RAIN LASHED ARTHUR FINCH’S one-room Newark apartment window. He stared at his laptop screen, HELLnet™’s glow cutting through the gloom. The job paid $420 an hour—enough to erase $42,000 of medical debt suffocating him in six days. He disregarded Clause 666: “Soul collateral would be forfeited after 90 days of continuous employment.” Desperation made the infernal small print seem like a parking ticket.

A haunting, dirge-like chime echoed ominously from the laptop speakers.

NEW TICKET: The Devil-001
PRIORITY: Infernal
COMPLAINANT: L. Morningstar
ISSUE: Thermostat Malfunction
DESCRIPTION: Office temperature reading 71.9°f. This constitutes a breach of the eternal balminess clause. Halo exhibiting unacceptable levels of frizz. See attached.

The attached selfie depicted Lucifer Morningstar, CEO of Inferno Solutions Inc., pouting next to a sleek, modern thermostat. His radiant golden halo appeared disheveled and frazzled.

Great. First day on the damned job, and the Devil himself wanted HVAC support.

Before Arthur reacted, a chat window flashed:
GARY (SOUL PROCUREMENT – TIER 2): Fix it, sport. Or I’ll repurpose your kneecaps into paperweights. The clock’s ticking.

A sharp sting from the paper cut, gotten opening the Hell Employee Handbook earlier, made Arthur jerk his hand back. A glowing, thin, angry line of crimson light pulsed beneath his skin. As he nurtured his cut, a tiny notification in the corner of the HELLnet™ interface caught his eye:
SOUL INTEGRITY: 95%.

What the hell did that even mean? The handbook mentioned “soul collateral degradation manifesting physically during policy violations or service failures.” He hadn’t believed it. Now, the throbbing heat in his knuckle felt like a countdown timer.

He picked up the hefty, leather-bound book next to his tepid coffee mug. The pages felt unnaturally warm as he flipped frantically past sections on “Soul Reclamation Procedures” and “Inter-Departmental Torment Quotas,” locating Rule 4.3:

THERMAL REGULATION DURING SOUL MELT EVENTS.

In the event of temperature-related grievances filed by senior management (Level 9 Damnation and above):

1. Identify the nearest geothermal source (the Greed Processing Dept. recommended it—perpetually overclocked)
2. Initiate energy reroute via Form 13B (attached).
3. Submit a resolution ticket within 5 minutes or incur a soul-point deduction (see Addendum 6.6.6).

Arthur’s fingers danced across the keyboard. He navigated the Energy Reroute portal, found the Greed Department’s pulsing, avarice-fueled thermal signature, and shaved off a sliver of heat—exactly 0.1°F. He attached the completed Form 13B, citing Rule 4.3.

ERROR: ACCESS DENIED.

INSUFFICIENT CLEARANCE.

CONTACT SUPERVISOR: G. Incubus.

Gary. Of course. The incubus from Soul Procurement whom sent him vaguely threatening welcome messages since orientation.

Arthur’s pen began a frantic, unconscious tap-tap tapping against his thigh—a nervous habit spelling out Morse code:  “–. .- .-. -.– …- …-” GARY SUX.

Bureaucracy, Arthur thought through gritted teeth, was just weaponized pettiness.

He opened the Violation Reporting module and with meticulous, shaking fingers, he cited Gary Incubus, Tier 2, for “Unauthorized Workflow Obstruction” under Handbook Rule 7.2, attached the access denied error log and hit submit.

The system groaned like shifting tectonic plates.

A moment later, “ACCESS RESTORED” flashed across the screen in big bold letters.

Arthur slammed the REROUTE command.

RESOLUTION NOTES: Temperature adjusted +0.1°F per Policy 4.3; 72.0°F achieved.
NOTE: Apologies for the frizz inconvenience, Mr. Morningstar.
Arthur Finch, Junior CSR, Soul Retention.

He sent the message.

The paper cut on his knuckle flared white-hot, then subsided to a deep, angry crimson pulse.

The notification in the corner updated:

SOUL INTEGRITY: 90%.

“Stop apologizing to the Devil, you pathetic doormat,” he cursed himself, sucking air through his teeth. Ten percent of his soul was gone because he said ‘sorry’ to the Prince of Darkness over thermostat settings. The handbook didn’t mention that particular penalty.

The mournful chime sounded a second time.
NEW TICKET: #ETERN-42
PRIORITY: Lost Soul
COMPLAINANT: Agnes P.
ISSUE: Wrongful Eternal Damnation Assignment
DESCRIPTION: I was only jaywalking! Once! In Schenectady! 1973! They promised me the Flower Gardens! I’ve been standing in a DMV line for SEVEN YEARS!

A translucent, elderly woman in a faded floral house dress, materialized beside Arthur’s rickety desk. She clutched a spectral knitting basket overflowing with shiny grey yarn. She blinked owlishly behind her thick glasses while adjusting it.

“Young man?” Her voice, thin as stretched wire, carried the desperate edge of someone shattered by bureaucracy. “I apologize for the intrusion, but the automated system has once again misplaced my appeal.”

Arthur flinched. Manifesting clients. Right. That was in the handbook too.

“Agnes P.? Damnation: Eternal DMV Queues.” He recited the ticket details.

“It’s a dreadful mistake!” She wrung her phantom hands. “One little jay said I’d be deadheading petunias for eternity! Now I queue behind a young man who curses Wi-Fi routers because his Twitch stream lagged!”

Arthur pulled up her case file. A blood-red VOID stamp covered the original assignment details.

An unsightly, disgusting clipping of a thick, yellowed toenail, stuck to the corner of his computer screen appeared. He picked up his phone and took a picture, just in case he imagined it.

Gary. Sabotage. Again.

“I’m terribly sorry, Agnes,” Arthur began the apology tasting like ash. “Your case file appears—”

“Non-refundable?” Agnes interrupted. The yarn in her basket slowly unraveled onto Arthur’s floor, passing through the cheap linoleum. “Oh, dear. Back in my day, damnation had standards.”

A sharp crack made Arthur jump. His coffee mug split down the side. Thick, viscous liquid, the color of cooling slag, tumbled from the crack, sizzling faintly on a stray ramen noodle on his desk.

The notification flashed: SOUL INTEGRITY 75%.

Arthur stared at the screen. Twenty-five percent gone. Because of Gary. Because of a voided file. Because Agnes was damned for jaywalking.

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

The sound came from across the tiny studio apartment—inside Arthur’s dented microwave.

“Oh, my stars! That’s… that’s certainly not my Mr. Whiskers…?”

The microwave buzzed to life, its interior light flickering erratically. Inside, rotating slowly on a chipped ceramic plate, was a whole mackerel. It glowed with an unhealthy, toxic green luminescence. The stench of rotten fish and something ancient and foul, like burning hair and volcanic vents, permeated the small room.

“Rule 3.8, Arthur.” Gary’s voice, slick and menacing, reverberated through the small space. “No fish in the astral microwave. It screws with the resonance. But then…” A low, grating chuckle. “…Rules are for mortals, aren’t they, sport?”

The microwave door blasted off its hinges with a screech of tortured metal, scattering across the floor. Gary stepped out onto the linoleum. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, covered by a frilly, food-stained ‘Kiss the Chef’ apron. A smear of glowing green ichor decorated his lapel. He smoothed his slicked-back hair, smiling.

SOUL INTEGRITY: 65%. The notification pulsed like a sick heartbeat.

Gary’s polished dress shoes clicked on the floor as he stepped fully into the apartment. The nauseating reek of microwaved hellfish clung to him like a noxious cloud. His obsidian eyes locked onto Arthur, then flicked dismissively to Agnes, who shrank back, her spectral yarn tangling in frantic loops around her ankles.

“Agnes, Agnes, Agnes,” Gary tutted, plucking the yellowed toenail clipping from Arthur’s monitor with unnaturally long fingers. “Still haunting the help desk? Eternity’s a long time to file fruitless appeals, dearie.” He crushed the clipping to dust, letting it sift through his fingers.

Arthur’s gaze darted past Gary’s smirking face to his desk. His eyes snagged on a subheading pulsing faintly gold in the opened Hell Employee Handbook:

RULE 9.1: SOUL REASSIGNMENT VIA DIVINE CC.

For cases of provable clerical error in Eternal Damnation Assignment (EDA).

1. Compile evidence of error (Form 9.1A).
2. Address appeal to: heavenlyadministration@celestial.cloud.
3. Subject Line: FORMAL APPEAL—SOUL REASSIGNMENT (CASE #[NUMBER]).
4. WARNING: Adding FYI, emoticons, or unsolicited blessings voids appeal & incurs immediate smiting.

Gary followed Arthur’s stare. The incubus’s smirk vanished, replaced by a snarl revealing needle-sharp teeth.

“Oh, no, sport.” He stepped closer, the air crackling with static. “Don’t even think about Rule 9.1.” He tapped the terracotta pot holding Steve, Arthur’s struggling succulent. A wisp of sulfurous smoke curled from the contact point.

“Touch that keyboard, and little Steve becomes salsa. Permanently.”

Behind Gary, the microwave, still radiating an unholy green light, shuddered violently.

“Oh, please, young man, don’t let him hurt the plant!” Agnes whimpered.

The paper cut on Arthur’s knuckle blazed. Pain, hot and jagged, shot up his arm.

The notification flashed red:

SOUL INTEGRITY: 50%.

The cracks in his skin pulsed crimson. Fifty percent gone. For what? Gary’s pettiness? Failing… again?

A memory slammed into him, vivid and unwelcome: His old coworker, Lisa, tears streaming down her face in ValueMart’s grimy breakroom. Their manager, Brad, held her commission slip he’d stolen. “Problem, Finch?” Brad challenged. Arthur stared at his worn sneakers, mumbled, “No Sir,” then fled. Lisa’s choked sob followed him: “Doormat…”

The shame of that moment, burning hotter than the hellfire fracturing his mug, engulfed him. He felt the weight of letting Lisa down, the memory branding him a coward, a realization that cut deep.

But not this time.

Arthur’s gaze hardened. His fingers, steady now, didn’t hesitate. He yanked the mouse, highlighted Agnes’s case number (#ETERN-42), and pasted it into the Subject Line of a new email. He attached the corrupted case file screenshot, a digital scan of the void stamp, and a close-up of Gary’s damned toenail clipping.

He typed with furious precision:
SUBJECT: Formal Appeal —Soul Reassignment (CASE #ETERN-42)
TO: heavenlyadministration@celestial.cloud
MESSAGE: Per Infernal Policy 9.1 and Celestial Bylaw 7.7 (Soul Misallocation Rectification Procedures), we formally appeal the Eternal love Damnation Assignment of Soul: AGNES P. (Deceased: 2018).
ASSIGNMENT: Eternal DMV queues (tier 1 damnation)
DOCUMENTED ERROR: Assignment based on a single (1) jaywalking violation (Schenectady, NY, 1973). The original contract stipulated eternal garden maintenance (tier 3 bliss).
EVIDENCE: Corrupted Case File (Att. 1), Void Stamp Sabotage (Att. 2), and Foreign Contaminant (Toenail, Att. 3) indicating internal interference.
OUTCOME: Requesting immediate reassignment per agreed protocols.

Sincerely,
Arthur Finch, Junior CSR, Soul Retention, Inferno Solutions Inc.

P.S.: Complainant L. Morningstar requests you check your thermostat calibration. Ours is optimal.

Gary lunged, a guttural roar tearing from his throat. “Don’t you dare, mortal!”

Arthur’s glowing, cracked hand spasmed. A burst of golden static flared across his knuckles. His finger slipped, and he hit the CC shortcut key just as he sent the mail.

Time stuttered.

Gary froze mid-lunge, his face a mask of pure, undiluted horror. “You…” he whispered, the sound like dry leaves scraping stone. “You CC’d… Michael.”

Behind him, the overloaded microwave exploded in a shower of sparks and molten plastic. One angry, shrieking hellfish-eel hybrid flopped onto the floor, gnashing human-like teeth.

A pure, warm light, utterly alien in the dingy apartment, emanated from Agnes’s spectral form. She looked down at her hands, solid and bathed in radiance.

“Oh… Oh, my begonias!” she breathed. “What’s happening?” A beatific smile spread across her face.

Arthur stared at his hand. The agonizing heat was gone. The crimson cracks sealed, leaving smooth skin that hummed with a strange, golden warmth.

The notification flashed in the corner, brilliant and steady:

SOUL INTEGRITY: 100%.

Agnes’s form began to rise, dissolving into motes of light. Her knitting basket tumbled to the floor. As her last wisp ascended, a single, cream-colored cardstock page fluttered from the basket onto Arthur’s linoleum floor.

Silence descended, broken only by the hellfish-eel’s sizzle and Arthur’s laptop’s frantic beeping.

PING! PING! PING!

A new email notification:
FROM: L. Morningstar
SUBJECT: URGENT: Heaven-Hell Collaboration Summit
MESSAGE: Finch! My office. NOW. (Virtual Link Attached).
AGENDA:
1. Thermostat Alignment (Heavenly Standards Review)
2. Your unauthorized use of Divine CC protocols
3. Gary’s disciplinary hearing (microwave abuse, toenail sabotage)

P.S.: Bring the handbook. And coffee. Black.

ATTACHED: [Heavenly_Thermostat_Specs.pdf]

Arthur looked from the smoldering microwave wreckage to Gary. The incubus stared at the ceiling, mouth agape as if he still saw the spot where Agnes vanished. A single, impossibly white but perfect feather drifted down and landed on his impeccably suited shoulder. Gary flinched, flicking it off as if it were acid.

Arthur bent, picked up the page, and brushed off a speck of lint. He turned towards his desk, opened the handbook, placed the loose page amongst the others, and cleared his throat, meeting Gary’s stunned gaze.

“Per Policy 9, Gary,” Arthur began, his voice steady. “Would you like the exact clause number?” He tapped his pen against the leather cover. Not in Morse. Just a steady, confident beat.

Tap. Tap. Tap

Before Gary answered, Arthur’s laptop pinged.
VIRTUAL MEETING REQUEST
ACCEPT? Y/N
HOST: L. Morningstar
TOPIC: Heaven-Hell Collaboration Summit // Disciplinary Review (Incident #ETERN-42)

Arthur clicked Y.

His screen dissolved into swirling crimson smoke, resolving into a sleek, obsidian conference room. Lucifer sat at the head of an onyx table, steepling perfectly manicured fingers. His halo was flawlessly smooth, radiating a soft, menacing gold. A sleek chrome thermostat, reading a perfect 72.0°F, mounted prominently on the wall behind him.

“Finch,” he purred, his voice smooth and sharp as shattered glass. “You’ve been… busy.” His gaze flickered to a secondary window—a shimmering, light-filled space where Archangel Michael, looking profoundly bored in blindingly white robes, sipped celestial tea.

“Mr. Morningstar,” Arthur replied, voice steady. He held up the handbook. “Following protocol, sir. Rule 9.1.”

Lucifer’s eyebrow arched. “Rule 9.1 requires precision and careful consideration, Finch. Not reckless CC’ing of Archangels.” He tapped a finger on the table, and a holographic agenda appeared:

THERMOSTAT ALIGNMENT (CELESTIAL STANDARDS REVIEW)

Heaven insists on 71.5°F ±0.1° “for optimal cloud density.”
VERDICT: UNACCEPTABLE.

UNAUTHORIZED DIVINE CC PROTOCOL (A. FINCH)

VERDICT: Clever.
PUNISHMENT: Promotion to Senior CSR (Soul Retention & Heavenly Liaison).

DISCIPLINARY HEARING: G. INCUBUS

CHARGES: Microwave abuse (Rule 3.8), toenail sabotage (Rule 8.4), and fish stench (Rule 5.1).
SENTENCE: 500 years reassigned to Eternal DMV Queues (Tier 1). Effective immediately.

Gary’s face, now visible in a third window (filmed from what looked like a sulfurous broom closet), went sheet white. “Five hundred years?! But the lines! The fluorescent lighting! The—”

“Silence, Gary,” Lucifer snapped. “Consider it… synergy.”

He turned back to Arthur, his hellfire eyes betraying a hint of grudging respect. “Agnes sends her regards. Apparently, Celestial Garden Maintenance involves excessive tulip pruning. Who knew?”

He steepled his fingers again. “Your new position includes mediating thermostat disputes. Michael is… particular.”

Archangel Michael sighed, a sound like distant church bells. “72°F creates halation in the cherubim wings. It’s purely aesthetic.”

Lucifer shot Michael a look before turning his attention back to Arthur.

“That’s all for now,” he waved a hand dismissively.

Back in his apartment, Arthur almost smiled. A holy HVAC war.

He looked down at the handbook, fumbling as he set it on the desk. The loose, cream-colored cardstock page he picked up earlier, stashed amongst the pages, fluttered from the book, landing face-up on his ramen-stained desk.

OFFICIAL INTER-DEPARTMENTAL MEMO (CONFIDENTIAL)
TO: Arthur Finch
FROM: Agnes P. (Eternal Garden Maintenance, Sector 7)
SUBJECT: Eternal Gratitude

Dear Arthur,
They let me bring Mr. Whiskers! The begonias are thriving. Found this tucked into my knitting basket—must have fallen from your desk during the ascension kerfuffle. Thought you should have it. Rule 4.3 saved my soul, but Rule 9.1? That saved everything.

Thank you Arthur.

P.S.: Avoid Gary’s tuna casserole. Trust me.
Agnes
ATTACHED: [Page 42: HELL EMPLOYEE HANDBOOK—FULL RULE 9.1 PROCEDURES]

Arthur picked up the page. At the bottom, beneath the dense bureaucratic text, was a handwritten note in looping, elegant script:
“The complete handbook with 13 Rules + Gary’s Disciplinary File: [click here]” Password: begonias1973

Ping! Another email:
FROM: L. Morningstar
SUBJECT: Your First Task (Senior CSR)
MESSAGE: Finch. Draft a compromise proposal: 71.7°F. Call it “The Finch Accord.” Michael is waiting.

P.S.: Coffee. Now. Black. And… good work, Mr. Finch.

Arthur Finch, Senior Customer Service Representative (Soul Retention & Heavenly Liaison), took a deep breath. He picked up his pen—no longer tapping in anxious Morse, but poised, ready to write a policy that might reshape eternity.

He glanced at Agnes’s note. First, coffee. Next, thermostats. Then, perhaps I’ll explore what else is in that handbook.

Arthur couldn’t help but smile as Gary’s fate unfolded on the screen; a flickering neon sign read: “NOW SERVING DAMNED SOUL #9,001,420”, and Gary, clutching a vibrating number ticket, his gaze fixed into the middle distance with a profound sense of despair etched on his features.

TO: heavenlyadministration@celestial.cloud; archangel.michael@celestial.cloud; l.morningstar@inferno-solutions.net

SUBJECT: PROPOSAL: The Finch Accord (Optimal Thermostatic Synergy)

MESSAGE: Esteemed colleagues, Per my analysis of Celestial Bylaw 7.7 and Infernal Policy 4.3…

Outside Arthur’s window, the rain finally stopped. A single, stubborn ray of sunlight pierced the Newark gloom, glinting off the golden 100% on his laptop screen’s bottom corner.