A crack of thunder and the unmistakable booming sound of a latch and key had the two confused amidst a sideshow of bizarre meterological phenomenon. A blast of heat was quickly replaced by a blue sky which quikly faded to battleship grey.
When the fury had once again resettled, Rog looked over at Jimbo.
Rog was looking at his counterpart in similiar wonder.
"It's you!", they declared in unison.
They stared at each for a long moment feeling the first feeling of satisfaction they had for what seemed like, and may have been an eternity.
Rog stood six feet tall, with olive skin and a curly, long mane of hair. He was muscular and bore tatoos of the names of the many he had stealthily extinguished. "Mom" had a heart around it.
Jimbo was meek, especially in comparison. He had salt and pepper greying hair and large spectacles magnified his ferret eyes.
Both were wearing bermuda style shorts.
"I told ya, Jimbo", the larger man exclaimed.
The heat had subsided. In fact, it was chilly.
"We better find some shelter, Jimbo", and he clapped his diminuitive counterpart on the back.
An hour later they had not found shelter but had been discouraged by the sudden onslaught of snow that had begun to whirl around them. It had climbed to their knees.
"My fingers hurt", said Jimbo.
"My knees hurt."
"My face hurts"
"Your face is blue"
"I think we're still in Hell, Rog", said Jimbo about an hour later as his fingertips turned from black to mush.
Two pickaxes lay in the distance.
"You seriously thought it was a trick question?"
"Well, I dunno, it's a lot of pressure, these on the spot interviews"
"Maybe, we've made it to the 8th plane!", shouted Rog, above the wind that had slowly progressed to a steady gale.
"Aaaah, damn", said Jimbo, as the wind proceeded to peel off the remaining skin on his face.
"Damn, nothin", said Rog, "This here's progress", as they pushed their way through the supernatural blizzard trying to cover their baring bones.
Off in the distance was the distinct sound of howling wolves and the light began to fade.