Diary of a Dead Man (Re-Write) 7

7. Judge, Jury, and…

     When the white light evaporated Brian was standing in front of four men. They were dressed in military outfits and sat at the top of a large wooden bench. Brian was in the court of appeals, a place dedicated to listening to sob stories of redemption, and then rejecting them. Rejection involved a large metal lever that had been painted a friendly red color. When pulled it released the floorboards beneath the defendant and they fell straight down to hell. The tribunal was made up of warlords who felt they hadn’t had their fair shake at world domination. This made them a cantankerous bunch, and more often than not ‘trigger happy’.

     “Welcome Brian, to the high court of the fallen,” said a man clad in military garb with a deep African accent. The four men looked down on Brian with contemptuous stares. He felt as though he was sweating, even though his pores no longer existed.

     “Look, it was a complete accident. I didn’t mean to,”

     “We don’t really have time for this; your sentencing is mostly a formality.” The man speaking was a civil war general who still sported a white handlebar mustache and a uniform with a confederate flag on it. His southern drawl was terrifying in a way it had no right to be. Brian quaked on the marble floor below.

     “I understand,” said Brian, his head falling low with apprehension. Back on Earth Brian had pictured Hell often, but for the most part with the satirical lens of a cynic (or a writer). In those days it had never been real, but as he stood on the cusp of its fiery gates, he felt the gravity of it sinking in. Somewhere below his feet awaited an infinite array of torture, decay, and malice.

     “Your request to pass on has been approved. Next.” The civil war general was already shredding the paperwork pertaining to Brian’s case.

     “Wait what?” Before he was able to get a response, Brian was ushered out of the marble room by a pair of strong hands. He was dragged into a long, gold corridor. At the end was a man, sitting at a brown desk, shuffling through stacks of paper that stretched up to the top of a ceiling which was far too high.

     “Ah, Brian is it?” The man’s voice was high and nasally.

     “Yes. What did they mean--”

     “I’m sorry to cut you off, but tight schedule and all. Here are your wings, halo, and journal.”

     “I’m sorry?” Brian said as in a moment of immense pain, wings shot from his shoulder blades and a halo burned into existence above his head.

     “Oh the journal? We’ve found that eternal pleasure can actually be rather dull sometimes. The Big Man thought it might help for you to write about it. You are a writer correct?”

     “Yes, but—“

     “Splendid, off you go then.” From beneath his feat a trap door opened revealing a set of heavy metal coils. Without warning they sprung up and launched him into the air. White clouds, salmon haze, and a series of violet streaks turned around him in a terrible rhythm. Heaven could really use a few interior decorators, was all he thought before he passed out.

     When he awoke Brian was in a small room. It was very similar to the apartment he had inhabited in the months before his demise. On a white coffee table there was a short note. Congratulations Brian, you did it. We were all rooting for you. –God. Initially the note from the creator shocked and humbled Brian, but soon after he found out it was merely a formality composed by a persnickety choir of angels. The fact of the matter was God was busy (crashing planes in the Bermuda Triangle to be precise).

     For a while Brian thought not of the circumstances surrounding his judgement for fear of reprisal. After months however, curiosity got the better of him. One day after the hundredth or so round of shuffleboard with Mahatma Gandhi, Brian asked the unthinkable. “Why didn’t I get sent to hell?” For a moment the question lingered in the air, and then Gandhi began to laugh.

     “Divine intervention.” He continued to laugh and reset the board for another game. “It’s like God’s way of saying, sorry for the truck.”

Brian took a minute to process, but realized that either way it was over and done with. “He could have just sent flowers.” With that they both started laughing and Brian began to feel at ease with the injustice surrounding his death. They continued their game as the artificial sun above set over the endless stretches of heavenly clouds.

     As time passed even all the pleasures that his heart could desire weren’t enough to satisfy Brian. He returned to the passion that had once driven him in life. The rest of his eternity was spent writing dull poetry about the color white and angel wings, but  he was happy.  

-- Well that's it, the end of a long re-write. Let me know what you think!

Mac