When Dan T. discovered he was working for Satan, he almost choked on a bagel. He was sitting in his crowded cubicle, seven minutes into a coffee break, looking at his paystub. The paystub told him $811.32 had been direct deposited into his bank account by Hornish, Ellitson, Lewis & Levine, Inc., the conglomerate that had recently acquired the telemarketing firm where Dan worked. He looked carefully at the name of the company he now worked for: Hornish, Ellitson, Lewis & Levine. The company's logo featured the four names stacked on top of each other, helping Dan see the company's acronym: HELL, Inc.
      He worked for Hell. At Hell. In Hell.
      This wasn't what made the bagel stick in his throat, however. Instead, the thought of S'tan clogged his windpipe. Each day he--and everyone in the company, from what it sounded like--received an email message from S'tan, the company CEO, imploring them to work harder, smarter, faster.
      Dan always assumed "S'tan" represented a bit of spelling creativity, probably from a beancounter named Stan trying to show some artistic flair. He recalled once knowing a Terry who spelled his name with a colon at the end; he wasn't Terry, he was Terry:. Of course, Dan always read "Terry:" as "Terry-colon," which then made him think of "Terry-asshole" (something he never shared with good old Terry:), but who was he to tell other people how to spell their names? Just a telemarketer, that's who. And telemarketers didn't tell other people how to do anything. Except how to find the security code on their credit cards so they could purchase Yanni's Greatest Hits.
      Dan gulped a few swigs of his coffee as he thought back to his high school English classes and the many uses of the apostrophe. One such use, he recalled, was to replace missing letters in words. Thus, the contraction of "do not" became "don't," with the apostrophe replacing the missing letter "o." Colloquially, "going" became "goin'," the dropped "g" represented by another apostrophe. What if S'tan, his new CEO, wasn't simply a creative speller? What if he was a careful speller who had also paid close attention to his grammar lessons, and what if the apostrophe in his name simply replaced a dropped "a"?
      S'tan. Satan. The bagel stayed at the top of Dan's throat, refusing to go down until he grabbed for his coffee again.
      He would quit. He had to quit. After all, no one would willingly work for the Prince of Darkness.
      Would they?
      He didn't think so.
      And yet.
      He was just two days from a possible promotion. The quotas were murderous, yes (of course, now that he knew he was working in Hell, the quotas made sense). He had to sell an average of $1000 in magazine subscriptions each shift to be eligible for bonuses. Four consecutive weeks of a $1000-per-shift average would get him bumped up to the next level. No more phones. Dan was two days away from that milestone, and his average for the week ($1032 per shift) was holding steady.
      Two more days, and he'd move up a rung. Did he want to leave without hitting that? And where else was he going to work, anyway? There wasn't exactly a world of opportunity open to former telemarketers.
      He supposed, as he slipped the headset back over his ear and aligned the microphone in front of his mouth, that working in Hell wasn't as bad as one might expect. Especially since he was about to get a promotion.
      Dan pulled up his script on the monitor, then reconnected his terminal to the autodialer. The autodialer was a true bit of telemarketing genius: an application that could dial multiple phone numbers simultaneously, sniffing out the response on the other end of the line before connecting the call to a salesperson. If there was no answer after four rings--or if an answering machine picked up--the autodialer hung up and moved to the next number in the database. But if an ever-elusive live person picked up the line, the autodialer automatically forwarded the call to a telemarketer.
      Most people had spoken to an autodialer without realizing it. It happened when they answered the call with a friendly "hello," but got no response. Almost always--99% of the time--they followed that with another, more puzzled "hello?" That's when the autodialer hooked them and transferred to one of the waiting telemarketers. Most people didn't know they could bypass a huge percentage of telemarketing calls simply by resisting the urge to utter that second "hello." The autodialer would drop the call.
      But, pitted against the autodialer, most of the American populace was powerless.
      Dan sat up straight as he heard the autodialer forwarding a call to his extension. He looked at his script. "Good Evening, Mr. Hondo," he read in a bright, cheery voice. "This is Dan calling from Clearinghouse Subscriptions, and you've been selected to--"
      "Not interested," the voice on the other end of the line said.
      The man's response flagged him as an Interrupter. Dan, and his script, knew how to handle Interrupters. "I understand you're busy, Mr. Hondo. If you're not interested in a free subscription to your favorite magazine, thanks for your time and--"
      "Free subscription?"
      "Yes sir. To a leading magazine of your choice."
      "What's the catch?"
      Dan smiled. "There's no catch, sir."

The next morning, Dan felt golden and magnificent as he wandered into his cubicle. He had expected a sleepless night, tossing as his conscience wrestled with the idea of being a minion of Lucifer. And yet, somehow, the knowledge was freeing. Intoxicating, even. Sleep came easily, and he awoke in the morning refreshed and unbothered by dark dreams.
      Two more days, and he'd move to the next level. No more autodialer, no more phone calls. He wasn't quite sure what it would entail, but it had to be important. More important than selling subscriptions to "Turnips Today."
      After his computer and his email application booted, a faint chime worked its way through his emails. An update on the quotas from his immediate supervisor, a spam or two, a lunch offer from Greg in accounting, and the message he knew would be there: the daily missive from S'tan.
      He opened the message from S'tan, a short one. "Arbeit macht frei," it read. Whatever that meant. He closed the message, then slipped on his headset. Two more days of hard sales, and he'd be off the phones forever. But his mind was now forming a new goal, as well.
      Somewhere in his office building was S'tan, and he intended to find out what S'tan looked like.

At the end of his shift (another good one; one more day, and the promotion was a cinch), Dan slid off his headphones, stood up, and stretched. Next shift would be coming on in about ten minutes, so he needed to make himself scarce. Now was his chance to explore.
      He entered the elevator, but instead of punching the button for the lobby, he tried the top floor. Satan was a pretty important guy; he'd put himself on the top floor, wouldn't he? The doors to the elevator slid shut, but the elevator didn't move. He pressed the button for the top floor again--floor 13--but nothing happened. The button didn't even light.
      Well, what about the basement? That made sense, too: Satan setting up shop in the lowest part of the building. He pressed the button for the basement level.
      Nothing again.
      Dan pressed the buttons for every other floor, but the car remained motionless. Finally, he punched the lobby button; immediately, the car lurched to life and carried him down. When he reached the bottom floor, he tried the top floor again. No movement. He pressed floor seven, where he worked. The elevator whined to life, bringing him up.
      Okay. Obviously, for security purposes, he could only go to the floor where he worked. Fine. He could understand that. What he couldn't understand, though, was how such a security measure was enforced. He didn't scan a card, so how did the elevator determine his access privileges? For that matter, what would happen if he rode up with other people and tried to get off on a different floor? He'd never tried a different floor before--no reason to--but now he wanted to. Dan pushed the button for the lobby again, then stepped outside. Folks for the next shift should be coming on, and surely people from other floors would be among them.
      He wandered around the lobby while he waited; soon, two other men and a woman had queued in the lobby, waiting for an elevator. When the doors swooshed open, Dan fell in line behind them and studied as one of the men--a guy in a grey fedora--punched floor five. Fedora Guy kept his finger poised over the keypad, waiting for the others to call out their floors.
      "Nine," the other man--short, with a thatch of dark red hair--said. "Seven," said the woman. "Me, too," Dan said as he smiled at the woman. She had tight curls, a mocha complexion, eyes so dark her pupils were lost. He didn't recognize her. No big surprise: probably a couple hundred people worked on his floor, and plenty of them opposite hours from his.
      The doors slid open on floor five. Dan looked out. All he could see was a receptionist's desk--unoccupied at the moment. Fedora guy stepped out of the doors, and Dan moved to follow.
      The doors snapped shut, swift and forceful as a guillotine. Had he time to think about it, he might have stuck out his arm to catch the bar and force the elevator door open again.
      Well, no, that actually wasn't right. The doors sliding shut seemed so...solid. Dan had the eerie feeling they wouldn't have opened again at all; instead, he pictured his arm being crushed. He turned around, and noticed the dark-eyed woman was staring.
      "I thought you were seven," she said.
      "Yeah."
      "That was five."
      "I know. Just kind of spaced out for a second, I guess." He tried a smile, and she returned it. The doors slid open on seven, and he stepped to the side. "After you," he said, sweeping his arm. He followed her out of the elevator--still a bit scared the doors of the elevator were going to clamp down on him even though this was his floor--then followed behind her for a few steps before turning around and looking for the stairs. After a few minutes of searching, he found the door, but wasn't too surprised to discover it locked.
      Dan returned to the elevator, then pushed the down button. He'd have to go home and think about all this. Somewhere in the bowels of this building was S'tan's office, and S'tan himself. If Dan could figure out how to get on other floors, he could see what Satan was up to.
      Dan stepped into the elevator and pushed the lobby button again, then waited patiently as the car dropped. With a soft ding, the doors opened again. Standing outside of them was the dark-eyed woman. How did she get to another floor if he couldn't?
      "Hey," he said. She didn't answer as she got into the elevator with him.
      "I worked the last shift," he explained. "I forgot something, had to go back up and get it." He wasn't quite sure why he was trying to come up with an excuse to be on the elevator; she didn't know who he was.
      "What'd you forget?"
      "Um...coat."
      "Forgot it again, I see."
      He looked down. He wasn't wearing his coat. "Yeah, I, uh...guess I have a lot on my mind."
      "You want to see S'tan," she said. It was a statement, not a question.
      The car reached the lobby, and the doors opened. Dan stepped out, feeling a bit claustrophobic. She thumbed the "Door Open" button and looked at him.
      "I can help," she continued.
      "Who are you?"
      "I'm Virgil." She offered him a delicate right hand while continuing to hold the door button with the other.
      "I'm Dan, nice to meet you. Virgil seems--"
      "Odd name for a girl? Yeah. Makes perfect sense though, when you understand what I do."
      "And what exactly is that?"
      "I give tours."
      He smiled. "You give tours."
      "You'll get one. But first, you need to meet S'tan."
      "When?"
      "Sooner than you think." She released the button and let the elevator slide shut, leaving Dan to stare at the door's gleaming metal surface.

On the way home, Dan felt the adrenaline leaving his muscles--playing secret agent around the office was a bit more excitement than he was used to--and he started longing for home. He'd have a quick bite to eat, sit in the bath, do a little reading, get a good night's sleep, then head to work for his last shift on the phones. The promotion was his now: he could feel it.
      At the door to his apartment, he stopped and took a deep breath before sliding his key into the lock. Home. Time to decompress. He turned the key and opened the door. Inside was the seventh floor lobby of his office building.
      Dan blinked a time or two. He turned and looked down his hallway. Yes, this was his apartment building; the ugly rhododendron in the purple planter sat under a plate glass window at the end of the hall, just as it always had. He turned back to his door, and still, his office lobby was there.
      Okay, maybe he'd been working a bit too hard, pushing for that promotion too much. Maybe it would be best if he just went down to Juliard's on the corner and had the Tuesday Night Spaghetti Special with a glass or two of wine.
      He shut the door to his apartment and made his way back to the building elevator. He pressed the down button and waited, listening as cables and motors whirred inside the elevator shaft.
      The light above the elevator illuminated with a soft ding, and the doors slid open. Virgil stood inside.
      "Hey, welcome back," she said with a lilt in her voice.
      Dan looked around. The hallway of his apartment building had become the lobby of his company's office.
      "I, uh..." He stood and stared, unsure what exactly he should be saying.
      "I know," Virgil said as she stepped off the elevator to join him. "You're looking forward to your last day on the phones." She leaned in close to whisper in his ear. "Eight more hours, and you move up a level."
      Dan felt like he was swimming in mud. His brain refused to work. "I...shouldn't be here," he said.
      "If I had the proverbial nickel for every time I heard that," Virgil said as she took his hand and walked him back to his cubicle. Dan sat down, and even though his mind wasn't clear, his body remembered what to do: he put on the headset and fired up his terminal as Virgil watched.
      "I think, at the end of this shift," she said, "we can get you in to see S'tan."
      Dan turned to ask her a question, but she was gone. He looked back to his terminal and waited a few moments as his email application checked messages. He'd left only half an hour or so ago, so there was only one message.
      A message from S'tan.
      "Let's do drinks after work," it said. "We'll talk about your promotion."
      Dan checked his watch: it was just after 8:30. But was that 8:30 am, or 8:30 pm? Had he blanked out a whole evening at home? Did he get up and come to work this morning, thinking he was going home?
      Dan pulled off his headset and walked back out to the lobby. Of course he was just having an off morning, but he needed to check. Just to calm his nerves. He pushed the elevator button, then watched as the doors opened.
      Inside the elevator was the lobby to his office.
      Quickly, Dan spun around and looked behind him. The lobby to his office, resplendent with its maroon furniture, was there also. Dan walked past the reception desk, then broke into a trot as he rushed for the bathroom: a splash of cool water on his face would help him see straight.
      Inside the bathroom was the lobby to his office.
      Dan stood and stared for a few moments, defeated. Then, he walked past the reception desk again and made his way to his cubicle. His headset and his terminal sat, waiting. He had to get the promotion now. It was his only way out.

Dan had his best shift ever. He lost count, but after just five hours, he'd already hit the $1,000 he needed. In the end, maybe he even hit $2,000. The words on the script flowed from his mouth like smooth liquid; the people on the other end of the line breathlessly waited as Dan filled them in on the many magazine subscriptions available to them in this special offer.
      A few minutes before 5:00, Dan decided to turn off his terminal. He chose shut down, then heard a voice over his shoulder.
      "Ready to meet S'tan?"
      Obviously, Virgil was about to take him to meet the Big Man.
      "I nailed the promotion," he said.
      "I know."
      "Can you tell me what it is?"
      "Where would be the fun in that?" She held out her hand, and Dan got up from his desk. He followed her back out into the lobby, and they waited for the elevator together.
      "What floor is he on?" asked Dan.
      "Hmmm. What floor do you want him to be on?"
      The elevator car arrived, and the doors whisked open. They stepped aboard (Dan was relieved to see it wasn't the lobby to his office inside once again), and Virgil raised an eyebrow at him.
      "Well?" she said.
      "Well what?"
      "Which floor?"
      "I dunno. I can't get off on any other floor, anyway."
      "Ah, but I can," She pressed a button, and the elevator slid into motion. "How about floor 99?"
      "There's only thirteen--" Dan began, but the crimson numbers flying by on the display stopped him. In a few seconds, a crisp "99" illuminated with a soft ding, and the doors slid open. White. The entire 99th floor was white from the ceramic tile underfoot to the acoustic tile overhead. A few hundred feet away, in a small grouping, sat a crimson desk with two matching visitors chairs. Behind the desk was S'tan, now rising and gesturing magnanimously. "Dan, me boy. Come on in. You too, Virg."
      Virgil walked toward the red desk, and Dan hesitatingly followed. S'tan smiled at him with a big who's-yer-buddy grin. His bald pate sparkled under the flourescent lights, and his oily skin had a light sheen. Dan took S'tan's outstretched hand--the shake was neither too firm nor too soft--and caught a whiff of cheap cologne.
      S'tan, Dan thought, looked very much like a stereotypical used car salesman.
      "Have a seat," S'tan said as he hitched up his trousers and plopped back down into his red leather chair. Dan sat and waited.
      S'tan picked up a stack of papers on his desk and whistled. "Fine work, Dan. Fine, fine work. Looks here like you finished with an average of almost $1,100 per shift. Guess we're gonna have to raise the quotas for those poor bastards following you, eh?" S'tan flashed another cheese eating smile--everything but the gold tooth--and Dan uncomfortably smiled back.
      "I promised you a drink. Howzabout it? Pick yer poison."
      "Whiskey and Coke, I guess."
      A highball glass appeared in front of Dan, filled with a caramel-colored drink.
      S'tan smiled. "Damn, I love that trick," he said. "Kinda like the red furniture. Inside joke." He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. "Course, guess you're in on that joke now, aren't you? Figgered out the whole 'S'tan' bit quicker than most."
      Dan's throat felt parched. He picked up his glass and took a drink.
      "You know how many businesses we're in now, Dan? Always been in the soul business, you know--you might call it our core competency--but today, you have to branch out. Mergers, acquisitions, new product lines." S'tan paused for another puff. "We've started working our way into accounting and consulting. Arthur Andersen, Enron, Worldcom, you know?"
      Dan raised an eyebrow, and S'tan smiled at him.
      "Yup," S'tan said. "All my boys. And really, we've got CEOs at about half of the Fortune 500 in our back pocket now."
      S'tan leaned forward. "Well, to hell with my rambling--" He smiled broadly again. "If you'll pardon the expression." He raised his eyebrows. "You're here to talk about the next level." S'tan turned to Virgil. "I think we're looking at our next Customer Satisfaction Manager, don't you?"
      Virgil offered a polite smile and nodded.
      Dan cleared his throat. "Customer Satisfaction Manager?"
      "If a customer isn't happy with any of the many products we sell, you're the guy he talks to. And I gotta tell you, we have a lot of divisions you haven't even seen. Telemarketing, sure. Infomercials, direct mail, email--any kind of intrusive selling, we here at Hornish, Ellitson, Lewis & Levine are in it. And you, Dan me boy, are gonna be our point man. You'll even be handling all of our 'Do Not Call' efforts." Dan nodded, caught up in the importance of this. The new 'Do Not Call' legislation, signed into law by President Bush, let people add their names to a large list of numbers not to be sullied by telemarketers. It had most telemarketing firms wetting their pants, but S'tan didn't seem worried. Maybe--obviously--he had a lot of confidence in Dan.
      S'tan flicked his fingers, and a cigar appeared. Evidently, he had no qualms about playing the used car salesman cliché as far as possible. "Nasty habit, I know. But this is a special occasion. Want one?" Dan nodded, and a cigar appeared between his own fingers.
      S'tan chuckled again.
      Dan took a big puff on his cigar, beginning to warm to this obvious jump in responsibility. Working in Hell wouldn't be so bad, after all. "So," he said "I'll be working with other departments on quality control, then? Making sure everything is in order?"
      S'tan glanced at Virgil and cocked his head toward Virgil. "Quality control, Virg. He's worried about quality control."
      "Yeah, I--" Dan began.
      "Don't believe in it," S'tan said, cutting him off. "I don't much care about quality, me boy. Someone's idiotic enough to buy a magazine subscription from me over the phone, or a vegematic chopper off an infomercial, or a penis pump through an email, I'm not too worried about their thoughts on quality."
      Dan was confused. "So I..."
      "Well, Dan, I think we covered that already. You take calls from the people who don't like our stuff. Wait, not just calls. Emails. Letters, too. Some folks are just old-fashioned, I guess."
      "But I can't fix their problems."
      S'tan leaned across the desk and blew a giant column of smoke. "Welcome to Hell, Dan, me boy."

The phone squealed as Dan booted his computer. He let it ring a few times before he picked it up. "Dan T. Alger, Customer Satisfaction Manager."
      "Yeah," a gruff voice on the other end answered. "My name is on the 'Do Not Call' list, and--"
      "And you received a call from our firm?"
      "Yeah."
      Dan watched his computer screen as his email application booted. It told him he had 9,327 messages.
      "I can see why you're unhappy, sir" Dan said in a dry, flat tone.
      "Damn straight. If I get another call from you guys, I'm gonna file charges or whatever."
      "I'll see what I can do."
      Dan opened his first email. It was from a guy in Oklahoma who had purchased The Essential Jim Nabor song collection, only to find the CD was broken upon arrival.
      "You'd better see right quick. Cuz here's the thing: the receptionist gave me your name, Dan, and your direct extension. If I get another call, you, personally, are going to hear from me again." Dan sighed, watching the intern slide a large tub of mail--hundreds of letters--inside his office. "I'm sure I will, sir," he said to the gruff voice on the other end of the line as he deleted the first email and moved on to the next one. "I'm sure I will."

T.L. Hines bio is forthcoming.