Can't forget Abercrombie & Fitch. Or maybe Hollister. Completely demonic in origin, those stores are. In fact, one level of hell has to be devoted to smelling that goddamn hollister eau de toillete for all eternity. Sorry about that, Dean. You only the get the chamber of eternal lashes if you cheat on your first grade spelling test. I'll bet St. Peter thinks looking at your brother funny automatically puts you in a room with Smooth Jazz playing at top volume until Judgement day. But then, you also transported firearms through the contiguous United States (well, I'm assuming you didn't drive the Impala out to Hawaii, or you know Alaska--for that matter was there ever any need to go to Utah?) and did some really naughty things with pens. Totally Hollister territory. Ugh the scary plastic man-chesty mannequins for company for ever and always.
If I was Satan, I'd totally have the best hell ever too. Everybody would be forced to read Thomas Hardy. And then shake hands with him. COME ON, YOU KNOW HE'S DOWN THERE! It took him two weeks to notice his wife was dead IN THE SAME HOUSE!