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How I Fare in the Afterlife

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This is a story for the 2017 Dark Humor Contest, hosted by Derpy and Dix.



I have died on the 6th of September, 1647, and I am talking to you from my grave. It isn't too bad here, there's plenty opportunity for fun. Just because I'm dead doesn't mean I can't touch physical objects; do you think Marilyn Monroe fucked herself while asleep? No, she had help. JFK had her killed, by the way. Call me biased but I might have adjusted Oswald’s aim a bit.

Being dead is fun; assuming you stay on Earth you basically have the power of invincibility and immortality (immorality may a side-effect). I mean when you’re dead and see a hot chick walking down the road or you go to visit your favorite celebrity it’s kinda hard not to molest them. The consequences are minimal and you get to have an assload of fun.

I grew up with a caring and loving family in a time where condoms were made from animal intestine and porn mags were pieces of stone with dotted circles, below them were chunks of missing tablet, or they were very hairy cunts. The only problem was my family's income. Being poor in the 15th century is worse than dropping soap in prison and having to bend over to pick it up as a dark shadow falls upon you. I would know. You see, my practically non-existent income led me to jump people in dark alleys and permanently borrow their money. I ran a whole crew of gangsters, with our blood-money we bought and ran the biggest chain of brothels in all of New Hampshire. That was until all of the King's horses and all of the King's men broke our Humpty Dumpty's again when they raided our business place and chained us up; the law said men can't have some fun without commitment and it also said that men who like other men should be fucking murdered?

I may in the unintellectual majority of people but I'm not going to tolerate men killing others because they like to nut in the butt rather than load the clown into the cannon. I personally don’t like to mix my dick with another’s spaghetti, but I’m fine with men stirring guts with other men.

After I got out of the slam I had a great white beard and even longer than my pubic hair. I decided I was too old for the business and I volunteered at a nursing home and donated all my money to smallpox research. Supervising the horror that is old people showering, while living in tiny room with an iron-frame bed would drive anyone to hang themselves like I did.

I felt a tremendous pressure crush my spine. A cold, shuddering presence exited my body as I sighed my last breath. I was a puppet swinging on a lonely string. There was a tremor like an earthquake awoke fathoms beneath the earth, the light from the window dimmed and soon the room was as dark as a cave. I saw cracks open in the walls and shafts of light broke through, neither candle nor sunlight but some weird light with a quality of... hope and joy in them. I can only describe it with emotion because I felt their texture rather than seen it. My vision blurred and I felt like I was shrinking, drifting away from the earth, then drifting towards the light -- becoming engulfed by it. I felt comfortably numb, like I was in a dream, everything seemed so distant and muted. Then I blacked out.

Okay, if any of you wanna off yourself be fucking smart and choose the method that doesn't involve your spine slowly cracking as you struggle for breath. If you're suicidal, Hemmingway that bitch. Now, onto to the juicy part.

I awoke in a white room. I felt a throbbing pain in my back. I hoisted myself up, trying to recount what I snorted. The door was as white the walls and the walls were as white as the door, behind which was a dark oak hallway. Two men dressed in two-piece suits walked in and told me:

"Mr. Willie Stroker, your trial is due in half an hour, please follow."

They led me into a waiting room which looked like a mansion: classic pillars, gleaming oak walls and a fucking carpet that cost more than all those brothels. Toffees and cakes and marmalade were laid out on an oak table facing a leather sofa. I hadn't ate anything nice in two decades so I reached out to grab a toffee. As soon as the direction of my hand became apparent a riding crop descended upon it.

"Uh-uh," said the man with the painful instrument. He pointed towards the back-left corner of the room where a plastic chair and table sat. On the latter was a ham sandwich and an apple. "This," riding crop man said. "Is for you."

I became less convinced that I was high or dreaming. Could I really hate myself enough to dream this up. I have to admit, though, baphomet makes one mean ham sandwich. My back hurt so much I winced every time I moved, squealed every time I sat and yelled when I got up.

When the time of the trial came I was escorted into a courtroom you'd see on Judge Judy if you were retarded enough to watch that show. But the usual stands and seats were empty; an old, crippled man in a white robe sat in a puffy sofa in the center, accompanied by a handsome young man in a three-piece charcoal suit. There was a stiff wooden chair for me to sit on, bang in the middle of the Berlin wall of body language between the two. The trial was boring, they told me what I did good and bad, they told me how naughty or nice I was and they assured me that I really was in purgatory and most probably fucked.

"I should have him if he didn't wipe old people's ass'," the young man said, "I mean, lucifer would crawl out of fucking hell if this tool came with me."

"You should have him?" barked the old dude, "I bet you would too, you evil gay fuck." After they snapped at each other for about two more hours they came to a consensus:

"Fine, then, you old fuck! He can be a midriff, the lucky bastard," Satan said, and, as an afterthought.

Before I could reply, God hollered for the two guys from the outside and they led me through a few sets of doors to a place called "Arrivals," marked by a neon sign. It was as white as the place I arrived and resembled a modern subway. The place for trains not college boys jerking off in your food. There was a receptionist desk above the tracks where an old lady sat, shuffling through files and chewing bubble gum.

"I need a cab for earth," barked the guy dressed in black, the other was dressed in grey. The one in black did most of the talking.

"Don't tell me Jesus fucked up again. Is this guy's mother Teresa? You know how hard it is to fake surviving a broken spine?"

"Nah, hon, he's a lucky 'un, he's about as dead as the fucking pope. So give 'im his rulebook and holler for a cab, and hurry, I’ve got to get an autistic kid and schizophrenic murderer through customs."

The lady handed me a leather-bound book about the size of 120 Days of Sodom. I looked at her questioningly and she said,

"Half of that is the bible, quarter's the Satinca Britannica, love, the other quarter's the actual rules. That'd be the last part, by the way."

"Thanks," I murmured. I wondered where's the Satinca Americana but I was too shocked to speak. I felt the ground vibrating and I heard a rattling, then a train lit up the tunnel and screeched to a stop. It looked unlike anything I have ever seen back then; it looked like a subway train you'd find in any metro nowadays.

The doors hissed open and the men waved me inside. I lugged myself in, glancing both ways and feeling every object sight. They felt real even. Everything else felt dreamy. The guy in black pushed me inside and sat me down in a small, dark compartment. The train belched, and blasted off faster than Albert Einstein multiplying on Adderall. The blackness was occasionally intertwined with some fleeting grey shapes, like clouds in a night sky. The train was desolate, it felt creepy with the infrequent flashes of grey across the compartment.

Grey and Black bickered about the ethics of castrating rapists and then about should faith healers go to Heaven or Hell.

"The Lord of Lies needs con-men and swindlers," was an argument and it was retorted with "Satan should not take children who follow God's will," which was countered by "Not unless the bible instructs preachers to steal from cancer patients."

We arrived at a train station in Maine. I was given a briefing about what's what and they booted me out.

I wandered through the streets aimlessly until I saw some Aussie bar and went inside. I saw a chair flying at me and I stood there in horror; the chair flew through me. I gasped -- I was shocked. I rubbed my temples and shimmied along the walls, vaulted over the counter and got drunk in the store room. An seventy-and-something-year-old man got blamed for it and lost fifteen teeth down his throat.

Us people who weren't exactly church-boys but sought redemptions later in life got stranded here on earth because we sinned too much for heaven, and Satan doesn't want people who performed at least two or more years of selfless acts. I met some dead people on Earth. Two hot chicks, one was a crazy sex-fiend and raging hot; the other wanted to get a pass to the clouds and was the best looking chick you ever saw. I would've killed for sex with her. Alas, she wanted to get married and live together for ever after. And I do mean ever after. Marriage while dead is basically living together in some empty house and doing what dead people normally do. And I had to agree. It worst the worst mistake of life; marriage is more of a prison than school, and jail. To add to mounting amount of reason why that was a horrible decision, she thought sex was sacred. We hardly ever banged, she never blew me, and I always blew her. Finally she sat me down in the living room and spoke earnestly:

"Our Lord has accepted me into heaven, my love. And what's more, I pleaded for him to accept you -- his generosity set me these terms: if you will walk the righteous path, we'll both tread the holy lands. But -- alas -- I will not be able to join you back here, once you go to heaven you cannot return, nor can one prolong his invitation into there."

When she finished talking I asked about the other girl -- the sex fiend.

"Why yes, I do remember her," Lucy said; "But why do you a-"

"Do you still have her number?"

And so I lived happily ever after. So, now, why am I telling you about all this bullshit? I am writing this because I'm tired of hearing feminists, Christians, Muslims, atheists and fucking retards bitching about this new-age bullshit on religion and what not; I lived in a time where people got stoned for being gay, but I experienced a time where men and women created amazing breakthroughs in science, a time where if you wanted change you fought for it, not bitched on Twitter.

As I sit here, drinking vodka and eating gummy bears, I wish there was no afterlife. I had fun but it wasn't worth all this bullshit; that's why I hope my story will make an impact. Or else I might just slip American nuclear launch codes into some Russian's handbag.




Written by Jake888
Content is available under CC BY-SA

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