...I imagine the entrance to hell being like a truck stop at an intersection in the middle of nowhere. There's a gas station and a convenience store with apathetic clerks. Whatever you're looking for they won't have; it will be expired, stale, broken, or otherwise useless. Downstairs in the basement - damp, windowless, bright florescent lights on the ceiling that flicker, weeping cracks - is the office where everyone works in little cubicles doing meaningless tasks. Probably Satan comes around every now and again, just to poke and prod everyone for fun. He's like everyone's worst nightmare CEO, profits are everything and to hell with everything else. Literally.
There's a woman who works the desk. She's been there a long time. She greets the newly dead and directs them where to go, answers the phones the old fashioned way, tied to a cord that's always in knots. The reception is terrible. There are post it notes everywhere, never a pen when you need one, and almost everyone is either a dink or a whimpering slave - except for her and a few others. They have a name for themselves but I can't remember what it is. I wonder what she did to deserve this.
I could have fun with this place, these characters. Hmm, I may have spotted a new toy. MUST NOT LOOK!