"J. Brian Clarke - Hell Aint What It Used To Be" - читать интересную книгу автора (Clarke Brian J)

PART 2
Later in the beginning.

The worst part is knowing I have been utterly and
completely fooled--one hundred and twelve times, so far.
During an assignment I know nothing of what has gone before,
although my tormentor is creative enough to allow enough
leakage to create a nagging sense of deja vu. But each time
Smith hauls me into her presence after another unsuccessful
tilt at another windmill, I recall every humiliating detail
of everything which has happened to me since the day I died.
It was Hell squared when it began. Now, with all the intact
memories of one hundred and twelve disasters, it is Hell
raised to the umpteenth power.
If I was alive, I would have become a raving lunatic
long ago. But because I am no longer subject to human
frailty, I remain fully rational and able to appreciate the
exquisite punishment the powers-that-be (with Smith as their
very effective instrument) have decreed for me.
But right now I have the distinct impression Smith has
mellowed. She has even changed her dress to something not
quite as drab. It triggers a faint hope.
"Am I coming to the end of my punishment?", I ask
hopefully.
"It is not for me to say."
"That is not an answer!"
"It is as much as you will get."
"Damn you."
"That was taken care of a long time ago, Luv," she says
as she jabs her overworked finger on the key which reopens
that awful door--


PART 3
The beginning plus one hundred and thirteen.

Although I was never dumped amid fire and brimstone, in
terms of pain and aggravation just about all of the
assignments were pretty close equivalents. In this case it
was a mountain of garbage next to a shanty town on the
outskirts of a third world city. Swarms of human scavengers
were poking, sifting and sorting on the odoriferous hill,
looking for things saleable or eatable.
I will not even try to describe what was considered
eatable.
My target was a young girl who had run away from home,
presumably to better herself (making sense only if 'home'
was a smaller garbage mountain than this one). As I looked
for her, I knew nothing about where I came from or who