In Dante’s Inferno, the ninth circle of hell is the last, the hell of traitors, who are encased, not in fire, but in ice. And who is more deserving of being encased in ice than the coolest guy in town?

 

 

Thus guided by the spirit mind

I left the circle eight behind

And there before me did I see

Foul traitors bound in misery

By chains of guilt and bonds of wrath

Accused of selling what they hath

Of trading in their country’s soul

Their torment racked as distant toll

Of somber bells announced the death

Of traitors who with dying breath

Cried out in horror and in shame

That they had only played the game

I watched as giants held aloft

A president, who crying soft

Was lowered into binding ice

And frozen solid in a trice

A sec of state stood on the ledge

As giants moved her to the edge

And weeping she was hurled below

As others took their place to go

I turned away as one by one

The traitors paid for what they’d done

Back through the circles I did pass

Through ice and fire, flame and gas

Emerging once again on land

Where good men deigned to make their stand

Where sun and gently falling rain

Again blessed this, our fruited plain