All his life, Rogue Clemens had been convinced that hell was the worst fate that the afterlife had to offer. The thought had been a constant source of comfort for him, and sometimes the only source of it. If Hell was a certainty, not an unknown...well, it would be easier to swallow. He hated the suspense more than he hated the thought of eternal damnation.<br/><br/>Besides, Hell couldn't be much worse than living on dust-dry biscuits and sauerkraut for the rest of his god-damned life.<br/><br/>Rogue wasn't much of a God-fearing (or God-respecting) man, but now he was quite sure that he should have been, if only to prevent himself from being the official cosmic plaything of the century. Or maybe two centuries. Or maybe three. He'd lost count. Seriously, if he had known that he would spend the rest of the afterlife haunting the fucking<span style="font-style: italic">bottle of wine</span>that he had been trying to open when the navy capsized his ship, he would've asked for hell from the very start.<br/><br/>...they didn't even let him haunt the<span style="font-style: italic">corkscrew</span>instead, which would've been a little less mortifying. How messed up was that?