Some time this morning, Walter will be getting his Hell Suit, the last suit he will ever need. It’s made of live stinging scorpions, with fire ant underwear. Later, a team of the VC he loved so much will piss flaming puss into his eye sockets while his eyes will be inserted into the diseased cooches of succubi who look remarkably like Jane Fonda. Then a light lunch consisting of his own nutsack fried in rancid goat semen, and three thousand years in hell’s BMV.