Everyday I loyally navigate directly to Tragos’ other tumblr ourworldbelow. At first I thought how cool it was that Tragos takes his time to bring Dante’s Divine Comedy into a contemporary framework for his fellow friends on tumblr. I enjoy reading to find out what modern day figure was going to be substituted for an Italian general, a pope, an author, their eyes dripping out of their sockets. Yes! Screw them bastards. Who’s next? Jimmy Swaggart swallowed into a pool of his own feces. I love it. Bin Laden impaled on the talons of a mythical creature. Good riddance. 

Clearly Tragos aim cannot be to appeal to my/our bawdy and base nature through the veil of a literary remix. 

One day during dinner I asked Khadine, “I wonder why Tragos take his time to do this?” It can’t simply be to show that he can con-temporize Dante. Perhaps Tragos is just a troubadour at heart and Dante is the instrument of choice at the moment. It’s quite apparent Tragos has displayed that his Dante posts are astute, literate, and that he has wonderfully captured Dante’s LOLs. And if he chose to he could bring this contemporary treatment to any of the great authors. But there has to be something more. I realized that the key to Tragos’ Dante project is in the handy “To Consider” bullet list that precedes the canto.  Here is where Tragos poses philosophical, moral, and political questions that illuminate Dante’s Divine Comedy and challenge us to think about how these questions relate to us and to our world today.

Thanks Tragos for this wonderful and enlightening tumblr. 

With no further ado I present to you canto 22. 

ourworldbelow:

Gone to Hell, by Chris Love

Chapter 22 | Canto 22

Dante’s Inferno [The Original & Longfellow]

In Chapter 22, we see in the Evil Pit of the charlatans the violence, degraded speech, and lack of trust reflected in both the torturers and the victims. Financial, political and religious frauds abound.

To consider:

• Why none of these sinners get to tell their story, as others did in the circles above
• The continued bestiality that represents the nature of the sin of high-power fraudulence
• How the devils’ internecine squabbling reflects the societal divisions created by this fraudulence
• How the devils serve as images of the worst side of ourselves
• The reasons for the presence of farce in hell

I’ve seen hyenas prowling the savannah with their leering sneers. I’ve seen jittery drug addicts pace through dirt-strewn streets late at night. I’ve even seen rogue paramilitary troops bushwhacking their way through Columbian jungles; but I’d never seen thugs as seedy and decrepit as the ten Castouts who marched with us along the margins of that lake; but as they say: in the church with saints, in the slum with scum.

As we rounded the bank of boiling pitch, I was always on the lookout for the state of human suffering that the lake contained. Just as you’d see the glossy hump of a frog’s back emerge on the shiny surface of a pond, a slice of lobster red skin would rise out of the pitch, the victim hoping to assuage the pain of his burns. And from time to time, a pair of eyes would peep out from the boiling surface, and, spotting Thugnut or another Evilgrip on the shore, would disappear as quickly as a fish skittering away from a dive-bombing hawk. One time—and it’s difficult to write this even now—Scratchcur flew out to torment one of these victims seeking respite. As soon as that Castout arrived, the head plunked down with a tiny splash; but a couple seconds later, another unlucky soul appeared at the surface. Simpering mischievously, Scratchcur reached down and pulled the victim by its oil-drenched hair, holding the entire body up as if it were a stinking bag of garbage. The hovering Evilgrip called out, “Hey. Rabbiesbaby. What the fuck you doin? This one’s waitin’ for your pretty claws. Get the fuck over here!”

I turned to Shakespeare and asked, “Do you know who that is? Is there any way to find out?”

Shakespeare stepped out to the edge of the shore, cupped his hands to his mouth and in a booming voice, asked the victim who he was.

Hurried and breathless, the Castouts’ prize responded, “I’m from Michigan…I think I know that guy you’re with. And he knows who I am: I bought out politicians and robbed people of their representatives in…”

He stopped right there. Bushwack, a Castout with long horns protruding from his bullish head, darted out from the bank and impaled the man’s stomach, ripping upwards through the chest cavity. The baby gazelle had fallen before the lions. Thugnut flew behind the gorged man, held him by the elbows and chortled, “What’s a matter wit you? Back the fuck off while I stick it to this motherfuckin’ prick.”

Then the Evilgrip turned his head and yelled back to Shakespeare, “You wanna ask our boy a question? Do it now, cuz any time now one of my associates here just might decide to pike the squirming fuck.”

Shakespeare addressed the dangling victim quickly: “Quickly, can tell us something about the other malefactors here? Do you know if there are any Americans under the pitch?”

The man, grimacing and dejected, answered, “Sure. Yes. Just now I left a bunch of them…I wish I hadn’t because what’s coming is much worse than…”

Hotspur cut in, “That’s enough outta you. Who do you think you’re fuckin’ wit here?”

With the edge of his grotesquely serrated spear, Hotspur ripped the man’s arm off from its socket, yanking hard to snap the taut tendon. Newtsneer swooped in from below to stab at the man’s dangling legs, and all the while, the Castouts’ noble captain looked on with gleeful satisfaction.

The victim, crucified in the air by the Evil Grips’ spears, screamed out in pain. Seeing how little time he had left, Shakespeare called out, “Who was that one whom you just left?”

“Two of them actually…Jack Abramoff and Tom Delay. Both talked up…American virtue…but they sold it to the highest…I can’t do this…sold it to the highest bidder. I’d tell you more, but this one…he’s about to…no!”

Once again, the Evilgrip’s brave leader reigned in one of his noble henchman, holding back Elfboy, whose eyes were rolled back to reveal all-white orbs of anger: “What the fuck you doin Elfboy? Back off a minute. Give’m some more time here.”

The victim, panting miserably from fear, pain and exhaustion, continued: “OK. Let’s make a deal here…I’ll get some of the Americans…to come out and talk…but you, what need to do…please get these Evil Grips off my back…have them put me…have them put me down…over there…then I’ll whistle to get the Americans…to come out.”

Bigdog snorted in derision: “Sure youz gonna do that. You don’t see this is another one of his fuckin’ tricks? C’mon, this is the same shit they’re always pullin’.”

The man, still speared from all sides, replied, “Listen…why would I do that? Why would I pull any tricks…that would just…earn me…more suffering?”

Masterpiece Theater, chomping at the bit, flew straight out to face the victim, and with sweeping gestures said, “Look it, you know who the fuck I am? You dive in early or pull any fuckin’ stunt like that and I’ll be on your ass faster than a fuckin’ F-16. Remember—I’m watchin’ you.”

The sport I’m about to describe makes Thai kickboxing look like Olympic ice-dancing. As the Castouts cast sneaky glances at each other, the victim hit the ground and took off running. Before anyone could do a thing, he dove in the pitch and disappeared. One of the Evil Grips swooped down low to try and snatch the victim before he sunk in, but flew up in frustration, clenching his fists. Icecrush flew out behind his fellow Castout and jeered, “Nice job, asshole. That was a graceful fuckin’ moment you had. Beautiful to see.”

Then the two of the grappled in midair, tumbling and twisting until they eventually toppled in the pitch together. Grounded by the oozing tar, their wings laden with pitch, the two Castouts flapped about, struggling to free themselves. From the shore, Thugnut shook his head and said, “The shit that goes down here. Four a youz. Go out there and drag their asses out from the fuckin’ lake.”

While the small group of Evil Grips flew out, stretching their hooks to their drowning associates, Shakespeare and I sneaked off on our own.