Hell is a casino.
At least, this part of Hell is a casino. Not a ratty, run-down place where hope goes to die; a proper Vegas casino, all glitz and glamor and shining lights.
The receptionist is lovely and lithe, skin only a touch less golden than his eyes. His suit is perfectly modish without making him look like a dandy. He has a forked tongue; he has very good teeth.
“Next in line,” he says, and smiles, warm and welcoming.