Chemistry 101

Chemistry 101

The following will be an overview of basic organic and inorganic chemistry. Our intention is to provide the lay-reader with a basic understanding of chemistry and how it effects people in their daily lives. To that end, we will cover the reactions between, and the compositions of the elements responsible for so much of the magic that occurs in everyday life.

Let's start with a bit of chemistry everyone is familiar with: Infatuation.

Infatuation is a volatile reaction that tends to be short lived, but one that creates very tenuous bonds indeed. When both parties participate in the infatuative reaction, the bond is especially strong, occasionally leading to, and often mistaken for love but more often escalating until one or both parties observe flaws in their counterpart. In such cases the bond typically disintegrates in a spectacularly violent fashion. 

Sometimes, asymmetrical infatuative bonds may persist well beyond their usual one to three month lifespan. We refer to this  type of bond as unrequited love. Unrequited love is a one-way attractive chemical bond between two parties, typically without the receiving party's awareness. It may persist for years and even decades. Laboratory tests have shown that in the majority of cases once the receiving party becomes aware of the bond, it quickly dissolves, leaving the two parties with mutually repelling polarized charges.

Next we're going to take a look at lust. Lust is a form of bond that may or may not be independent of emotional bonds, such as love or infatuation. It is often hypothesized, however, that lust fields contains precursors to infatuation.







 Scientists have not yet pinned down any concrete hypotheses to describe this process, though anecdotal evidence suggests it occurs more often in females than males. Additional anecdotal evidence also suggests that often males develop a counter-reaction to the females lust-triggered infatuation, with a compound known as lack of respect.


 The fields of infatuation and lack of respect are uniquely charged, such that the party displaying lack of respect is repelled away from the party showing the infatuative charge, while conversely the infatuated party is positively charged towards the disrespecting party. This has not been positively explained by modern science.

Repulsion is a negative charge which is stronger than any of the previously described bonds. Researchers have hypothesized that repulsion contains precursors to lust, as it has been observed to appear spontaneously when two strongly repelling fields collide. Repulsion, along with lust are unique amongst the families of bonds described thus far insofar as they can be directed not only at organic, carbon-based life forms but also at inanimate objects and wholly intangible concepts.

Love is a strong, persistent, attractive bond between two parties. It has lately seen a decline, since the public's awareness and understanding of this particular bond has largely been informed (and perhaps undermined) by Disney films and romantic comedies, resulting in unrealistic expectations in the minds of their fans. Love bonds may or may not be paired with lust bonds. Amongst those who study these things, love is typified and distinguished from infatuation by virtue of the fact that infatuation makes the individual feel good in the presence of the target of their infatuation, while love makes the individual feel inspired to be a better person in the presence of the target of their feelings.

Billy Mays offers relationship advice

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Corrections to Mr. McCarthy’s resume and cover letter.

Regarding the resume and cover letter submitted to the hiring manager in the Human Resources department yesterday, the following corrections should be made:

First, although “attention to detail” was the first item on the applicant’s list of skills and attributes listed at the top of his CV, he is, in fact, subject to severe adult-ADD and couldn’t focus on anything for longer than two minutes without appropriate medication. Especially for a task as mind-numbing as data entry. This was an oversight.

Second, from the same section, the applicant does not, in fact possess, “proficiency” in Microsoft Excel. He at best has a “passing familiarity” with it.

Next, although the applicant listed his last position as “sous chef”, he was in fact only a line cook. This is the only outright fabrication on the two documents, and the applicant regrets this. As a caveat to this retraction, the applicant wishes to convey to the reader that at one point the chef did, in fact talk about someday promoting the applicant to the position of sous chef.

Additionally, it may be the case that dates of employment were changed slightly to minimize the appearance of long-term unemployment. Although a concrete correction cannot be offered in this case, the applicant suggests that in the interest of factuality that the reader subtract an average of on to three months off each of his last three positions listed.

Finally, on the cover letter, first paragraph, third sentence, the applicant indicated that he wanted to “bring his passion for customer service to your company”. This should be amended to say that he wanted to “get a fucking job”. The applicant regrets this error and apologizes for any misconceptions that may have arisen from these errors, but wishes the express with the deepest sincerity that “Seriously, this fucking job isn’t goddamned rocket science. I mean, come on, guys.”

The great disappointment of 1844

October 21st, 1844:  Boston, Massachusetts

Hundreds of people stood on a grassy hillside just outside Boston, dressed in simple white robes, holding hands with their families and looking vaguely up towards a dark, cloudy night sky.  Children sobbed and sniffled, and in spite of all their protests, they could not persuade their parents to go home.  Their blubbering robbed the occasion of its momentousness, and disrupted the silent prayers of the assembled faithful.  It began to rain again.

Revered Dixon stepped up to a makeshift pulpit and raised his hands to the heavens.  He took a deep breath.  "Brothers and sisters!", he cried , "the hour nears that will bring us our deliverance!  As I gaze at my pocket watch, it presents itself to me that there are no more than fifteen minutes before the hour of our lord Jesus Christ's return.  This is truly our final hour on this earth.” He deftly moved from a roar to a whisper. His audience followed the dynamism of his voice like ducklings follow their mother. “Now, more than ever, it is imperative, brothers and sisters, that you ask our lord for forgiveness of your sins, in order that you should ascend to paradise and sit at his right hand in the coming fall of earthly kingdoms at the hands of the beast and his prophet".  Many knelt down to pray, staining their white ascension robes with mud and grass.  Harland felt a giddiness rising from the pit of his stomach as he folded his hands in prayer.  Although he would miss his apostate family, he felt certain that over the next seven years of tribulation that they would come around and would eventually be reunited.

Ten minutes left.  The children were still crying, and some of the adults had joined in.  Harland tried to imagine what it would be like when they ascended to heaven.  Would the cloudy sky open up and take them up, or would they simply disappear?  If they did, would they leave behind their shoes, personal effects, and  ascension robes?  Was it pride to wonder if, as Enoch became Metatron after he was raised up to the Lord, they would become angels after their own ascension?  

Two minutes to midnight.  He raised his head from prayer.  Softly, he called to his assembled congregation, "Brothers and sisters".  The children continued to sob softly.  "Many have called you fools.  Fools for believing in the Reverend Miller's calculation that the End Times will commence tomorrow.  Fools for giving up your diverse material possessions in preparation for the coming of the lord, for as it is written in the book of Matthew, "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.  My brethren, do not quail in uncertainty;  In a moment, our long wait will finally be over, our earthly pilgrimage shall cease, and we shall be vindicated by Jesus Christ himself, our Lord and savior.  Now let us wait and pray".

For the first time all night, the whole group fell silent.  There was no sound at all but a slight breeze ruffling the wet cotton robes of the assembled.  All heads bowed down in silent prayer.  A minute passed.  Then another.  Harland opened his eyes and quietly pulled the chain that connected to his pocket watch.  The flipped open the etched brass cover.  The minute hand pointed to a minute past midnight.  He thought he felt his heart skip a beat and quickly accelerate.  It must be fast, he thought, as he closed the cover and placed the watch back in his pocket.  He closed his eyes again.  

He became aware of a restless rustling from the congregation.  The wind stepped up a notch, blowing the rain at a lazy sideways angle.  Again, he consulted his pocket watch.  It was now ten minutes past midnight, and the weather seemed less portentous than before.  It was rainy, but certainly not stormy.  A family of six turned to leave, dragging their soaked white robes as they descended the hill.  The father placed his arm around his wife, and his other hand on his youngest son's shoulder.  Their disappointment was almost palpable, and Harland felt a small stab of guilty pain at the sight of them leaving.  His brow furrowed, and raindrops found new channels to ride down his face. He rested his elbows on the mahogany pulpit, and his head in his hands.  A slow confusion took place before him, and he know he had to say something or else it would degenerate into chaos.  He stood up straight and purposeful, placed his hands on the pulpit, and cleared his throat.  "Perhaps we have failed to take into account the differences of latitude and longitude between Boston and the holy land", he said, tentatively, and regretted it instantly.  An aging schoolteacher, Eldon Pratchett, looked Harland in the eye, and declared "If that is indeed the case, then we should have ascended hours ago".  He let out a series of dry coughs and then continued.  "Go to hell, Dixon".  With that, he shakily struggled to his feet with help from his two sons, and turned to walk back down the hill.

"No! At least wait with me until sunrise!" he cried. There was an edge of desperation in his voice.  With each departing member of the congregation his exasperation rose a degree.  A third of the gathered had now left.  Many of those who stayed did so because they no longer had a home to return to.

They waited all night.  He kept his face trained towards the sky until about one in the morning, when his neck began to ache.  By half past two, his legs and back began to ache, and reluctantly he sat down.  His head swam with incomprehension.

The sun rose behind a screen of heavy, grey clouds, and they remained earthbound.  Cocks crowed just as they did every morning.  Harland no longer protested when people left.  He felt cold, wretched and painfully embarrassed.  A small boy strolled past the group on his way to the schoolhouse.  He stopped and looked them over, the huddled, sorry mass of believers.  "Have you not gone up yet?" he flashed a smile that seemed too ironic for his age.

Harland's thoughts turned over and over on the axis of denial.  He closed his eyes, paced the hillside and re-imagined the whole event.  This time, 11:59 of the 21st was his last minute on earth.  He imagined a warm light taking him away from the earth, his body slowly dissolving into divinity.  He became a weightless entity, and his robes and shoes were the only reminder of his time on earth.  He saw, in his mind's eye, gilded streets, cherubs flitting about in the air.  No disease, no hunger, nor death, only eternal bliss and worship in the house of the Lord.  It would be neither a hot summer, nor a freezing winter, but an endless season of bliss in the heights of divinity without pain or want.  

He then opened his eyes and remembered where he was.  An aftershock of the previous night's disappointment hit him in the gut like a pugilist; the effect was visceral, and he found himself unable to stand.  He couldn't even find the energy to cry anymore.  He swooned, dropped to his knees, and began to dry heave. 

A memo from Doctor Disrupto to all employees of the Consortium of Chaos

Memo from Doctor Disrupto to: all employees

My minions! Soon will be the hour of our victory! 

Some of you may have heard that I recently acquired a kilogram of Onzythrionite, a rare mineral that is the principle weakness of my arch-nemesis, Superlative Man.  Once I install it in the Megananolaser cannon mounted on my cyborg dinotron, Superlative Man will be helpless against me! He will have no choice but to leave the Earth or be destroyed, and then the governments of the world will be forced to accept me as their leader and dictator for life! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

I’d like to take a moment to thank the villains in the Consortium of Chaos who helped bring this nefarious plan to fruition: First and foremost, Professor Pandemonium for the use of his orbiting space station. Without you, professor, we never would have been able to acquire the Onzythrionite that will be the ultimate doom of Superlative Man. Also, Liquidation Lass, without whom this project never could have gone forward. For the last two months, Liquidation Lass has been coming in on weekends and working holidays to make sure everything would go off without a hitch. If you see her in the hall or the break room, be sure to show her some appreciation!

Also, remember that there is a promotional incentive system in place for you this quarter. If you aren’t acquainted with it, let me take a moment to go over the plan with you. For every member of the League of Fairness, Z-Men, Teen Behemoths or Revengers (east or west coast teams)  that you defeat in combat, you will receive a $500 one-time commission! Also, all participants will be put in a drawing for an all-expenses-paid five day, six night package vacation to Cabo San Lucas. Outstanding, right? So get out there and show the forces of justice and good what you’re made of!

Oh, one last thing, the ice maker in the break room is out of service for now. According to the service technician who came in to look at it this morning, someone left a spoon in the ice hopper. So, just a reminder, the only thing that goes into the ice machine is ice, ok? Seriously, people. If you can’t keep our ice maker in working order I’m going to stop having it repaired. I’m not kidding. 

Sincerely,

Doctor Disrupto

A short monologue from a Koopa Troopa

Oh, I don’t know, to be honest with you, the job’s pretty easy and I get surprisingly good benefits considering it was an entry-level position. What do I do? Well, see that big green pipe over there? Yeah, that one, sticking straight out of the ground. Yep, that’s the one. The one with the carnivorous vine that pops out every so often. Right, so I basically patrol from that green pipe over there with the toothy vine thing to that other pipe over there . Back and forth. Yeah, It is a little tedious, but I’m fresh out of school, and given the state of the economy I’m lucky to have a job at all.

How did I get the position? There was a recruiter, he showed up at school one day, told everybody about all the opportunities for careers with Bowser’s Koopa army, how they had all these big plans for expansion, it seemed like a pretty great opportunity. Get in on the ground floor of something big, right? And Bowser seems like a pretty motivated guy, just the kind of guy you’d want in a leadership position. Oh, sorry, yeah, you’re gonna have to keep up, part of the job description is that I have to keep walking back and forth all day between these two pipes. It’s just that I really can’t afford to lose this job, I hope that’s ok with you.

I’m just happy I’m not doing general labor, the number of bottomless pits we’re having to set up around here is pretty spectacular, and hot lava transport is pretty dangerous stuff.

You know, to be frank, I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be on the lookout for. Insurgent locals? I don’t even know what the locals look like. I guess if I run across a hostile character I’ll know, huh?

No, I really don’t mind the tedium that much, I mean, I’m the kind of  guy who likes to keep physically active anyway. They were hiring for some back-office admin positions, but there’s just no way I could sit in a cubicle all day long, I’d go crazy. So yeah, given the choice, I’d rather get paid to patrol between these two pipes all day long than have to listen to a bunch of inane chatter from my co-workers around the water cooler.

Hey, did you hear that? That’s weird. No, I thought I heard something, that’s all. Like  somebody was smashing bricks or something. Whatever, anyway, I really ought to get back to work, but it was nice talking to - Holy shit, what are those, fireballs? OW! DAMNIT! DUDE, I’M STANDING RIGHT HERE, DON’T STEP ON ME! WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU A- 

The Unfathomable Alien Terror of the Others

The children sat on the kitchen counter gathered around their grandmother in anticipation of their nightly story time. She eyed them intensely and they one at a time they fell silent. She began her story. “Tonight,” she croaked “ I’m going to tell you about the Others. They are hulking, evil fiends who wish nothing more than for our total extinction. It wasn’t always like this; our kind predates them by eons. Before they arrived, we could live out in the open as we pleased. How they arrived on the Earth is a mystery. Some say they came from outer space, from a dimension of delirium and incomprehensible evil. Their structures are mammoth, built by a race of yellow slave beasts the size of mountains that they subjugated in unfathomable ages past.” She pointed at each of the children to emphasize her words as she spoke.

“They have the power to crush us into nothing with the slightest gesture, to smash us into oblivion without breaking a sweat. They lay deadly traps for us that prey on our baser instincts. They have the power to turn the very air itself into a lethal poison from which there is no escape. My grandmother told me once of the time when as a young girl, she returned home to find the bodies of her whole family sprawled out on the floor. Massacred by the beasts. She never forgot that day for the rest of her life.”

The children sat in wide-eyed silent terror.

“They say that before they appear, a blinding bright light appears in the sky, and there it remains until they leave. If you ever see the light, run for your lives!” Her eyes went wide. “They will pursue you, but they are sluggish, and you can escape if you have somewhere to run and hide. If you can’t, then stand as still as you can, their vision is primitive, and they can only see you if you move. You cannot defeat them in combat, none of our kind has ever succeeded in that.”

Far away, there was a thunderous crash, followed with a pulsing series of reverberations. The children tensed up, and their grandmother stopped talking and looked over her shoulder silently. A blinding flash of light appeared, and they were momentarily transfixed. The creature shambled into their field of vision, it was bipedal and hairy. It let out a piercing cry that shook the very foundations of the children’s young minds, a sound they would never forget for the rest of their lives.

They recovered their faculties and ran as fast as their legs could carry them. Behind them they heard another hideous, alien scream, this time followed by an ear-shattering smack, and their grandmother was no more.

The creature taunted the grandmother in its incomprehensible alien tongue.
“Damnit, Marge, we can’t just leave the dishes in the sink like that, we’ve got roaches again!”

Bowser's lament

“You know, at first, I really thought it was just a fluke.” His voice had a raspy quality to it. It was the voice of a whiskey-drinking chain smoker. The kind of voice that made the best blues singers. “I mean, I pretty much just swooped in with my Koopa Troopers, and a handful of Goombas. You wouldn’t believe how easy it was taking over this place. I mean, it was like invading France or Poland. Not that I’m comparing myself to Hitler or anything. It was like it had never even occurred to them that the Mushroom Kingdom could be invaded!” Bowser chuckled to himself and paused to extinguish his cigarette in a dirty glass ashtray. It erupted in a plume of smoke as he crushed it out. He then reached for his soft pack of Camel filters, tapped one out and set it alight with his flaming breath.

“Like I was saying, this was my first time invading anybody, so it was a huge rush.” His eyes went wide and he cracked a huge, toothy smile. “I captured the princess, set crews to digging bottomless pits and had hot lava imported by the truckload.” He took a long drag on his cigarette. “Pretty textbook stuff. The way Ganondorf, Dr. Robotnik or Mother Brain would do it. A lot of people don’t realize this, but there’s a lot of work that goes into super villainy. It’s not just a matter of ‘invade, capture princess, defeat hero’, you have to lay the groundwork, handle payroll, set up supply chains. You’re not gonna believe this, but we’ve got nearly as many Koopa Troopers doing back office admin work as we do on the front lines. Some villains can handle that all on their own. Mother Brain is one of those, but you gotta expect that on account of she’s a giant brain in a tank. Me, I’m more of a manager; I delegate these things out to my kids, for the most part. They’re pretty bright. Except for Morton.”
“Anyway,” he crushed out another cigarette, “call it pride, but I was riding pretty high after all that. I even started looking at conquering other places. It’s tough though, pretty much all the good real estate is already accounted for. Hyrule’s a nice place, but if I have to fight Ganondorf and that Link guy for it, well,” He fell into a coughing fit for a moment.  “You can count me out. That Ganon dude gives me the creeps.”

 He swept an errant lock of red hair away from his eyes with a massive claw. “So, where was I? Oh yeah, right, so there I was, celebrating my takeover of the Mushroom kingdom, when I hear that some douche bag plumber had some idea he was going to rescue the princess. You should’ve seen this guy; Fuckin’ ridiculous. He had his initial written on his hat. Did he think he was gonna forget his name?” He laughed from his belly until he fell into a coughing fit again.  His expression turned more serious “Actually, that was a possibility, this guy ate more mushrooms than a hippie in the desert.”

“Long story short, he beat me, rescued the princess, all that jazz. After word got out that I’d fallen into a pool of lava, my minions packed up and left, and it was all over for a while.” Bowser sighed and lit another cigarette. “So, what do you do? I was pretty crushed. The funny thing about it, you spend all this time, all this effort, and when you finally get everything, the kingdom, the princess, all that, what do you do with it? I was like a dog that finally caught a car. You never really think that far ahead. And that’s what got me thinking. I said to myself ‘Bowser, if you’d been more strategic, you wouldn’t have had these problems.’ So I built a bunch of airships and recruited all kinds of fire-breathing, hammer throwing freaks and I thought to myself ‘This is how you should’ve done it the first time.’”

“Well, the same dickhead comes along and beats me again! That was the point where it started becoming a problem. I couldn’t stop myself. I don’t even know how many times I’ve captured and lost the Mushroom Kingdom since then. That was back in the late 80’s so you do the math. It was like… I’d get all depressed about losing the Kingdom and I’d think to myself ‘Hey, you know what’d make you feel better? Conquering the Mushroom Kingdom!’ Sounds stupid when you say it out loud, but that’s not how it feels, you know? And once I captured it, I’d just keep pressing my luck. I never could stop while I was ahead. Why do you think my kids never went into super-villainy after they got out of school? Cause they saw what it did to me, that’s why. They don’t even talk to me anymore. Except for Morton. Anyway, thanks for listening, guys.” The king of the Koopas eyes moistened and he sat down in a grey metal folding chair.

A wild-haired old man in a white lab coat stood up next. He cleared his throat and looked down at the floor in front of him. “Hi, my name is Dr. Wily, and I’m a super-villain…”

Hell

     
    Stuart found hell, as promised, underneath the city of Cleveland. There was an alley on West 6th street between a pizza place and a cocktail bar, and at the end of it was a scarred grey steel door set into a brick wall. Its paint was chipped around the edges but it was devoid of tags. Stuart felt drawn to it the moment he arrived in the city. With a hefty push he was able to move it. It opened with a simultaneous squeak and grinding sound, as if it wasn’t hung properly in its frame. It crashed back into itself after Stuart let it go, and he shuddered at the noise.
    The stairs were a dark charcoal color, worn down in the middle from countless footfalls, and chipped along the edges in places. He reached a landing. There were upturned buckets and ashtrays studded with cigarette butts and stubs of rollies. There was a battered budget love seat, ripped at the seams. A love seat that had given up its innocence years ago in the crossfire of drunken break-room trysts. A lust seat. The place smelled of mildew and stale tobacco smoke. He turned the corner and started down another set of stairs. Scrawled on the wall near the top of the stairs in white paint was a reminder. ‘VALEFOR’, it said on the first line in giant block letters, and below: ‘take out the garbage’. Penned in another hand was second note, a reminder to Valefor that he is a fuckwit.
    He continued down the stairway to hell. The walls were increasingly covered in some kind of corrosion-green drippings from above, and he could hear faint rumble and chatter, like a big diesel engine off in the distance.The noise built upon itself in layers, and atop the rumbling chatter he soon heard a manic ringing, like a blacksmith’s convention, and upon that a screaming hiss and an orchestra of metallic clashes and clangs. Still Stuart continued down the charcoal-grey stairs.
    The stairs stopped at a narrow hallway lit by smoky candles. A hissing voice from a dark corner called to Stuart.
    “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate!”
    He looked around. “What?”
    “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate!”
    “… I don’t speak Italian.”
    An old man with a pointed beard that came down to his waist stepped out from the shadows. He was bald, with liver spots and smelled curiously of motor oil. “Oh. Too bad.” He made a dismissive waving gesture  “I’m just fucking with you anyway.” He gave a good-natured smile, and his cloudy eyes smiled with him. He put out his hand to Stuart. “Prince Vassago, commander of twenty-six legions, declarer of things past and to come, finder of things lost and abandoned and prince of prophesy”
    “Stuart. Good to meet you”
    “So, Stuart, what brings you to these parts?
    “My mother said my dad was down here.” He paused. “And I was getting a little sick of the constant timeshare pitches.”
    Vassago smiled. “That’s why I left too a while back. You think it’s bad now, back before God had a kid and settled down it was fucking bedlam. Imagine the most volatile teenage asshole you can think of, and then make him omnipotent. What a dickhead.” He gave the kind of look you might give a fully-functioning adult who had soiled himself. “Well anyway, a bunch of us decided we’d had enough, and you’ve probably heard the rest of the story. Anyway, now we’re here after a couple of relocations. It wasn’t always Cleveland, but we’re treaty-bound to relocate to whatever shithole God dictates.  We were under Manchester for a long time. It’s really not as bad here as you’ve probably been led to believe. We just don’t have the PR that God and his people have. I mean, they’ve got churches, the whole Vatican, Mormons, and what do we have? A handful of heavy metal bands in Norway and the glue-huffing teenagers who listen to them. Believe me, they’ll be disappointed if they ever make it here.”
    They walked down the hall as they spoke, and soon came upon a rather plain but heavy set of bronze doors. Vassago pulled on one and motioned for Stuart to enter.
    The door was situated halfway down a sheer clifflike face. Before them was a cyclopean cavern that stretched for miles in every direction. Smoke settled at the top of the cavern, pierced by the black roots of mighty trees. Below them was a shantytown with countless tiny shacks built from the discarded detritus of Cleveland above. The cavern was dim, lit with an orange cast from garbage fires and torches.
    “So,” Vassago gestured to the settlement below “this is Dis. A lot of people actually find it preferable to Cleveland”, and he smiled sadly.
    The two began climbing down the carved stone steps to the floor of the cavern.
    “How do people end up here?”
    “Like you, mostly. It’s a pretty self-selecting group of souls. Those who can’t or won’t deal with all the nonsense up there.” Vassago climbed the stairs like a man with a bad back. “We also get the occasional confused dishwasher from that pizza place.” He flashed a mischievous smile.
    “A few get sent here straight off the bat, mostly the types that heaven would find embarrassing to have lounging around up there. Osama Bin Laden got here the other day. You can bet money Mel Gibson’s on the list.”
    “So, what about Satan? Is he real?”
    Vassago’s brow furrowed. “Satan means adversary, did you know that? Anyway, he’s dead. Has been for about 300 years.” Vassago’s cloudy eyes looked sad for the first time since Stuart had arrived. “He was brilliant; Sharpest organizer I’ve ever met. I think he took it pretty hard when God told him there was no going back, especially after He got on that big forgiveness kick.”
    Vassago stopped to catch his breath at the bottom of the steps. “I’m afraid I can’t help you finding your dad, but best of luck, Steve”
    “Stuart. What about all that ‘finder of lost things’ stuff you were talking about before? This place is huge, it’s going to take years to find him.”
    “Oh, that, that’s just a bunch of bullshit some German demonologist made up about me. Sorry, I didn’t think you were really going to ask me to look for anything. Anyway, good luck.”
Stuart nodded, thanked the demon for his time, and walked down the dirt road.

Good intentions

Static and smooth jazz wafted through the receiver of Stuart’s telephone. Periodically it would pause and his ears would prick up until he realized it was the same recorded message he had already heard a dozen times before. “Thank you for holding. Your call is very important to us. Calls will be answered in the order in which they were received.” He sighed as the alto saxophone continued its crackly solo yet again, and returned to clipping his toenails. A voice came on the line. “Hello and thank you for holding, my name is Baruch. This call may be recorded for quality assurance, how may I help you today?” It took a moment for Stuart to realize his call had connected. After a brief pause, he dropped the toenail clippers on the floor and cleared his throat. “Yes, I was wondering if I could go to hell. I mean, just to visit. You know, to get out of town for the weekend.”
There was a long pause. “Please hold”. The saxophone solo picked up mid-bar and continued on for the next eleven minutes.
“Are you still on the line, sir?”
“Yes”
“Well, I’ve reviewed your inquiry with management, and I’ve been told to inform you that is not one of the services we offer, but do offer comparable trip packages to visit loved ones in the Sudan, Flint, Michigan or Chernobyl, Ukraine, among other places.”
“No, I’ve been to Flint already. Look, I just want to go hell and visit my dad. Just for a day, come on, you’re the Lord Almighty’s people, right? I’m sure you can find a way to make this happen.”
“There isn’t.”
“Is there some other agency you could refer me to? I mean, is hell like North Korea, and you just don’t have any diplomatic relations? What about Dante Alighieri, how did he manage it?”
“He didn’t, sir. Inferno was a work of fiction” The angel’s voice betrayed a hint of divine vexation.
Stuart sighed.
“Will that be all today, sir?”
Stuart said nothing.
“I’m sorry we could not help with your inquiry today, as I said, my name is Baruch, and on behalf of Paradise Timeshare Tours I would like to thank you for calling today. Goodb-”
“Wait. Baruch, right? Put me through to your manager.”
“Please hold the line.” The alto saxophone was scarcely able to play a full bar before his call was transferred.
A new voice spoke into the receiver. It was deep and resonant. “This is Bethor, how can I help you?”
“Hi Bethor. Look, I really need to go to hell, and your customer service guy Baruch says I can’t.”
There was a long, awkward pause. Stuart thought the call had been cut off until he heard the angel on the other end crunching on potato chips.
“That’s ‘angel of customer service’” Bethor said, his mouth full of half-chewed food, “Not ‘guy’. You realize we're genderless, right? Anyway, you want to go where now?”
“Hell. There’s somebody there I really need to see.”
“Oh, that’s easy” Stuart could hear the man’s smile in his voice, and leaned forward to listen, “Just click your heels together three times and say ‘there’s no place like home’”
Stuart said nothing. Bethor erupted into a belly laugh, punctuated with an enormous belch. Stuart pictured him in his mind, his overweight paunch jiggling like gelatin. Stuart had little patience for those who laughed at their own jokes.
“Ok, I’ll tell you what: It’s under Cleveland. You buy a package trip with us to Cleveland for a weekend, you can go do whatever it is you want to do in Hell. Understand that you won’t be covered by your travel insurance while there, and that we assume no responsibility for your well-being as per our terms and conditions.“
“Cleveland? Hell is under Cleveland?”
“God’s honest truth.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Sure will.”

The office of post-mortem reunions

The elevator doors slid open and Stuart stepped out into the office of post-mortem reunions. It was a broad, dusty, rectangular hall with row upon row of plastic chairs extending halfway through the room. A stale, cardboard smell permeated the air. At the far end of the room was a line of service windows with numbers displayed above them. Stuart reached for a ticket from a dispenser mounted on a pedestal. He pulled number 267. The numbers above the windows read 33, 31, 32. But if there was one thing Stuart had taken away from limbo, it was the capacity for waiting.

He sat for hours. The hall seemed more cavernous than the building could physically allow, and it multiplied every footfall, every shuffling of paper, every sigh. Stuart had waited in limbo for 157 years, but what, he wondered, did a year mean when you have no seasons, no day and no night. The bus station in limbo was one eternal season of mist. It was, upon reflection, almost merciful; Had he a calendar to mark the days, he might have realized how long the scope of his stay truly was. In the end, the arrival of his bus was a surprise he’d almost forgotten to expect. Heaven was to Stuart to be the other side of the same coin. An endless season of plenty. The songbirds never flew south, the fruit trees always bore fruit, it was abundance as far into time as one could conceive. It occurred to Stuart that the salient difference between purgatory and paradise was the weather.

“Two hundred sixty-seven!” called an angel from the service counter. “Ticket number two hundred sixty-seven!”. Stuart rose to his feet and walked towards the counter. Dust motes floated through shafts of light from the windows high up on the walls, and seemed to part before him. A nameplate on the open service window read "Omniel". The angel stood shuffling papers on the desk and looked up as Stuart approached.
"Have you filled out the R-712 form in triplicate?" asked the angel.
Stuart nodded.
"And provided proof of familial or other close relations to the reunited party and proof of identity?"
"Yes"
The angel perused the stack of paperwork, pausing to stamp violently. It reverberated impressively in the cavernous space. The angel looked up.
"Last four digits of your social security number?"
"2974"
More violent stamping.
"Good, within six to eight business days you will be notified by mail of the status of your application. Have a nice day.  Two hundred sixty-eight!"

Two weeks later, Stuart found himself face to face with his mother in a park overlooking a river of milk and honey. Mrs. Macleod was a traditional woman.

"Oh, it's you." She said, her Minnesotan accent chewing on all her vowels "I thought I was going to meet your older brother here.” She gave a happy sigh. “He was such a handsome man, a real catch, don’t you know. I met him right after he’d come back from the war, I was working at the university, and he was so sweet on me when he came to get his registration papers”
“Mom, I don’t have a brother. You’re thinking of dad. Anyway, how have you been?”
“Oh, you know me, I've just been pottering around, I play bridge with a nice group of ladies on Tuesdays, and bingo on Fridays. Nobody ever comes to see me hardly, and your older brother’s in hell so I never see him either..."
Stuart went pale. "He's where?"
"In hell, dear. Something to do with the war, I think."
"Mom, he was an administrative assistant, he never saw combat.”
She paused and reflected on this. “That’s right, isn’t it. I have no idea then!” She shrugged and gave the kind bright-eyed of smile of concession that only the senile can manage.
“Anyway, you’re a nice young man, what’s your name?”
Stuart deflated. He sat down on a park bench, held his head in his hands and sighed deeply.

The orientation

A roomful of new arrivals filed into a small theater filled with rows of metal folding chairs, and one by one they took their seats. The lights dimmed and a big screen TV hummed to life as the DVD screensaver flicked off. A trumpet sounded and the credits began to roll. Bold, glossy letters appeared with a surround-sound enhanced whoosh on the screen:

"A Metatron production". Fade to black.

"Welcome," said a deep, movie preview announcer voice in the darkness "to the official orientation session for your transition to the hereafter. I'm your host Metatron, spokesbeing for the Lord almighty. You might know me from my work with Moses," an image of a burning bush dissolved onto the screen "or my intercession with Abraham on behalf of Isaac." An image appeared of an old man holding a knife to a young man's throat, his hand stayed by a mighty angel. "Today I'm here to answer some common questions about your transition, and what you might expect in the millennia to come. So sit back and enjoy the show!"

A montage of nature scenes dissolved one into the next for a moment while an alto saxophone played smooth jazz in the background. Again, the voice of god rumbled forth from the speakers:

"One common question we hear from new arrivals is 'who is the Lord God, anyway?' To answer that question, we're going to take a miraculous trip through the history of creation. As you know, in the beginning, the Lord created the heavens and the firmament, the animals and man." An animation of the earth, water, light, the sun and the stars appearing from the void in succession appeared on the screen. "In those days, the Lord God was swift, vengeful, and jealous." There were images of plagues of locusts destroying crops, floodwaters sweeping away villages, screaming Midianites and the mutilated bodies of their comrades on the battlefield, fire and sulfur raining down on Sodom and Gomorrah and the subsequent charred wreckage of those cities, and finally terrified, wide-eyed frogs falling from the sky. "You might say those days were the spirited, adolescent years of the Lord", the voice of the spokesbeing of the almighty smiled with nostalgia.

"But just a few short millenia later, something changed..." A shot panned around a dimly lit stable and settled on a young couple lit by candlelight sitting on bales of hay. The soft strains of a string quartet wafted through the speakers. "Fatherhood brought the Lord God to a new understanding of life and love, and His wrath was tempered by a newfound tender idealism."

Another montage, this time of water transforming to wine, a multiplication of bread and fish, a worm's-eye view shot of sandals treading atop blue water in slow motion, and finally a boulder rolling away from the mouth of an empty cave.

"But over time, the Lord saw the failure of His socialistic ideals, and set about revising His plan yet again. Part of His revisions included changes to the entitlement programs of the hereafter, with the goal of weaning the souls of the saved off the programs they have become dependent on over the last two thousand years. Part of this orientation is to set straight any misconceptions you might have regarding these entitlements."

The images cut to a photogenic young woman with dark hair and green eyes. She gazed at the camera and with a smile on her face, asked "So, where are the luxuries that we were told about during our time on Earth?" The camera did a slow pan over crystal palaces and roads paved in gold. Metatron answered in his bone-rattling baritone "Those luxuries are still there, but we've repackaged your benefits into our new Paradise Timeshare program. The Lord believes that you are entitled to whatever your heart desires so long as you have the gumption to make it happen." The image on the screen cut to a diverse group of young people laughing over a lobster dinner at sunset and then faded to a young black man in a polo shirt. He looked up from his desk and asked "What about services, like the office of post-mortem reunions? "

The scene cut to a man embracing his grandmother and Metatron's voiceover continued "The Lord and His support staff are in the process of privatizing services such as the office of post-mortem reunions in an effort to increase efficiency for everyone" The smooth jazz continued as the man on the screen and his grandmother re-connected.

Another face appeared on the screen, this time a genial-looking older man who bore a striking resemblance to Ronald Reagan. He smiled and asked "Where will the money come from to create private sector jobs in the hereafter?"

The screen cut to a smart-looking man in a suit walking into a bank. The bank teller cocked her head and flashed a pleasant smile at the man. "The Lord has been hard at work designing, testing, and implementing his new "Take It With You" plan to address this problem. With this exciting new policy, if you have a savings account with a participating bank on Earth, your funds are eligible for transfer to a partner institution here in the afterlife. You can even decide how much, if any, of your funds you would like to leave to your loved ones back on Earth!"

"These are exciting times in the afterlife, and we're excited to have you onboard. If you have any further questions, please don't hesitate to ask a customer service representative at the number on the screen"

The lights went up, and the screen went blue. The souls slowly filed out of the theater.

The prayer processing division

A phone rang. A little red light flashed on the handset. “Prayer processing, how may I direct your call? Thank you, please hold the line until a customer service representative can speak with you.”
It rang again, and the next little red light jumped into action. “Prayer processing, how may I direct your call? Thank you, please hold the line until a customer service representative can speak with you.”
The prayer processing division was situated in the same office park as the department of post-mortem reunions, but on a different floor. Stuart Macleod had stepped out of the elevator on the wrong floor and looked around, disoriented. He looked down and was momentarily jarred by the hypnotic, maddening airport carpet, with its endless, hideous repetitions of mauve flowers on dark blue field. Ever since his arrival in the hereafter Stuart had found himself inexplicably nauseated most of the time, and the shrill tedium of the carpet very nearly drove him to vomit in the recycle bin at his side.
A sour looking Angelic front desk attendant wearing a headset with a boom mic looked up from her crossword puzzle with undisguised disdain, but said nothing. Stuart eyed the recycle bin.
She stared at him. “Can I help you?”. Her falling intonation indicated to him that it was not, indeed, a question.
“Yes, I was looking for the department of post-mortem reunions, but it looks like I’m in the wrong place.” Stuart turned to leave, pressed the button the summon the elevator, and waited awkwardly.
“Actually,” he said, and turned back towards the angel “this is prayer processing?” She looked back up from her crossword puzzle and glared at him. “Yes.”
Stuart felt a surge of confidence welling up from somewhere in his gut. It made his head swim with giddiness. It had been lifetimes since he had felt this way. There wasn’t much need for confidence during the layover in limbo, and like a disused muscle, it had atrophied over the last century and a half.
“What is it that you do here, exactly?” His newly-rediscovered boldness seethed and boiled over. He even cracked a smile for a moment.
The angel of the Lord was not impressed. “I put people on hold” she said, simply.
Stuart’s brow furrowed. “You what?”
“People call in with their prayers. They want the Green Bay Packers to win the Superbowl, they want their lotto tickets to win, they want their grandmothers to come out of the hospital OK. Now think for a minute exactly how many people on Earth pray on any given day. How many people are there on the planet now, seven billion?”
Stuart nodded in assent.
“Listen, they all pray on a daily basis, even the atheists. And we’re drastically underfunded. Consequently, our backlog is so bad we don’t get a chance to even review their requests until they’re seventy years into their layover in limbo. Why do you think the Mariners have never won a World Series? It’s not like we don’t want to help, but there are procedures that we have to follow. So my job is to put people on hold. They call, I put them in the queue.”
Stuart’s newly-rediscovered confidence quietly stepped out the back door.
“Is that why my ex-girlfriend Amanda Christiansen married that Brent Braddock guy? I mean, I prayed for her to come back to me every day for like, three months at least…” he trailed off, and held his palm over his face. “Could you look it up? I mean, can you do that?”
She sighed sharply. “Your name?”
“Stuart James Mcleod”
“Last four digits of your social security number?”
“2974”
She waited as the search results appeared on her console. Finally, without looking at him, she said “Well, as it turns out, your requests were denied. Not until twenty three years after your passed, which is a perfect example of what I’m talking about. This system is broken, and if I had the funding for a couple of administrative assistants we could crank these out in half the time it takes now, but yeah, denied, I’m sorry to say”
Stuart felt his throat tighten. “But, why?”, he croaked.
“Well, it’s pretty nepotistic, if you don’t have an in with the board of directors, you might as well panhandle on the corner for funding”.
The phone rang. A little red light flashed on the handset. The angel answered, “Prayer processing, how may I direct your call? Thank you, please hold the line until a customer service representative can speak with you.”
The elevator bell chimed and the doors slid open.

The house of the Lord

"Ok everybody, come this way please..." A slightly pudgy cherub motioned for the orientation group to follow him down a concrete, tree lined pathway. "Right, so I'm going to be your guide today, my name is Harachel, and I'm going to show you around your new quarters in the house of the Lord. Ok, so did everyone get their paperwork? You should have received a big envelope like this one with your paperwork in it." he held aloft a fat white document envelope and waved it above the onlookers. "Don't worry about filling it out now, there will be time to do that after the tour. Ok, this way please!"

The angel continued down the path towards a towering building. As he walked, Harachel looked over his shoulder at the group of new arrivals. “So, how are you all settling in?”

The souls looked at each other in quiet confusion, their tongues gone un-excercised for years, sometimes for centuries during their stay at the bus station at Limbo.

Undeterred, Harachel continued: "Right, so, as I'm sure many of you know, if you've arrived here after your time on Earth, the lord is contractually obligated as per the conditions laid out in the book of John, chapter fourteen, verse two, to provide you with lodging and board in His House with Many Rooms. So, to that end, we have provided this place for you all to live forever and ever in his glory, amen. All of your basic needs, such as food, indoor plumbing and basic cable TV service are included, and there are shared bathrooms on the west wing of each floor. Also, all residents have use of the laundry facilities and game room on the first floor. It includes a foosball table and a full sized pool table and there are bi-weekly pool tournaments held there on the first and third Tuesday of every month. Talk with Urim at the front desk for sign up details."

They drew closer to the building. It was immensely tall, piercing through the cloud cover and throwing a cyclopean shadow over the ground below. It was made of pale blonde bricks and bristled with air conditioning units and fire escape ladders. It had an institutional feel about it, the kind of place you'd expect to have checked tile floors scuffed from millions of footsteps and crude graffiti etched into the walls. the grass was patchy and brown. A tattered old orange couch sat off to the side of a playground.

"So, there is a kitchenette included with each unit, but we do have regularly scheduled meals in the  cafeteria, you'll find that just off the common room I told you about before on the first floor. There you can come and partake of the blessings of the Lord, and don’t forget about pizza Fridays and brunch on the weekends until 12:30. Otherwise, there’s usually a selection of cold sandwiches, pasta dishes, and a lovely salad bar"

They stopped in front of the building. It swallowed up their peripheral vision in its magnitude.

"Now, once you get settled in, you may want to head over to the office of post-mortem reunions, that's not part of this tour, but it's in that building over there," the angel gestured towards a nondescript brick building down the street, "it's a pretty popular destination for the newly-arrived here."

"Well, let's go get you all your room assignments!", chirped Harachel, and he led the souls through a set of double doors. They squeaked as they opened. The group proceeded into the reception area of the house of the Lord.

There was a small lobby with a pair of potted plants bookending an old blue sofa that faced the doors. It was the kind of sofa that women instinctively knew to avoid and dogs found themselves unable to resist. There was nothing outwardly wrong with it, but it had an untrustworthy air. To the right of the sofa was a bank of vending machines serving cold drinks, packaged snacks, and instant coffee.

"Everybody, this is Urim," Harachel gestured towards a taciturn angel seated in a service window in the middle of a wall of locked mail boxes. "you'll be seeing a lot of Urim here, he runs the day to day administration of the house of the Lord with many rooms." Urim sat hunched over a stack of mail and gave a cursory glance over the rims of his glasses at the assembled crowd and gave a short grunt of acknowledgment before returning to the task at hand.

Harachel picked up a sheet of paper off the desk at which Urim was working, and cleared his throat. "I'm going to read your names off this list in alphabetical order, followed by your room number... Adams? Aaron Adams? Room 926473289, you have three roommates, I actually did their orientation sessions too, say hello to them for me! Here are your keys, front door and room door”, and with that, he waved the soul off down the hallway towards the elevators. “Alright, next we have... Another Adams! Alexis Adams? There you are, your assignment is room 7453522892, and your keys."

And one by one, the angel of the lord recited the names of the saved, and unto them distributed their door keys and a welcome bag of promotional swag, including several buy one, get one half-off coupons for locally available goods and services.

A host of Angels

“Ok folks, now I know you’ve had a long ride here and I’m sure you can’t wait to dive in to all the amenities that Heaven has to offer, but before we can let you do that we ask that you attend this little information session. Now don’t worry, I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re probably thinking ‘We were promised eternal glory in the house of the lord, rivers of milk and honey, the whole package. Why should we have to sit through this information seminar?’. Well folks, I promise I won’t take one more minute of your eternal time here than is absolutely necessary. My name, by the way, is Gazardiel, I’m the Angel of new beginnings, and I hope to guide you through your new beginning here in paradise eternal. Oh, I almost forgot to mention, we’ll have some light refreshment available for you shortly, and after the presentation there will be cake.

An ambiguously-gendered celestial being with the great brown wings of an eagle entered the room from a side door with a carafe of coffee in his right hand, and a bowl of popcorn in his left, which he placed on a long brown folding table next to a bowl of non-dairy creamer packs and a box a sugar cubes. Gazardiel cleared his throat. “That’s our summer intern Tariel, I don’t know how we ever got by here without him, he can clear a paper tray jam like nobody’s business, and you wouldn’t believe the cappuccinos he can pull. Everybody, let’s give Tariel a quick hand!”.

At once, a divinely ordained round of awkward applause went up among the twenty souls seated on metal folding chairs. Tariel flashed an unsure smile and with a quick wave, darted back out the door. “Ok, great, feel free to grab some coffee or popcorn at any point during the presentation. And now, let’s get started, ok?” Gazardiel flashed a smile at the attendees and picked up a small remote control from the lectern in front of him. “Ok, great, now, let’s see here…” He fumbled with the remote until a slide came up with a series of photos depicting life in a Paradise Timeshare. There was a woman sunbathing on a beach, sipping a fruity umbrella drink, a middle-aged man in bicycling spandex and stylish wraparound sunglasses riding in a race, an attractive thirty-something couple on a yacht at sunset, and an elderly couple enjoying a meal of lobster in a lavish restaurant. At the head of the frame, in a plain, 36-point sans-serif font, read the words “Flexibility. Luxury. Paradise”.

Gazardiel took a moment to gaze at the slide in self-satisfaction. “Ok folks, how many of you have been to a timeshare information session before, show of hands please?”. Five hands went up, meekly. “Five, ok, so not so many of you. How many of you are familiar with the concept of a timeshare resort? All of you? Great! Well, heck, I’m glad we’re all on the same page here!” Gazardiel laughed a hollow salesman laugh. The kind of laugh that’s made to let you know that you should have found that funny, like kids writing “LOL” in their text messages.

“Ok, so you may already be familiar with some of the benefits associated with timeshare units, great…” He looked down at the remote and clicked the “next” button. A new slide entitled “Why a timeshare in Paradise?” scrolled in from left to right. Gazardiel produced a laser pointer from the lectern and pointed at a big bulleted item, ‘affordable terms’. “Ok, so a lot of you are probably thinking ‘Gazardiel, how can I afford a beautiful timeshare in Paradise? After all, you can’t take it with you, right?’. He laughed at his own joke as the red dot twitched and skittered along the silver screen. “Well, we have some fantastic offers starting at zero down and only 7.54 percent annual interest for qualifying buyers! And this is for a fully-furnished condo, people. Not only that, but,” he paused to hit the ‘next’ button and waited as the former slide dissolved to make way for the third, entitled ‘internal exchanges’. “That’s right, we have a network of condos that you can reserve. Who here likes skiing? Show of hands?”. Several hands arose. “Ok, great, I have good news for you: We have a timeshare to satisfy you. I guarantee it. I love this company, and let me tell you something: I’m not only the marketing director here, I’m also a timeshare owner myself. I know what you’re thinking: ‘Gazardiel, how can you afford a luxurious timeshare on the salary of an Angel of the Second Sphere?’ I get no employee discounts, people. These timeshares are affordable. They’re value for money, it’s that simple. And you can afford one too!”. The angel smiled and pressed the ‘next’ button.

A new slide swirled up onto the screen, entitled “Timeshare: A sound investment”. “Ok, so a timeshare, what it gives you financially is the benefits of owning real estate. That’s right, it’s like owning property - But without the headaches! Not only that, but you can rent out your usage time if you’d like, or even sell it at a later date. Why would you rent a hotel room when you could buy the resort, am I right? We’re talking real, fractional ownership here. I’ve heard a lot of people talk about what a hassle their summer homes in Tahoe turned out to be when their pipes burst in the winter, or they came back in the spring only to find a tree had fallen on their house while they were away, and I really feel for those people, but let me tell you something: If they’d gone with a timeshare instead, they wouldn’t have had to worry about any of those things. That’s peace of mind, people. And you can’t put a price on that”.

His words rang out with a well-rehearsed air, and the seated souls glanced at each other furtively.

The final slide animated itself into place. It read ‘Paradise timeshare: Peace of mind, ultimate luxury, affordability. Sign up today!’ “So, Tariel is going to be coming in with cake, as promised, as well as some forms for you all to fill out, and after that, a host of Angels will stop by to answer any questions you might have about Paradise Timeshares. Again, my name is Gazardiel, Angel of the Second Sphere, Hashmallim, and Director of Marketing, you’ll find my card included in the paperwork that Tariel will be giving you. You’ve been a great audience, I hope to see you all soon at one of our many resorts!”
And the Angel of the Lord left for lunch.

Stuart at the bus station

Stuart McLeod woke with a start to the sound of a bus’s air brakes engaging with a sharp sigh followed by a tiny squeak as the door opened. He had been dozing with his mouth agape, and became conscious of a stream of dried drool down from the left corner of his mouth. His eyes darted around to see if any of the other passengers were watching, and he hastily tried to wipe away the dried spittle with his hand.
The bus’s PA system crackled to life. A buzzy voice conveyed over antiquated speakers announced their arrival. “Well folks, we’ve arrived at our destination. Be sure to check the departures board for information on your connection, and feel free to avail yourself to the amenities in the station. On behalf of all of our staff, we hope you have a pleasant layover. Have a nice day now, folks”. Groggy passengers stretched their limbs and looked out the tinted windows of the aging bus. They had parked in a diagonal parking bay underneath a corrugated metal overhang supported by utilitarian-looking posts with rust spots showing through the paint. Beyond the station Stuart could see nothing through a dense cloud of fog that extended in every direction.

The same primal compulsion to escape small, crowded places that drives people to undo their safety belt buckles the second their airplane hits the ground fell upon the passengers of the bus. Soon everyone was standing or at least stooping in anticipation of exiting the bus. The passengers murmured flurries of “Go ahead”s and “No, no, after you”s up and down the aisle as their jockeyed for position to get out of their seats. Finally, it was Stuart’s turn. His cross-aisle-rival was an old woman with thinning hair who offered no resistance to Stuart’s edging into the aisle. Slowly they tottered down the aisle towards the door, as there is no graceful way for one to walk down the aisle of a bus, especially in a group of several dozen other escapees.

As Stuart exited the bus, the bus driver smiled and directed him towards a set of faded blue double doors propped open with little wooden wedges. “In there please, that’s the waiting room. Have a pleasant stay, and thanks again everybody!”As he walked closer to the doors he could see that the walls were yellowed from decades of cigarette smoke and the floor was covered in the universal institutional checked tile pattern that you might find in a school cafeteria or, well, a bus station. Row after row of wooden bench seats occupied the center of the room, upon which countless travelers dozed, sat and patiently passed the time. From the outside, the station appeared to take up about half a block’s worth of space, but curiously, to Stuart’s eyes, it seemed much, much bigger. He scanned the room looking for the departures board, and fixed his eyes on a small cheap plastic sign with interchangeable letters. It read “Next Departure:”, with the adjacent space left vacant.

He walked between rows of benches with passengers sprawled out, using jackets as pillows and blocking out the harsh, buzzing fluorescent light with hoods pulled tight over their heads. On the far side of the room was a small snack and toiletry window with a flickering neon sign that read “Station Store” in red cursive letters. Seated behind the counter was a bored-looking, overweight woman sitting on a battered navy blue office chair. She leaned with her chin on her right hand, eyes fixed on the flickering television in the corner of the stall. It was the weather channel. A genial-looking man with a carefully groomed brown mustache and a laser-straight part down the left side of his hair announced the extended forecast for the week.

“Well, it’s looking like more of the same, folks, we’re gonna have heavy fog all through the week with temperatures hovering right around 55 degrees. And now here’s our exclusive doppler radar forecast of the week’s weather. As you can see, this big green patch is the cloudy weather we’ve been having, and now I’m going to fast-forward through the week so you can kind of get a feel for how this system is going to behave. The time stamp in the bottom left hand corner of the screen gave the only indication that anything had changed. The entire screen was enveloped in a uniform green. “And there you have it, folks, have yourselves a great weekend, I’m Steve Schneider, signing off!” He gave a weatherman smile, all full of Botox and insincerity and then signed off.

Stuart cleared his throat. The woman didn’t budge. “Excuse me, ma’am?”, he meekly asked. Without moving a muscle, she shifted her gaze towards him, looked him up and down, and returned her eyes to the flickering TV screen and the intrigues and dramas of the weather channel. “I was just wondering if I could get something to eat?” Stuart said again. She drummed her manicured nails on the counter in annoyance, and Stuart’s heart began to race uncontrollably. Like a hibernating bear waking up in the spring, she lumberingly rolled her chair to the counter. She sighed heavily and spat out a “What?” at Stuart. He was transfixed, caught in her disgusted gaze, unable to say anything. “You want something?”. “Yeah, yes, I mean, I do…”, Stuart stammered. He momentarily broke from her basilisk stare to survey the goods on the shelves behind the counter. Low-sodium Saltine crackers, bottled water with the name of some south Pacific island where Japanese tourists go to play golf and relax, plain instant oatmeal in a cup, those baked potato chips that taste like cardboard, and low-fat, low-sugar generic cookies in a packet.

“I’ll take a pack of the cookies, please”. She sighed and shot a flabby arm on at the shelf, grasping a plastic cylindrical packet of the cookies. “Three seventy-five” she ordered, and he counted out exact change as quickly as possible, not wishing to annoy the woman any longer. She took the money and then lumbered back from the counter so as to get a clearer view of the TV.

He sat down on one of the ubiquitous wooden benches and unwrapped the cellophane package, which revealed ten dry, crumbly cookies with miniature chocolate chips. He bit into one and it collapsed under the pressure of his molars fractally, until it was reduced to a cookie-dust that coated his tongue, absorbing his saliva, rendering a cookie-paste that he forced down his throat joylessly. The water with the Pacific island logo tempted him, but his fear of the counter-lady’s passive-aggressive wrath stopped him from going back to the snack counter.

Next to an old Ms. Pac-Man arcade machine with an “out of order” sign taped on the screen sat a utilitarian brochure rack in a dusty corner. The brochures called out to him, with their vivid blues and greens, and he walked over to pick one up. “Come visit Paradise!” the brochure said, in bold type that arced over a brilliant sun. The cover of the brochure featured a photo of a clear blue sky over a heavenly eighteen-hole golf course and resort. He opened it up and read the following text:

Had enough of waiting around in limbo? Come take the vacation of an afterlifetime in Paradise! We offer endless amenities to souls of all persuasions, from nightly fireworks and parades for the kids (or just the young at heart!), to rivers of milk and honey for the more traditional-minded soul, and of course our world-famous choirs of singing angels! So what are you waiting for? There is direct bus service from Limbo to take you here with no fussing around with transfers along the way! Talk to your ticketing agent today!

Stuart’s eyes went wide and he sank back into the bench. He was dead. He was dead and in his soul was in purgatory. He stood up on shaky legs and headed towards the ticketing counter. There was a line (there is always a line for the ticketing counter, even in the afterlife), and after an indeterminate amount of time (it just occurred to him that all the clocks on the wall never seemed to move past 11:15, which, as everyone knows, is the least stimulating time of day), he reached the ticket window. It was a plexiglass sheet with holes drilled in the middle and a gap to pass money and tickets back and forth at the bottom. A woman with heavy-rimmed glasses, loud gold earrings and a fire-engine red cardigan tapped busily at a coffee-stained keyboard. “Excuse me, I just saw this brochure, and I was wondering if I could book a ticket to Paradise” he said. She turned to him, eyeing him up over the tops of her glasses. “Name?”
“McLeod. Stuart James McLeod”
“Last four digits of your social security number?”
“2974”
“Mr. McLeod, has anyone asked you to pack something in your bag for them, or has anyone put anything in your bag without your knowledge?”
“How would I know if it was without my knowledge?”
She glared at him. “Just a yes or no, there are people waiting behind you”
“No, then”
“… Well, Mr McLeod, it appears your reservation is already set. You’re scheduled to depart in one hundred fifty-seven years, four months and 16 days. Here’s your boarding pass”
She passed him a long ticket of thick card stock, like an airline ticket, with his name, departure location (Limbo), arrival information (Paradise) and estimated duration of the journey (22 hours, 30 minutes). The reverse side of the ticket detailed the list of prohibited items and activities on the bus (no alcohol, no weapons, no smoking, no talking to the driver while the vehicle is in motion and passengers are strictly forbidden from tampering with the lavatory smoke detector).

Stuart sat down on a bench and waited.