[ WP ] What is the punishment you would receive in hell .

The first thing he noticed was the hum. 
 
 His eyes still closed, it droned, a lowrange chorale rising, an electric fog on the stillest night rolling in off cold, dark waters. 
 
 He felt a cold rushing of air around his head now, and a careening machine *^^click ^click click CLICK* ***CLICK*** *click ^click ^^click ^^^click* dopplering past him like a bullet train poured down a hallway and disappearing into the fog, building a lowish roar. He sat up with a start, compelled. His t-shirt billowed around his torso like a carnival sumo in the cold wind from below and he involuntarily gasped, as his consciousness lurched out of his limbic brain, stretching for the lobes, followed by a curt shriek as he felt himself falling down a crevasse. He flailed his hands in shock and they came down, hard, onto an unyielding surface, cold air pouring out of it. He was n't falling at all. 
 The pain crackled from his hands into his heavy head and he opened his eyes. 
 
 Before him was a wall of fireflies, frozen, frenetically blinking on off on off on off. There were some orange ones too. He rubbed his eyes, trying to get a better fix on his surroundings now. He leaned back, still seated, straining for perspective and smacked his head onto something metallic. Cogency rising, he looked over his shoulder and saw another wall of flies, dark tendrils pouring out of its face, sinuously flowing together into a treelike blue root. 
 
 He heard a different clicking, from much further away, *miles* off to his left, and a pinprick of light bombed at him, bleaching the shadow. He reflexively covered his face, and it passed over him, leaving only another key in the discordant melody still ringing out, a fluorescent buzzzing, high pitched, a tinnitus like a spot that disappeared if you looked at it. 
 
 And it was fluorescent indeed! Himself, whole suddenly, saw the scene before him for what it was! He looked down, his toolpouch clipped to his belt, the snips and wirestripper tool safely ensconced. The wall in front of him beckoned, the fireflies revealed, a 7 foot tall face of switches blinking ceaslessly. He looked off to his left, from where the light had come, and saw them. Rack after rack, stretching off into the horizon, the air so clear here, billowing up cold from the perforated cement tiles below that the aisle where he stood in between the two walls melted into a grey point, miles and miles away. 
 
 The tendrils came down from above the rack of switches, twin bundles of wire to each side of the 36 inch rack hundreds of cables each, all marked with a small white label at the end of each, an address written on it for its corresponding home on the back of the switch panel. 
 
 His stomach dropped, panic and claustrophobia rising with the bile in his throat as he stepped into the little cavity in the rack, as if not of his own volition. He grabbed the first cable, quickly scanning the label, measuring roughly to its port, snipped the excess, stripped the sheathing off the last 1.5 inches and splayed out the four small pair of wires within, one honed, smooth set of motions well practiced. He layed out each pair onto a small socket and had his punchdown tool ***SNAP SNAP SNAP SNAP*** drive them home. Without a moment's hesitation he reached for the next Ethernet cable. 
 
 One down, forever to go. 
 

