just as bedtime stories to lull themselves to sleep while lying through their teeth.

 

Enter Puppethead, one of the Company’s go-to executioners. The same guy they shipped to the Bahamas to fire people with clinical precision and zero emotion. A human fax machine in khakis. He took the floor with robotic glee:

“This Greek Cruise Ship is truly lovely. You’re pioneers!”
(Translation: You’re guinea pigs, and we’re too cheap to fix this.)

While Puppethead spun his soulless spiel, Power Suit stepped up with her ever-tight smile, nodding like a malfunctioning bobblehead, reinforcing every lie with a hollow, “Absolutely.”

From the back of the room, the cast started firing questions like we were in a hostage negotiation.

“When do we get off the ship?”
“Well, not really sure,” Power Suit mumbled.

“Are there phones?”
“We… have cell phones,” she deflected.

“Where do we eat?”
Cue nervous stammering and eye-darting.

Just when it looked like Power Suit might short-circuit, Useless jumped in with all the grace of a backup dancer who missed her cue:

“We at the company will do our utmost to meet all your needs!”

Power Suit glared daggers at her. Useless began to sweat.

Then the cavalry arrived. The Cruise Director. Charismatic, theatrical, and completely full of it. A velvet-voiced snake oil salesman with jazz hands. Former Company board member, now tasked with selling us on this floating prison.

“Hello darlings! Sweethearts!” he boomed, as if stepping onto a Broadway stage.

He promised a wall of telephones, gourmet food, hot showers, and probably world peace if we’d just stop asking questions. We were dazzled and dazed—his superpower. A politician in a sequined vest.

“You’ll be safe, happy, and cared for,” he cooed.

And like that, we were gaslit into silence.

After the meeting, we returned to our rooms to pack. Confusion buzzed like a faulty lightbulb. Someone muttered:

“What the hell was that all about?”

No one had an answer.

The next morning, we hauled our suitcases down to the back lobby and left them in a designated holding pen. I caught a quick breakfast and then dashed to the flower shop to buy a bouquet for the woman who had cleaned my room. I wasn’t the only one—turns out, half the cast had the same idea. We were still capable of kindness, even on our way to hell.

Then the truck arrived. Time to move out.

But the ship wasn’t ready.

So the Company sent us to the mall.

Yes, the mall.

We wandered the same stores for eight full hours. Every escalator became a treadmill of despair. At some point, a few of us snapped and escaped to a nearby castle we’d spotted on past drives to the Black and White club.

It turned out to be Napoleon Bonaparte’s summer home. Grand. Peaceful. Lush gardens blooming with a history we could feel in our bones.

It was the last beauty we’d see for a while.

After soaking in all that forgotten glory, we were herded back to the mall for a final few hours. Twelve hours had now passed. Then came the call:

“The ship is ready.”

We piled into the vans, tense but eager for something to be real. We approached the shipyard.

And then we saw it.

A cement wall encircled the yard, broken glass embedded across the top, a crude crown of jagged bottle shards. Meant to keep people out… or keep people in?

Thick black smoke coiled skyward.

The stench of burning trash filled the air.

No signs. No welcome.

Someone in the van began to cry.

So did the rest of us. But silently.