Never mind which level of Hell they’re on…John Murtha breathed a sigh of relief; he had heard many others scream in pain in the Quarantine Section as thousands of virgin Demons with anvil-shaped genitalia, in blocks of 72, “broke in” the new arrivals. He was not entitled to one.
However, he was not without the same aches and pains he suffered while he was on the Earth above; they were only magnified many times over. He exited from the center to find a fellow politician with swim trunks on.
“Hello, John,” greeted Ted Kennedy. “Care for some scotch?” He thrust a bottle forward, and Murtha declined. “More for me I guess.” He took another gulp.

“At least I know where I’m at,” said Murtha. “I know I have a special punishment in store for me. And no amount of Federal pork will keep it at bay.”
“Go on.” The pain in Kennedy’s brain was excruciating, so he took another gulp of scotch.
“As you have to drown every day in a 1967 Oldsmobile sedan driven into a facsimile of Chappaquiddick, I will be subject to disembowelment by Marines who ended up here, because I am a Traitor to the Corps, not to mention the United States of America.”
Kennedy patted Murtha on the back. “Good lad!” They began to walk further away from the Quarantine Section. A man with a fedora and dark overcoat stood and waited for them. “Now, I want you to meet my ‘spiritual’ advisor. You’ll like him.”
“Oh?” Murtha quipped. “What’s his name? He doesn’t look Catholic!”
The mysterious figure extended his hand and replied, “Cavil…John Cavil.”