Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-28060931-20170218205203

I am a dead. If so, how am I writing this? What, just because I’m pushing up the daisies, I can’t touch pens; just because I’m a waft of mist, I can’t interact with the psychical world? How do you account for Marilyn Monroe being toucherd down there while asleep in some hotel in Las Vegas? JFK killed her, by the way. Call me biased but I might have adjusted Oswald’s aim a bit.

I'm here to tell you all about the afterlife. Being dead is fun; assuming you stay on earth, you basically have the power of invincibility and immortality(immorality may a side-effect). I mean when you’re dead and see a hot chick walking down the road or you go to visit your favorite celebrity it’s kinda hard not to molest them. I mean the consequences are minimal and you get to have the most fun ever.

I was raised catholic. Or at least I raised myself catholic; when mommy and daddy were off drinking or snorting coke from each others assholes I was off sitting in a corner, crying. I chose to believe in God so I could have a friend, a man who understood me. A gleam of hope.

My parents OD'd and I was left an orphan on the streets until I was of the drinking age, when I got a job as a caretaker at St. Loius' church. There, I witnessed a priest molesting a child. Cliche? Yeah, but this was commonplace when people whacked you for being gay. Hey, Some hundred year-old piece of paper which could have been written by a lunatic says gay's are evil? That must be true then! Stone the fags!

I may in the unintellectual majority of people, but I'm so blind as to put up with people killing others because they like to stick it into something... manly?

I can't exactly remember what happened after that because I lived the life of a rockstar, baby! Whores, gin and opium. Who remembers opium? It was the shit back in the day. I remember one night I woke up in a diaper, under a bridge besides a naked hobo and AIDS. The hobo's birdie was erect 24/7 and he liked to fuck; I decided to leg it the fuck out of there but he chased me halfways across the country while rubbing his cock. He caught up with me and I got a taste of what prison's like. That was the fever pitch for me, I decided to hunker down and get a job at a nursing home. I donated all my money to charity and lived humbly. I just couldn't endure a life-style like that, soon every single tragedy in my life came crashing down on me like a carload of whores. I bought some rope and hung myself.

I felt the tremendous pressure crush my spine and felt a cold, shuddering presence exit my body with my last breath. I wasn't breathing any more and I couldn't move, I was just swaying in midair like a puppet. Suddenly the room started to shake as if an earthquake awoke in fathoms beneath the earth, the light from the window dimmed and soon the room was as dark as a whore's ass. I saw cracks open in the walls and shafts of light broke through; neither candle nor sunlight but some wierd light with a quality of... hope and joy in them. I can only descirbe it with emotion because I rather felt their texture than seen it. The word blurred and I felt like I was shrinking, drifiting away from the earth while shrinking. Like Alice in the Wonderland. I drifted towards the light and became ungulfed by, it entered my soul, body and mind. Then I blacked out.

Okay, if any of you fuckers wanna off yourself, be fucking smart and choose the way that doesn't involve your spine slowly cracking under tremendous pressure. If you're suicidal, Hemmingway that bitch. Now, this is the juicy part

I awoke in a white room. I felt a throbbing agony in my back. I hoisted myself up, trying to recount when exactly did I cave to some of Uncle Sam's medicine. A door opened. The door was as white the walls and the walls were as white as the door. Two men dressed in two-piece suits walked in and told me:

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

I did. What else was I supposed to do? They lead me into a waiting room, it was like the room of some mansion, elegantly carved pillars, gleaming oak walls and a fucking carpet that cost more than my fucking girlfriend's virginity, which is like ten fancy dinners. Yes, the tenses are right. Toffees and cakes and marmalade were laid out of a oak table facing a luxury sofa. I hadn't ate anything nice in two decades so I reached out to grab a toffee; as soon as the direction of my hand became apparent a riding crop descended upon my hand.

"Uh-uh," said one of the two men, he held the painful instrument, he pointed towards the back left corner of the room. There was a plastic chair table. On the latter was a ham sandwich and an apple.

"This," riding crop man said. "Is for you."

I strode over to what appeared to be the kind of halloween candy you get from old ladies living in suburban homes with a collection of cats. I guess it's better than the gooey, white type you get from fat old men with mustaches.

I became less convinced that I was high or dreaming. I mean, could I really hate myself enough to sentence myself to that. I have to admit, though, baphomet makes one mean ham sandwich. My back still hurt so much that I winced everytime I moved and squeeled when I sat down and yelled when I got up.

When the time of trial came I was escorted into a courtroom you'd see on judge Judy if you were retarded enough to watch that show. There was a sofa in the middle; on it sat an old, crippled man in a white robe, and a handsome young man in a three-piece charcoal suit. There was a stiff wooden chair for me to sit on, bang in the middle of the Berlin wall of body language between the two. The trial was boring, they told me what I did good and wrong and spat at me, smiled at me, screamed at me, laughed at me and other shit; they also assured me that it was real, that I was in purgatory and that most probably fucked.

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

"You should have him?" Barked the old dude, "You would not have intercourse with a man because

"Fine, then, you old fuck! He can be a midriff, the lucky bastard," Satan said, and, as an afterthought: "Hey, go rape a chick or two so you can check out my place. If you feel masochistic and wanna see Sunday school, go save a kid."

Before I could reply, God hollered for the two guys from the outside and they lead me through a few sets of doors to a place called "Arrivals," a neon sign marked the purely white train station with a recoptionist desk.

An old lady sat behind the desk, shuffling through files and chewing bubble gum.

"I need a cab for earth." Barked one of the two guys. One was dressed in black, the other in grey. The one in black was barking.

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

"Nah, hon, he's a lucky 'un, he's about as dead as the fucking pope. So give 'im his fuckin' rulebook and holler for a cab, I got a church boy and pedo in line, and Sate 'ill kick my ass again if I don't handle 'em both in time."

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

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

"Thanks," I murmured, uncertain. I wondered where's the Satinca Americana but I was too shocked to speak. There were stark white train track behind the receptionist and a tunnel. I felt the ground vibrating and I heard a rattling, then the tunnel lit up and a train pulled up. It looked unlike anything I have ever seen before, it looked like a subway train you'd find in any metro nowadays.

The doors hissed open and the men waved me inside. I stepped inside, glancing both ways and feeling every object and material in sight; they felt... real. But everything else felt surreal. The guy in black pushed me inside, sat me down and ordered "A meteric shiton of beer," from an intercom. Back then I thought it was very unrealistic impression of a vagina: I had a dirty minds and there were a lot of small holes in a big hole. The train belched, squealed and faster than Albert Einstein multiplies while on Adderall, the train blasted off into uncharted territory as dark shadows took turns scanning the inside of the train like searchlights.

The two guys bickered about the ethics of snort coke of a dead whore's ass and then about should faith healers go to heaven or hell.

"Satan needs conmen and swindlers," was an argument; another was "The Lord of Lies does should not take children who follow God's will," This argument was countered with: "Not unless the bible instructs preachers to steal from cancer patients."

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

I've had a hard time adjusting. I cried myself to sleep the first few months, kinda like after I fingered Paris Hilton two years ago.

So why did I tell you all this shit. Well because I'm tired of hearing femenist, Christians, Islams, Athiests or fucking retard bitching about this new-age bullshit on religion and what not; I lived in a time where people where people got stoned for being gay, but I expierienced a time where men and women created amazing breakthroughs in science, where people had a shred of dignity and, a time where if you wanted change you fought for it not bitched on Twitter or some other bullshit.

Now, as I sit here, drinking vodka and eating oreos, I wish there was no afterlife, no matter how much fun I had fucking around with people on earth. I hope my story will make an impact on it; or else I might just slip American nuclear launch codes into some Russian's handbag 