Ipod

The entrance to hell lay beyond a short white picket fence, through a broken gate that was barely hanging on a single hinge. It wasn't the type of fence you envision in your 'American Dream' landscapes. It was a rickety, old, cheap looking and splintered, nasty set of paint chipped boards that were loosely arrayed together in a crooked line. They divided the dirt sidewalk that almost seamlessly joined the street from a front yard that was splattered with color. There were odd things laying about, randomly calling to your attention or begging you to look away. Broken toys and rusted car parts...a broken window frame...blue plastic tarps, stuffed behind a leafless bush...a baby stroller with a tire rim inside. A small potted plant stood in the pathway to the front door, but the plant had withered away to a twig. There was no grass. Whatever ground you could see was dirt, layered with trash and the droppings left about by the house bitch's latest litter.
The smell permeated your senses before you arrived there. Once you crossed the gate you began to develop a numbness of sorts. Your subconscious allowed you to brush the smell and overwhelming filth aside. The candy they served at the end of this journey made the suffering well worthwhile.