Be not afraid, traveller. The sign read in cursive lettering
Eternal bliss awaits. Your spirit stands on the verge of entering
Soon to meet your maker. However, you are yet unworthy
Here you must remain until fit to commence your journey
All sin must be washed away before you can hope to ascend
In the godly rains of purgatory, your imperfect soul will be cleansed
…
Mortals had heard the story. They didn’t know it was first rate horse shit
Invented at the turn of the century after the birth rate soared quick
What happened to war & pestilence? Good old fashioned flood & famine?
Now humans were living long enough to breed like fucking rabbits
Michael had fucking had it. The caseload was a ridiculous ask
Weighing the souls of the dead became an outrageous logistical task
A backlog of billions waiting to be classed as ’
saved’ or ‘
damned’
How the fuck was he supposed to explain to them the massive delays at hand?
He’d scratched his balls, made a plan, concocted a suitable spin…
The fawning faithful embraced the lie, even called it a beautiful thing.
…
Michael paces the control room. “NEXT!” His timbre is thundering.
Paul, a simpering underling, pushes some buttons & fiddles with knobs.
The data finishes buffering. The image appears on the video wall -
A lone figure at a bus stop. “Right, what’s this idiot called?”
“This is umm… uhhh…” Paul scrambles to find what page it’s on
Lands on what he’s looking for. “This is David… uhh… Davidson?”
He checks his notes again, looking through them just in case
Michael’s nostrils are flaring. “What a stupid fucking name.
He looks too young and healthy. What’s this cocksucker here for?”
“It says he was cleaning his rifle and…” A raised eyebrow. “Dear lord…
The chamber was loaded… he slipped as he ran his thumb past
The safety was off, his kids were home and heard the gun blast.”
Michael snorts. “What a dumb ass!” – a special disdain for David’s type
Old enough to procreate, young enough to just fucking stay alive.
“And what’d this asshole do with his miserable little claim to life?”
“Well, uhh… He never killed anyone, never cheated on or shamed his wife…
He turned his family out weekly in all of their Sunday best…
… he was a big fan of the big guy.” Michael’s eyes roll. Unimpressed.
“But,” Paul continues, “He overstated his own importance…
When travelling on planes he was prone to claim both the armrests…
He’d hit reply all on emails when it definitely wasn’t warranted…
Waited til the front of Starbucks queues to decide on what his order is…
Oh! And one time, he called his neighbour a, “churlish cunt” …”
Michael picks at his teeth. “Alright then, I’ve heard enough.”
…
The vehicle approaches. Barbed wire on windows.
The sign on the front flashes -
Next Stop: Fire & Brimstone
...
Michael arrives home. His thoughts pace an arrhythmia
He shrugs off his white uniform with the Arcangel insignia
Glass of Scotch. Fade to oblivion. Try to forget the job that he hates.
Angry. He flings his halo against the wall, and it breaks.