[Dante Alighieri sits at his desk, in a musty, dimly-lit room, we peer over his should and see him writing]
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here...
"Let us descend now into the blind world, Began the Poet, pallid utterly; "I will be first, and thou shalt second be. And I, who of his color was aware, Said: "How shall I come, if thou art afraid, Who'rt wont to be a comfort to my fears?" And he to me: "The anguish of the people Who are below here in my face depicts That pity which for terror thou hast taken. Let us go on, for the long way impels us." Thus he went in, and thus he made me enter The foremost circle that surrounds the abyss."
[Unhappy with the tone and description, Dante feverishly crosses out everything he has just written, and begins again.]
The precipice of Hell is an empty State College baseball stadium, the souls of the lost milling about. A man, a teen star from the 1980s—a period of human history marked by inexplicable excess so perfectly encapsulated by this particular man, who, for reasons unknowable to man or God alike still dresses as Michael Jackson did during that period—is singing. This man sings alongside heretical angels. The lyrics are indiscernible, but their meaning transcends: 'you are not in Hell, but you are very close. As close as humanly possible, indeed.'
[Dante shudders, yet continues.]
I ask the poet accompanying me, "What the fuck is Corey Feldman's deal, man?" He looks at me, eyes full of despair, and says "Let's speed this up, it only gets worse." He is right of course, but I persist. "Won't someone apologize for this?" The Poet turns, "they have, but it is too late for them."