text: Large clumps of some fluffy substance surrounded him. It felt like cotton candy in his hands and squished softly under his feet. One clump looked like a man playing the oboe. Another like a dog wrestling with a fire extinguisher. Yet another looked like the state of Louisiana. Strange. A large, pillowy cruise liner slowly floated by his face. They were what could only be described as well, clouds. Obvious yes. But it would take you a second to process too. The noise hit him next. It was deafening. Millions of people standing in line. Together they generated an unintelligible hum of multi-lingual murmur. Quite odd. The last thing Jake remembered was being at Conner Davis’s Halloween party. Melissa had been telling him about her plans to open a coffee shop downtown. They’d been laughing, or at least he’d been laughing, while absentmindedly twirling a hors d’oeuvre toothpick with his tongue. Then poof, he was here. With no idea where he was or how he’d arrived. The woman in front of him looked like she had problems of her own. Her head was no longer on her neck. Instead it was tucked under her arm like a sack of potatoes. Gushing blood. She pointed behind Jake, where he heard a throat being cleared. “Ahem.” Jake turned to see a massive set of gleaming gold gates. In front of them was a nine-foot-tall man with a twelve-foot beard, leaning over a seven foot, impossibly smooth marble podium. Broad, soaring wings protruded from the back of his cloak that would put any condor to shame. Yes, yes, this was the pearly gates and St. Peter. It takes a moment to fully comprehend these things when you first encounter them. “Name?” asked St. Peter. “Woah.” Jake said. “Name?” St. Peter repeated. He’d had a few “Woah’s” come through here, but it was best to double check. Jake stood there, mouth agape at the giant bird-man in front of him. St. Peter sighed. Atheists always took forever. He much preferred the religious ones. Not because they were right (they weren’t about any of the important stuff) but because they were ready. Always eager and convinced they were going to heaven. Even when the prospect was laughable, like if they’d killed six people or one time stolen grapes from the supermarket. St. Peter’s eyes darted behind Jake. He stood up and started yelling at someone in line, his voice booming across the sky like a jet-engine. “Wow, really? Cutting the line, on your way to final judgement? Great start man, really. Terrific.” St. Peter shook his head in frustration and directed his gaze back to Jake. “Name?” St. Peter repeated. “Jake.” “Full name, son.” “Jake Mast.” St. Peter nodded and took his name down in his leather-bound ledger. The pages were parchment and he wrote with a quill. Not that it mattered, it was all just symbolic. These records didn’t go anywhere. “So that’ll be hell then?” “What?” Jake felt his stomach drop, poetically over the thought of being plunged into the fiery bowels of hell. “You’ll be going to hell.” St. Peter said. He then smiled a little, in an attempt to be reassuring. “I, what? I don’t understand.” “You’re going to hell.” There really was no nicer way to put it. For the first time since he’d died Jake’s life flashed before his eyes. When had it all gone wrong? Sure, he wasn’t perfect. He didn’t always remember to call his parents. Admittedly he’d once broken up with an old girlfriend on her birthday. He also yelled at his dog too much. The poor guy didn’t know he was doing anything wrong when he pooped in the hallway. He didn’t even know what a hallway was. But it’s not like he’d ever killed anyone or gotten in any serious trouble. The worst trouble he’d ever been in was getting suspended from school in the 4th grade for punching his best friend in P.E class. The principal had also looked nine feet tall that day. “Son, it’s time to go.” St. Peter said. “But, but, why?” Jake asked. St. Peter arched his eyebrows quizzically. “Isn’t it obvious?” Jake shook his head. “No sir.” “You’re evil incarnate!” That felt a little harsh. He couldn’t be that bad, could he? He wasn’t a serial killer, a dictator or one of those manipulative psychics who pretended they could talk to your deceased loved ones. He wasn’t even as bad as his friend Gary. You want to talk about a real asshole spend an afternoon trying to get a word in edgewise with that self-centered prick. “Am I really that bad?” Jake asked. St. Peter waved his hands at Jake. “Look at you!” Jake looked down, past the blood-red toothpick protruding from his neck. His Halloween devil costume! Of all the days to wear a crimson spandex body suit, red face paint, fangs and a pair of horns. Jake gasped and threw down his small, plastic pitchfork. “No, it’s not real!” St. Peter shook his head and rubbed his temples. These atheists man. “I’m sorry, but I’m behind schedule as it is.” St. Peter said as he pulled a rope lever above his head. The clouds beneath Jake’s feet slowly parted. He tried to grab onto one clouds floating around him, but they were now nothing more than condensed water vapor that slipped through his fingers. His legs felt the cold night air. Wildly he reached for the hem of St. Peter’s cloak as he fell backwards into the starry sky. In moments, he’d crashed into the earth. Feeling nothing as he tore through soil, granite and mineral-rich deposits. He tore through it all, deeper and deeper, careening at the most terminal of velocities into the darkest depths of hell. He landed hard with a loud smack against a slab of flaming brimstone. Unsurprisingly, things hurt in hell. Too frightened to open his eyes, he involuntarily sniffed the overpowering stench of sulfur all around him. The heat was unimaginable, best described as extra-tropical. He heard the cackle of demons. The cries of the damned. The sound of a raging river of lava that ended in a torrential waterfall. And was that, organ music? A snake slithered into a leg of his spandex suit and out through a sleeve. Jake lay his face against the red-hot floor and cried. One more wail in a sea of them. It wasn’t long before he felt a claw poking him in the back. Admittedly, far more gingerly than he’d been led to expect by his one quick scan of the Old Testament in Sunday school. “My Liege.” Jake froze. “Awaken my liege!” The clawed hand softly patted him on the shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. “My Liege. Is anything the matter?” Jake slowly turned his head. Afraid to fully open his eyes, he squinted upwards. Standing over him was a four-foot, peach colored imp. His pig snouted, Triassic face looked concerned. “My Liege!” the imp repeated. Jake slowly pointed at himself with a trembling arm. “Me?” “My Liege!” The imp shouted again, overjoyed at his response. Jake’s eyes widened as he looked around and saw that he was slowly being approached by an army of demonic creatures. A particularly large demon extended his muscular, boil-covered arm towards him. Jake grabbed it and carefully got to his feet, looking out at the hell-spawn that now surrounded him. They all slowly bowed in unison and cheered “My Liege!” Jake looked down at his costume. Oh right. First thing he’d be changing was the dress code. &#x200B; If you made it this far, thanks for reading.