Life in the City, Page 2

  ALL THAT HEAVEN ALLOWS

  I. MEANINGLESS POSSESSIONS

  Porn producer, Ulysses Muroe is going to die. What’s going to kill him is the speedball he is currently cooking up on a heated spoon.

  Following a night of almighty debauchery, Ulysses felt somewhat bored and restless, when the idea of summoning up the Prince of Darkness possessed his mind.

  It was that cute, little goth girl who had taught him the summoning. God he missed that girl. She had been one of his favorites. Oh sure, she was a bit of a skank, and covered in tattoos, but she had an ass that could make Jesus Christ himself hard. Another irony, considering that girl had become a born again Christian, and had left the industry. Now she was wasting her life in suburbia as a soccer mom. You know, I really should give her a call, Ulysses thought. MILF porn is becoming a hot property right now.

  But, these were just idle thoughts, and he remembered that he had more pressing matters to attend to.

  How awesome would it be to talk to the Devil, right now, he thought. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea. And, if the various heavy metal covers were an indication of what the Devil was like, maybe, just maybe Ulysses might be able to make Satan a very intriguing offer. He hadn’t worked out all the details, yet. But the idea turning in his mind was a porn parody of Rosemary’s Baby staring the Devil himself.

  He knew several fresh faced young girls, just of the bus, who would be perfect for the virginal co-star. And, really why settle for one— when it came to porn, the more the merrier.

  “See the trick of it is,” he said out loud, to the empty living room, “you just tell these girls you’re casting for a low budget horror movie, and the panties come right off.”

  He set about summoning, surprised that he still remembered the incantation.

  But, what had shown up was hardly some sexy, muscle bound pagan god. No, instead he conjured up what amounted to be, at most, a geeky looking accountant. The most remarkable thing about the guy was just how unremarkable he was. He was rail thin, and the plain black suit he wore was a size too big for him. He shoes were completely scuffed, and the points worn down to a dull nub.

  Something about the way the guy looked, though, jogged Ulysses memory. He spent a lot of time at his grandma’s house as a kid. His mom dropped him off there whenever she wanted to entertain one of her many boyfriends. So, he wasted many a Saturday afternoon watching old movies with his grandma. He remembered one movie in particular about a preacher trying to kill a couple of kids. The preacher had “LOVE” tattoo on one hand, and “HATE” on the other, which he though was pretty cool. His grandma told him the name of the actor who played the preacher, apparently he was quite famous back in the day, but whatever brain cell contained the knowledge had long since been fired.

  He sighed in disappointment. Hanging out with Satan wasn’t turning out to be as much fun as he thought it would be.

  He picked up the syringe, dipped the needle into his cocaine and heroin laced cocktail, and pulled the plunger back.

  The Devil sighed in frustration.

  Ulysses jumped in fright. Jesus he had forgotten that the Devil was even there. The Devil just had one of those faces you know, instantly forgettable. The Devil was the kind of guy who would just sort of melt into the background, unless you were paying attention to him.

  “Mr. Muroe, are you listening to me?”

  “Jesus, keep your shirt on.”

  And, Ulysses chuckled a little at what he had said, given his chosen profession. He been up for about three days now, and it was starting to catch up to him. He poked the needle in his arm, and felt a blissful burning sensation inside of him. His mind was sharp, and his nerves were steady It was just the pick me up he needed.

  “You should learn some manners,” Ulysses said as he sat down next to his guest.

  Ulysses could see the anger burning in the Devil’s face. Ulysses loved to get people fired up; it turned him on like nothing else in the world. But the Devil cheated him.

  “I suppose you’re right Mr. Muroe,” he Devil replied—with all trace of anger gone from his face.

  “Of course I’m right,” Ulysses snapped.

  “The customer is always right,” the Devil said in an agreeable manner.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “I believe you are Mr. Muroe,” the Devil answered.

  “And I believe you are a smart ass.” Ulysses laughed. The Devil, however, did not.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t have a sense of humor?”

  The Devil had no comeback, and if he did, he kept it to himself.

  “Shall we get down to business,” the Devil asked.

  “What’s the matter? Did I hurt your feelings,” Ulysses cooed.

  “If that is what you wish… one soul for a case of hurt feelings,” the Devil said, and held out a contract out to tempt him. “Just sign here.”

  “No I don’t want that,” Ulysses answered quietly.

  “Then what is it that you want? Anything, just name it, and it is yours.”

  “I want heaven,” Ulysses announced in a proud voice.

  “WHAT!” The Devil shrieked.

  “You heard me,” Ulysses answered.

  “This is highly irregular,” the Devil said, and quietly shook his head. “I am not even sure if it is allowed.”

  “Don’t you think I deserve it?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” the Devil answered in a low voice. “I am just God’s humble servant.”

  For some time, the Devil sulked in a chair. Ulysses' heart raced. He had beaten the Devil—it was the ultimate high. It was even better than the Speed Ball that raced through his system, speeding ever closer to the finish line.

  Then, something within the Devil clicked, and he regained his composure.

  “You know most people get into heaven through their own merits.”

  “But I’m not most people,” Ulysses corrected, “I am Ulysses Muroe.”

  “So you say.” The Devil replied, flashing a quick smile, which just as quickly dropped from his face.

  “I usually don’t say this—but why do you want to sell your soul in the first place? You have riches beyond your wildest dreams. You have the love, or should I say lust, of several nubile young women. Frankly, sir, you have everything that a man could desire.”

  “But I have done terrible things…” Ulysses confessed in a rare moment of honesty. The Devil scoffed, and waved the comment aside.

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “Look,” the Devil continued, “I’m trying to help you here. Despite what you might have heard about me, I really am the refuge of desperate men. My job is essentially that of a pawnbroker. People sell to me their most precious possessions, and in return, I offer them instant gratification—that quickly fades into disillusion. In the end, they do not know how much they have lost until it is too late. Live a good life and you will get to heaven eventually.”

  “But I want heaven now,” Ulysses cried. “Why should I have to wait? Why should I? Just so I can go to heaven when I’m old and senile?”

  “Haven’t you listened to a word I said?”

  “Look I want to sell my soul—isn’t that your job?”

  Without saying a word, the Devil handed Ulysses a contract and a pen. Without a second thought, Ulysses proudly signed away.

  “So are you going to take me to heaven or what?”

  “That’s the deal.” The Devil sighed. “Are you ready?”

  “You mean we’re going right now?”

  “Why not,” the Devil asked. “You wanted it, so now you’re going to get it.”

  “I’m not so sure this is a good idea.”

  “Need I remind you, Mr. Muroe, that we have a contract?”

  Ulysses shrunk back.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “No time for regrets,” the Devil said, and grabbed Ulysses by the hand.

  He couldn’t breath. His chest tighten, as the sp
eed ball coursed through his bloodstream. His heart beat rapidly trying to keep up, until it finally gave out.

  II. A TASTE OF HEAVEN

  Ulysses stood on an island of ashen sand. Coins littered the shore. When he took a closer look, he noticed they were not coins at all, but tokens of some sort. He slipped a couple of the tokens into his pocket, and then called out into the darkness:

  “Is anyone here?”

  “You have been forgotten,” the Devil answered. The Devil waited for him in an old boat; the boat was just out of reach. “Had you lived but a little longer, perhaps you would have become legendary.”

  “Do you know how many films I’ve made? Over 500. I’d hardly call that forgettable.”

  The Devil shrugged. “Believe what you will. With your permission, I will draw closer and take you where you want to go.”

  “I thought this was supposed to be heaven,” Ulysses snarled.

  “Buyer’s remorse,” the Devil asked.

  Ulysses glared.

  “Step into the boat and I will take you there.”

  “It’s about time.”

  When he saw the boat up close, though, he hesitated.

  “Don’t worry,” the Devil offered, “She is rotten, and in a sorry state of decay, but she will take us where we need to go. That's all that matters in the end—isn’t it?”

  Ulysses scoffed. “Don’t you know anything? Image is all that matters, because image is everything.”

  The Devil rolled his eyes, and sighed: “I see I’m not going to get anywhere with you am I? Very well close your eyes…and when you open them again, you will see things not as they are, but instead as you would like them to be.”

  For once in his life, Ulysses did what he was told, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again everything was just how he wanted it to be. What had been a drab and dreary affair was now a plush and lavish production. Only the Devil remained the same: a boring and ordinary angel with a forgettable face.

  “Are you ready to go to your final reward?” The Devil asked.

  This time Ulysses climbed aboard without hesitation, for the boat was now more befitting someone of his stature.

  “Heaven awaits,” the Devil cried. A grin slithered across the Devil’s face—so wide it could swallow a man whole. The Devil pointed in a direction and soon they were on their way.

  God only knows how long they traveled. It was like going on a long car ride with your parents, and slowly going crazy in the back seat. Ulysses was bored, and he was tired, and he hadn’t had a drink in ages. The water looked inviting, and he bent his hand over the edge of the boat. But, before his fingers could touch the water, the Devil stopped him. He held Ulysses’ hand in a tight grip.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” the Devil scolded, “there are nasty things in the water.”

  “I’m thirsty.”

  “Well if you want to risk forgetting who you are, and everything you have ever known, then you just go right ahead.”

  “Bullshit,” Ulysses thundered.

  “No,” the Prince of Lies assured him. “I always tell the absolute truth. But the thing of it is, I don’t sugar coat it, I don’t make it palpable, and that is why I am despised above all others. You see, the real truth is that people like to believe their own lies.”

  Ulysses pulled his hand back and let it drop to his side. The Devil seemed satisfied by the gesture and let him go. Ulysses gave the Devil a dirty look. Under his breath he snarled: “Well I’m still thirsty. What are you going to do about it?”

  “I know,” the Devil answered sympathetically. “The water is, by design, very tempting, indeed. Many poor souls have given in…”

  The Devil stared at the water longingly, but then shook his head.

  “Even I am sometimes tempted. But I just couldn’t let you do it sir, I consider you a friend.”

  “The Devil is my friend,” Ulysses scoffed.

  “The Devil is everyone’s friend—whether they like it or not.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  However, the Devil avoided an answer. Instead he announced: “Ah, we’re here.”

  “Where?”

  “Why heaven, of course! Isn’t that where you wanted to go?”

  The Devil steered the boat until the side rested lightly on the shore.

  “Due to some unpleasantness,” the Devil confessed, “I am not allowed to set foot in heaven. But I will do you the honor of waiting here, just in case you change your mind.”

  “Why would I ever want to come back?” Ulysses cried.

  “Well, you never know, sir. Heaven is not for everyone.”

  Ulysses crawled out of the boat.

  It was only when he stood safely on heaven's shore that he felt an urge to set the Devil straight. “I am Ulysses Muroe, and if I want something, then it must be good, or I wouldn’t want it.”

  The Devil shrugged, and then replied: “If you say so, sir.”

  The hill before him was vast, and would be a challenging climb for most men. Ulysses Munroe was not most men. He made the climb in record time, bitching and complaining the entire way about how the Devil had slighted him.

  The view from the hilltop, however, left him speechless. Heaven was everything that he had imagined. He was in a field; it was lush and teeming with life. It was spring, and bird songs filled the cool air. The sunlight was warm and comforting, and Ulysses eyes grew heavy. He laid down next to a tree

  The birds fell silent, and he heard a roar. The ground shook. Then, it split open, like a mouth, and Ulysses was swallowed up whole.

  He fell down a hole. The hole was straight and narrow, like a tube. Ulysses grabbed at the sides, trying to stop his fall, but the effort was useless. The sides of the hole were covered with slimy brown ooze.

  He landed in a pool of the brown stuff. It took Ulysses some time to come to his senses, but when he did, he found himself face down in a lake of shit.

  “Hurry men! The platform is starting to sink again,” Ulysses heard. He wanted to die, but then he remembered he was already dead. The banging of hammers stirred him. Ulysses tried to raise himself up, but the brown ooze pinned him down. It was only with a great deal of effort that he finally was able to stand—but still the shit clung to him. Ulysses could feel his legs strain, and he began to sink. There was a sucking sound as he walked. Slowly, Ulysses made his way over to a group of workers. They were busy working on a platform on which sat a man in a white suit.

  “Over here, young man. Come join us,” the man in the white suit beckoned.

  It was a mistake, because as he approached, Ulysses found himself wading even deeper in shit. It now came up to his neck. He struggled to keep from swallowing any of it.

  “Welcome to heaven, young man!” the man in the white suit bellowed. “I’m so glad you could join us. We can use all the help we can get.”

  As if drowning in shit were not enough, Ulysses felt even more disgusted when he saw the man up close. The man’s skin had been burned to a charcoal black.

  “What’s a matter young man?” The man in the white suit asked. “Is it my skin? Don’t worry about that. You’ll get used to it, just like the smell.”

  Perhaps it was the shock, but Ulysses hadn’t noticed the smell, until now. It filled his nose. He couldn’t get it out—it suffocated him. If it had just been one smell, that would have been a mercy. But, this smell got inside of you, and wretched control over all of your senses. It was an odor that consisted of many parts, and each smell was more offensive than the one that came before it.

  “I don’t want to be here,” Ulysses cried out. But as he did so, a wave of shit poured down his mouth. He gagged, and tried to vomit it out.

  From on high, Ulysses heard the man in white suit say, “Why would you want to be anywhere else? This is heaven.”

  “You’re lying,” Ulysses gasped.

  “Why would I lie? I am the vice-president in charge of marketing for Firedrake, Inc. I have no reason to lie.”

>   But as he said this, the man in the white suit, threw up, and shit dropped out of his mouth. The man was careful in his aim, so as not to stain his precious white suit.

  “This is not heaven.” Ulysses cried.

  “Firedrake, Inc. owns all exclusive rights to the name of heaven. Therefore by legal right, this is heaven because we say so.”

  Turning to the workers, the man in the white suit commanded: “Hurry men! The platform is starting to sink again.”

  The workers obeyed without question, and their set about their task of haphazardly rebuilding the shaky foundation on which the platform stood. The man in the white suit, once again addressed Ulysses.

  “Now, I think we have a place for you… but only if you are willing to work. This platform is not going to fix itself.”

  The man tapped the platform with his foot, and it began to sway recklessly.

  Quickly the workers set about to repair the damage.

  “Do as he says mister.” One of the workmen called out. “This is a wonderful way to spend eternity.” The workman had to stop. He bent over clutching his stomach. Shit fell out of his mouth and would not stop.”

  “Get back to work!” The man in the white suit thundered. The workman continued to vomit. With each gasp he was pulled further under, until he disappeared completely.

  The man on the platform shook his head. “Damn, lost another one. Oh well.”

  “So what do you say, young man?” He called out to Ulysses, “Just think of the benefits: job security, getting to be part of a team and working in a fast-paced environment. Where did he go?”

  Ulysses slipped under the bile. This was by design. He swam blindly, until he was just under the platform. He had guessed right about its location, thank God. Staying just out of sight, he waited until the platform began to sink again.

  When it was in reach, he grabbed hold, and climbed to the top. Soon he was face-to-face with the man in the white suit. The suit, Ulysses noticed now, was not as clean as he once believed. It was stained in several places.

  “You can’t do this,” the man protested. “This is mine. You can’t have it.”

  Ulysses was unsympathetic. He pushed the man off his post. The man fell, landing with a sucking splash into the lake below.

  Without direction, the workers mindlessly continued to build the platform until the ground overhead opened up. Soon, Ulysses stood on top of paradise again.

  “Stop him,” Ulysses heard from the bellows of the earth. “This is against company policy.”

  The ground split open, its sides closing in on him.

  Ulysses jumped…

  He landed on the shore below.

  “Mr. Muroe,” the Devil said. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Was heaven not to your liking?”

  III. ETERNITY AT LAST

  Ulysses lunged towards the Devil. The Devil backed away, but Ulysses had already grabbed him by the collar.

  “You know damn well that was not what I asked for!”

  The Devil pointed at him. Ulysses collapsed to the bottom of the boat, and could not move.

  “Mr. Muroe, please,” the Devil said, brushing him off. “This is hardly the place for that kind of behavior. I understand you are not happy, but I can hardly fathom why. Heaven is what you asked for, and heaven is what I delivered. But if you are not pleased with the results, then there are many other heavens left to try. Why, there are as many heavens as there are people on earth. I’m sure we will find one that you will like, but who knows…”

  “You tricked me,” Ulysses quivered pathetically from the bottom of the boat.

  The Devil chuckled: “Well, I am the Devil.”

  Then, on a more serious note the Devil added: “I pity you, Mr. Muroe, I really do. Had you only lived your life, you would have gone to heaven anyway. Everyone goes to heaven when they die, but it is a heaven that they themselves create. Some are very pleasant; many I would not wish on my worst enemy.”

  The Devil sighed, and shook his head. “What a pity that you wasted that opportunity when you bargained your soul with me. I tried to tell you it was a mistake and that I am the refuge of desperate men, but you didn't want to listen. You have left the decision entirely in my hands. I cannot create or destroy paradise. That is not within my power. So, I am forced to find a heaven for you from amongst your fellow man.

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Whether it is fair or not Mr. Muroe, is not up to me. You chose this fate. You have no one else to blame but yourself. Now let’s see…”

  The Devil smiled.

  “Ah, here’s a nice heaven. I believe here they have gone cannibal. No? Not to your liking? Well how about over there. Here you will be sacrificed to a tiny golden idol. There is a heaven for the prejudice—it is the loneliest heaven of all. No? Well there are so many left to choose from. How do you feel about losing you mind? Just over there is the psychiatrist's heaven…”

  “Stop. Please, just stop,” Ulysses whimpered.

  “But we can’t stop Mr. Muroe. Not until we explore each and every one of those heavens. Not until we find one to your liking (provided of course you survive the ordeal).”

  “Please, I just want to rest…”

  “I’m sorry Mr. Muroe. You and I have a bargain, and there is no rest until we find a place you like. I don’t know though. With so many different flavors of heaven available we may never find something to your liking. Only hell remains the same. Only hell is consistent for everyone.”

  ‘Take me there, then.”

  The Devil reached down, and lifted Ulysses up from the bottom of the boat.

  “Are you sure, Mr. Muroe?” The Devil asked. “I don’t want you to be rash. It’s that sort of impulsive behavior that landed you in this mess in the first place.”

  Ulysses slowly nodded his head.

  “Then I can assume that our contract has been fulfilled. What a relief!”

  Ulysses head sank.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Muroe,” the Devil offered. “Hell isn’t as bad as all that. We’ll get you cleaned up, and settled. In time, you may even come to call hell your home. It’s no heaven, but we like it.”

  Ulysses closed his eyes. When he opened them again the illusion around him fell away. There was no beauty here, and gone was the fullness of life. Laid out before his eyes was a dreary and desolate place—stewarded over by a boring and ordinary angel with a forgettable face. Ulysses’ heart sank. He gently rocked back and forth in the old boat—as the Devil guided their way forward.

  The boat was rotten, and in a sorry state of decay, but she will take them where they need to go.

  THE SPITTING IMAGE

  His name was Simon, and he was a handsome sort, like some displaced dad from television’s golden age. He was a clean cut, smiling individual, and the very model of perfection. At least that’s how Simon appeared to her.

  “I think you’ll be happy here,” Simon said. “My apologizes once again for the trouble you had at the gate. But we had to be sure you were the right sort of person. We have a high standard to maintain. We have to be careful—about whom we let in. Do you understand what I mean?"

  She was hanging on every word. Never had she met a man like Simon before. He was a god. Too bad she was an old lady. He stared down at her, waiting for some response. She blushed and answered, “Oh, I know exactly the kind you mean. And you’re right, you can never be too careful—because their kind are everywhere. They always take a good thing and spoil it for everyone else. “

  “Let me assure you,” Simon said, “you will find none of those types here. Nope. Here we have only decent, God fearing folks.”

  “Speaking of which, before we get you settled, I would like to take you to the church and introduce you to some of the good people we have with us. I know this is sudden notice, but…”

  “It would be my pleasure, young man.”

  Simon held out his hand, which she took immediately. She would go anywhere with him. They strolled hand in hand do
wn the street. Their walk didn’t go unnoticed. They passed several people, all of whom stopped to stare. She could hear them whispering behind her back. Even with Simon, she began to feel uneasy.

  “I hate to bring this up, but may I ask why are those people staring at us? Oh dear. It doesn’t have to do with the fact that I am accompanying you? I am an old woman, and you are such a young man. I didn’t even think…”

  “It’s all right,” Simon smiled. “Don’t let it trouble you. In fact, I’ll let you in on a little secret. They’re jealous of you. We haven’t had someone like you here for a long time. You were chosen above all others.”

  She blushed. In the distance, church bells began to ring.

  “We must hurry. They’re waiting for us.”

  Arm in arm, she and Simon hurried to the church.

  When they arrived, the church was packed. At their arrival, the people whispered and pointed. Just as quickly, however, they looked away as she and Simon drew near. Simon led her down the aisle. At the end waited the pastor. The pastor’s back was turned toward the congregation.

  Simon called out to the pastor. The pastor, turned to face the newest member of the church.

  She recoiled back when she saw the pastor up close. His skin was horribly burned, and his face was charcoal black.

  “Please, don’t be frightened by my appearance.”

  She was frightened and confused. Why would someone like this man be allowed in heaven? Did Simon not tell her that there were high standards imposed here? How could a man as deformed and ugly as this be allowed in palace of glory? Let alone be serving as pastor? That was a job which should only be reserved for the best of men. Men like Simon.

  “Listen,” the pastor confessed, “our Lord and Savior speaks to us.”

  There was a murmur in the church.

  The pastor took a deep breath. He motioned for silence. The pastor approached her. She wanted to run away, but Simon held her fast.

  “I’m afraid our Lord demands a sacrifice.”

  “It’s a great honor to be chosen,” Simon whispered in her ear.

  The pastor plunged a dagger deep into her chest, and slid it down until the wound had split her down the middle. Who would have thought you could be murdered in heaven. Pushing and shoving their way forward, the others in the church fell upon her — hungrily tearing her to shreds.

  Not a scrap was left after they were done. Much appeased, those in the church returned to normal.

  It was then that Simon made a shocking discovery. “Forgive us Lord, we meant no disrespect.” He pleaded with the tiny golden figure of Christ that had fallen over, and then returned it, carefully, to its high pedestal.

  IT’S SUICIDE

  “Summon the defendant,” the prosecutor said.

  She appeared, slowly at first—then gradually took on form and substance.

  “Right,” the prosecutor said, “Read the charge.”

  The court reporter stood up: “The defendant stands accused of murder.”

  “There’s been some mistake,” the defendant stammered. “I was in a small grove. A grove full of trees…”

  She looked outside. It had just started to snow.

  “We represent the city, ma’am,” the prosecutor said. “We do not make mistakes. And, let me assure you that the city takes murder very seriously.”

  “Murder?” The defendant said. “I didn’t murder anyone. I am innocent of these charges.”

  “You stand accused of murdering yourself,” the prosecutor said.

  “You mean I died,” the defendant asked.

  “And we brought you back to stand trial for your crime.”

  The prosecutor raised an eyebrow and then added: “The city frowns upon people talking their own life. That is why suicide is against the law, and you have broken the law.”

  He turned away from her.

  “Call the first witness,” the court reporter said.

  The first to take the stand was a white male between the ages of 40-55. He was 5' 8” tall and about 260 lbs. He had red balding hair that was starting to gray, and a full curly mustache.

  “State your name for the record,” the court reporter said.

  “Winston Lambert,” the man answered.

  “Mr. Lambert,” the prosecutor began, “was the defendant employed at your company?”

  “Yes,” the witness answered. “Yes, she was with us for many years.”

  “Would you say,” the prosecutor continued, “that she served a valuable function within your organization?”

  “Yes,” the witness answered, “she was indispensable.”

  “When she, um,” the witness paused for a moment to carefully consider his words. “When she decided to take the course of action that she did, I know my company was thrown into complete chaos. We were completely lost without her.”

  “Mary,” the witness said trying to plead with the defendant, “I wish you would have come to me. I’m sure we could have worked something out. Why did you do it?”

  Before the defendant could reply, the prosecutor put a stop to the proceedings.

  “Your honor! Please instruct the witness not to speak to the defendant.”

  The witness was so instructed.

  The prosecutor continued: “So, Mr. Lambert in your opinion was the defendant a useful member of society?”

  “Yes,” the witness answered.

  “Thank you Mr. Lambert—you are excused.”

  “The witness is excused,” the court reporter said. “Call the next witness…”

  The next to take the stand was the defendant’s daughter, Jessica Cross.

  “Ms. Cross,” the prosecutor began, “could you tell the court, please, your relationship to the defendant.”

  “She is…was, my mother,” the witness said.

  “And how would you describe that relationship, Ms. Cross,” the prosecutor continued. “Was the relationship a loving one?”

  “Yes,” the witness tearfully replied.

  “Was there, to your knowledge, any conflict, or tension, within the relationship?”

  “No,” the witness responded.

  “Given what you say is true—can you think of any reason as to why your mother would want to kill herself?”

  There was a long pause, and then the witness tearfully admitted, “No.”

  “The witness is excused.”

  Suddenly, the witness broke free of her escorts, and made an attempt to embrace the defendant.

  “Your honor! Please inform the witness that there is to be no physical contact between herself and the defendant.”

  The witness was so informed—but apparently ignored the warning, nor did she respond when threatened with contempt of court. Finally, the witness had to be restrained and forcibly removed from the courtroom.

  After a short recess, the final witness called to testify was Harold Crane—the defendant’s former fiancé.

  “Mr. Crane,” the prosecutor began, “thank you for agreeing to appear before us today. I know you are a busy man. So, let’s cut to the chase. Can you think of any conceivable reason why the defendant, your former fiancé, would want to kill herself?

  “None sir,” the witness responded.

  “Did her death cause you any distress?”

  “It took me a long time,” the witness admitted, “to come to terms with her death. I don’t think I’ve ever really recovered.”

  “So her suicide caused you great personal stress.”

  “Seeing her here today,” the witness confessed, “makes me realize that she will be the only woman I will ever love.”

  “Just answer the question yes or no sir.”

  “Yes,” the witness answered, “her death caused me a great deal of personal stress.”

  “Thank you sir. You have been most helpful. The witness is excused.”

  The prosecutor took a deep breath, and began his closing arguments.

  “Well, there you have it. The defendant was a woman who had everythin
g going for her in her life. She had a good job, and the love of family and friends. But, in one impulsive act she selfishly destroyed it all. Even more troubling is the fact that she brought chaos to our perfectly ordered society. And, that is the most unforgivable of crimes. Your Honor.”

  “Thank you,” Judge Fairweather said. He then turned to the defendant. “Will the defendant please rise.”

  The defendant rose solemnly to her feet.

  “Before I pass sentence,” Judge Fairweather continued, “do you have anything to say in your own defense?”

  “I never realized what a terrible mistake I made,” the defendant began. She paused for a moment to look out the window. “It’s been so long since I have seen the snow.”

  The defendant turned to address the court.

  “Please. I want to live. Please grant me this second chance at life and I promise…”

  “Ma’am,” Judge Fairweather said, “this courtroom will not tolerate your emotional outbursts. I assure you, your testimony will have no bearing on my decision. Please sit down.”

  The defendant, though confused, did as she was instructed. Judge Fairweather turned to face those who were present in the courtroom and towards the television audience.

  “Murder is something the city will not tolerate, no matter what the circumstances are, or who the victim is. It is a violation of the very rules we govern ourselves by. I think my friends, our humble prosecutor, said it best when he called murder an act of chaos that destroys the very fabric of our perfect society.”

  Judge Fairweather paused a moment to let his words sink in.

  “Will the defendant please rise.”

  The defendant rose.

  Judge Fairweather read the verdict.

  “Mary Cross,” he said, “with the power invested in me by the city, for the crime of murder I hereby sentence you to death—to be carried out immediately. Guards take her away.”

  “Wait,” the defendant, cried. “Wait, wait please. I want to live!”

  The prosecutor shook his head.

  The court reporter stood, and said:

  “Summon the next defendant.”

  IN THE DARK

  How long is this line anyway?

  “So have you been to heaven yet, pardner?”

  I shake my head. “No. After I was hit by the bus I woke up here.”

  “Well, don’t fret, you haven’t missed much. Now, I don’t like to complain, but all I can say is heaven’s not all that it’s cracked up to be. I’ll tell you the gospel, son, I was really disappointed by the whole thing.”

  “Really,” I answer. My heart sinks. “I was kind of looking forward to it.”

  “Now, don’t you worry. Heaven is too good for the likes of us.”

  We continue to wait in silence. After a while, the man in front turns and asks: “Do you have a cigarette?”

  I search my pockets; find half a pack, and a match. He greedily snatches both items from my hand.

  “Thank God.”

  He strikes the match, and there is a brief flash of light. I see that my new friend is horribly burned. His skin is blistered, and his face is like charcoal.

  “What,” he asks, when he catches me staring. “Oh, my appearance? Kinda spooky ain’t it?”

  He blows out the match, and everything is dark again.

  “That better?”

  On reflex, I nod, then feel like an idiot since it’s too dark to see anything. I'm grateful when he changes the subject. “So what’s your name son?”

  “Joe,” I answer. “So, um, what are we waiting for?”

  “To be reborn,” the man replies, taking a puff of his cigarette.

  “Not as many people here as I would have thought,” I say picking up the conversation. “You’d think there would be more of a crowd.”

  “Haven’t you heard pardner,” the man answers, “life sucks.”

  “Still,” he adds, “better than heaven.”

  We're both out of conversation, so we stand and wait quietly in the dark. God only knows how long we wait. I nervously shuffled my feet, an annoying habit that my wife used to get on my case about. I hope she’s okay.

  The man ahead of me turns to face me again.

  “Look there, son.” He says.

  “What?” I ask, straining my eyes to see. “What is it?”

  “What we've been waiting for.”

  Light floods the room, and for a moment I'm blind. Soon, my eyes adjust, and in the distance I see two enormous doors. One door is white, and the other is black. Both doors reach an impossible height. A doorway for angels, I think. Intimidating, and frightening, for us small pitiful mortals, and yet I feel a deep longing to see what’s on the other side.

  “Get out of the way, faggot!” A whinny voice calls out behind me. Before I have any time to react, I'm pushed down to the rocky floor. Sneakers rush past my line of sight, and race downhill.

  My “pardner” helps me back up on my feet.

  “That kid's got the right idea,” my new friend says. “You coming?”

  I shake my head.

  “Want to be one of the sheep, eh Joe? Well suit yourself.”

  My friend leaves me behind, and saunters downhill at a leisurely pace. No one tries to stop him. Instead, they gave him a wide berth. At the bottom, my friend moseys on up to the kid.

  The acoustics in this place prove to be excellent, and soon we’re all listening in to their conversation. Though, it isn’t much to speak about.

  “What the hell do you want?” the kid screams. “I get to go first. That’s my right.”

  “Listen son I am just trying to help,” my friend answers.

  “Bullshit. You want to cut in front of me. But, I won’t let you.”

  “I don’t want any trouble son. You just go right on ahead.”

  “None of you deserve to go first anyway,” the kid tells us. “You faggots can kiss my ass. I’m somebody, you know. I’m the most popular kid at school. Everyone worships the ground I fucking walk on...

  Behind him, the black door opens. The kid didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t care.

  “Don’t any of you know who I am? John Smith! That’s right! John fucking Smith!”

  “Hurry up,” several people cry. That, of course, provokes a reaction.

  “No! You are going to have to sit there and wait,” the kid threatens. “You know why? Because I said so. So, shut the fuck up!”

  The threat turns out to be an empty one, because my friend already has a hold of the back of kid’s shirt. A few seconds later, the kid gets his ass thrown through the open door. The kid screams, an inhuman scream. Then, all is quiet.

  We’re a hushed audience, but my “pardner” breaks the tension. He holds up his hand, and laughs. “Congratulations John fucking Smith you are now a slug.”

  Carelessly, he tosses the thing aside, and then wipes his hand on his pants.

  “Next,” my “pardner” calls out.

  I sit back and watch. Some people go through the white door, and others go through the black. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason about who goes where. I make note of the one thing that does remain constant: everybody screams.

  Someone smarter than me, like my wife, would have figured it out. I wish she was here now. As it stands, it takes me awhile to catch on. Everyone screams when they come out of the womb, and we start off life in pain.

  Soon, it's my turn.

  My “pardner” stands behind a podium. Seeing him up close, I find that I’m filled with a great disgust. It's not the burned skin that disturbs me. God only knows how I look after being hit by that bus. It's his smile, that’s off putting. It's not a kind smile or a welcoming one. It's the smile of someone who is relishing in the knowledge of a dirty little secret.

  “Are we going to have trouble with you too, pardner?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Either we are or we aren’t. Don't you want to be reborn?”

  “Well it would be ni
ce to see my wife again.” I confess.

  “Then what are you waiting for, son? Just step through the gate of ivory.”

  The white door shimmers and starts to open. I’m hungry for what it has to offer, and it is hungry for my soul. If I could just find out if Darcy’s okay, then I could rest in peace. I step forward.

  “Whoa there, pardner. I’m afraid I can’t let you be reborn until you sign this.”

  He hands me a piece of paper. I look down at it, and then stare back up at him.

  “I don’t understand.” I say impatiently. I'm pacing back and forth. My eyes never leave the sight of the white door.

  “Standard contract. You sign your life away to Firedrake, Inc., and then you can be reborn.”

  “Does everyone have to do this?” I ask.

  “Why would anyone want to do anything else?” He answers.

  “This isn’t right.”

  “Joe, are you going to make all these good people wait, just so you can argue with me.”

  “I don’t know. There is something about this I don’t like.”

  “You not going to get a better offer than this,” the man assures me.

  “I don’t think I want to be reborn. I think I am going to try and find heaven instead.”

  I step out of line, and begin to walk away. The pull on my heart is madding. I’m ready to turn around, beg for forgiveness, sign whatever I have to, and step through that door, and be reborn. Ironically, it’s my wife who saves me. I think of her, now, and that gives me strength. Who knows how long I’ve been here. Darcy’s probably moved on with her life. Is it really fair for me to mess that up? And, if I step through the door of life, would I even remember who she was? I mean nobody remembers the life they’ve lived before, do they? No. I’d rather be dead and keep her in my heart, than live and forget. Sorry babe. God willing we’ll meet up again somewhere down the line.

  “You won’t like it Joe,” I hear my friend call out. He sounds desperate. “You come back here right now. I won’t let you do this to yourself. Firedrake, Inc. only has your best interests at heart.”

  “Please...,” I hear him beg. Then, he changes gears.

  “Fine! Go find heaven then! See for yourself. And, when you see what heaven is really like—then you’ll be back, begging to be reborn!”

  But, at that point, I wasn’t listening.

  I just continue to stumble my way through the dark.

  HELL

  I was once a good Christian, until I succumbed to a life of sin and temptation…