Twenty or 30 years ago, I saw an episode of The Twilight Zone television show that still sticks with me.

In the show, which I’ve only seen that one time, a couple of rowdy, bandana-clad, shaggy-haired motorcyclists rev their bikes, terrorize those around them, and basically act like plain old jerks.

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Then, according to my recollection of the show, the bikers crash, and the television turns gray and shifts to another scene. Inside what appears to be a small, one-room home, an older couple watches tray after tray of slides from one of their many trips to nowhere in particular, speaking in the studied monotone of people who enjoy talking about themselves and not much else.

Into this endlessly unhappy room drop the bikers, who don’t know where they are and why they’re there. It takes a few moments, some yelling from the bikers at the elderly couple (who never even notice the bikers are in the room), and finally the episode becomes clear: The bikers are in Hell. But not the typical version of Hell, all hot, humid and horrible. Instead, the bikers have been transported to what turns out to be their own personal Hell, trapped forever in the absolute last place they would ever go on their own.

And they realize that for the rest of eternity, they’re going to be confined in a one-room house watching slides from vacations they’ve never taken and listening to people who d