MARGARET THATCHER IN HELL

Margaret Thatcher died and her everlasting soul left her body and plunged through clawing rock and burning gas for thousands of years, as was customary. When it stopped plunging she was in hell. She poked around among the torment, which was everywhere. Ho hum. She dipped her toe in a lake of fire. She offered her skin to the iron whip. "Nothing hurts," she complained. She made friends with a werewolf. His back was bent with guilt over the blood he'd shed and the lives he'd taken. He loped along the grey rocky paths to the the cliff at the precipice of the infernal valley and howled. Awooo! "My memory is my torture," he explained. She tried to remember but she couldn't. She appealed to local denizens who voted for her as their local representative by a margin of 100%. She visited Satan himself. "One isn't being tortured," she complained. His laugh boomed over the valley. "Isn't one?" he asked.