There will. And if there isn't a Hell, then I will make one, just for them, and create a special circle, just for them, and put them in it, on their own.
When they complain about the special circle of Hell that they have been put into, I will tell them that they cannot contact me without first reading the FAQs, and they will not be allowed to have any interaction with me (I'm Satan himself, their eternal torturer, by the way) unless they have first submitted a search inquiry in the FAQs and then clicked on the highest rated answer.
And then, having said that, I won't let them contact me anyway.
They may complain about this fate of theirs. They may say to me that it's somehow not fair or not right that they are being forced to endure the worst of humiliation and pain for all eternity, that they are being poked in the testes with giant rusty tridents by ruddy-faced goblins, for example.
I will calmly explain to them that they are not allowed to contact me without first reading the FAQs, and that if they have any further questions or would like to contact me, I'm not going to tell them how to, and I will run away laughing - I think an evil laugh must be one of the perks of being the Devil, don't you?
Needless to say, this won't come without a charge. They will, of course, need to pay an administration fee and a special damnation fee for the privilege of being hung by their ankles and dipped in boiling tramp sick for the rest of their natural lives. Given that I imagine there isn't any money in hell, I suppose they will have to pay with extra damnation- which will, itself, have its own administration fee and damnation fee.
It's only fair.
For every time they are disembowelled in front of their eyes and forced to gorge on their own guts, they will have to give up a finger, or a toe, or something, in order to pay for that. It's only fair. It's how these things work. You can't just pay for it once, after all. You have to pay twice, with an additional cost for seemingly no reason whatsoever.
They may of course consider this to be unfair, so if they should choose to raise a complaint about the flames burning their very flesh to a crisp as they suffer a million everlasting torments, I will put them through to our 'complaints line', which is open from 8.01am to 8.02am, two days a week, and staffed by someone on the end of a very crackly phone line, who can't hear them properly, who is busily chatting to their mate, who then cuts them off and makes them ring back, and who then puts them onto hold for the next 507 minutes, all the time hearing "I know a song that'll get on your nerves" by Joe Pasquale - or, worse, Achy Breaky Heart by Billy Ray Cyrus - on a loop but always increasing in volume, time after time after rage-inducing time.
Perhaps I might include a little message saying that their call is important, or that they're second in the queue, then tell them they're third, then second, then third again, then cut them off. Just for a laugh.
After about 1,000,000 years of suffering, I will say to them that I have very nearly taken their payment, and that they only have to click a button in order to be free of their eternal ordeal. All they have to do is press the button. Of course, when they press the button, I'll put up a perplexingly vague error message which leaves them completely unaware of whether they have paid or not, but which will specify that if they have not received a confirmation email by another 500,000 years then they should contact me.
Obviously, to contact me, they should first read the FAQs and click on the highest rated answer to their query, and then they won't be allowed to contact me anyway. At which point I will say they have been unsuccessful on this occasion and I will take them back to the beginning.
It seems only fair.
One day, they'll get theirs. One fine day. Perhaps their offices will be burning down and the 999 operator - a disgruntled music fan who's spent tearful weeks of their life waiting, and waiting, and waiting, or shelling out massive 'administration' fees for nothing whatsoever - will just put them on hold so they can listen to Duffy or Coldplay or Stereophonics for half a bloody hour while their lives slowly ebb away and the flames get higher.
One day. One fine day.