Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-28060931-20170218205203/@comment-28060931-20170222234835

I died on the 6th September of 1647 and I am talking to you from my grave. It isn't too bad here, there's plenty opportunity for fun. Just because I'm dead doesn't mean I can't interact with physical objects; do you think Marilyn Monroe fucked herself while asleep. No, she had help. JFK had her killed, 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 an assload of fun.

I grew up with a caring and loving family in a time where condoms were made from animal intestine and porn mags where pieces of stone with dotted circles, belown them were chunks of missing tablet, or they were very hairy cunts. The only problem was my family's income. Being poor in the 15th century was worse than being gangbanged in prison. I would know. You see, my practically non-existant income lead me to jump people in back alleys and take their pouches. I actaully ran a whole crew of gangsters, with our blood-money we bought and ran the biggest chain of brothels in all of New Hampshire. That was until all of the King's horses and all of the King's men broke our Humpy Dumpty's again when they raided our buisness place and chained us up; the law said men can't have some fun without commitment and it also said that men who like other men should be fucking murdered?

I may in the unintellectual majority of people but I'm not as blind as to put up with people killing others because they like to stick it into something... manly?

After I got out of the slam I had grey pubic hair longer than my dick. I decided I was too old for the buisiness and I valenteered at a nursing home and donated all my money to smallpox research. Supervising the horror that is old people showering, while living in tiny room with an iron-frame bed would drive anyone to hang themselves like I did.

I felt a tremendous pressure crush my spine and felt a cold, shuddering presence exit my body as I breathed my last breath. I swayed in midair like a puppet. Suddenly the room started to shake as if an earthquake awoke fathoms beneath the earth, the light from the window dimmed and soon the room was as dark as a cave. I saw cracks open in the walls and shafts of light broke through, neither candle nor sunlight but some weird light with a quality of... hope and joy in them. I can only describe it with emotion because I felt their texture rather than seen it. My vision blurred and I felt like I was shrinking, drifting away from the earth, then drifting towards the light -- becoming englufed by it. I felt comfortably numb, like I was in a dream, everything seemed so distant and muted. Then I blacked out.

Okay, if any of you wanna off yourself be fucking smart and choose the method that doesn't involve your spine slowly cracking as you sturggle for breath. If you're suicidal, Hemmingway that bitch. Now, onto to the juicy part.

I awoke in a white room. I felt a throbbing pain in my back. I hoisted myself up, trying to recount what I snorted.The door was as white the walls and the walls were as white as the door, behind which was a dark oak hallway. 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."

They lead me into a waiting room which looked like a mansion: classic pillars, gleaming oak walls and a fucking carpet that cost more than all those brothels. Toffees and cakes and marmalade were laid out on an oak table facing a leather 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 it.

"Uh-uh," said the man with the painful instrument. He pointed towards the back-left corner of the room where a plastic chair and table sat. On the latter was a ham sandwich and an apple. "This," riding crop man said. "Is for you."

I became less convinced that I was high or dreaming. Could I really hate myself enough to dream this up. I have to admit, though, baphomet makes one mean ham sandwich. My back hurt so much I winced every time I moved, squealed every time I sat and yelled when I got up.

When the time of the trial came I was escorted into a courtroom you'd see on Judge Judy if you were retarded enough to watch that show. But the usual stands and seats were empty; an old, crippled man in a white robe sat in a puffy sofa in the center, accompanied by 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 bad, they told me how naughty or nice I was and they assured me that I really was in purgatory and most probably fucked.

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

"You should have him?" Barked the old dude, "I bet you would too, you evil gay fuck." After they snapped at each other for about two more hours they came to a consensus:

"Fine, then, you old fuck! He can be a midriff, the lucky bastard," Satan said, and, as an afterthought.

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," marked by a neon sign. It was as white as the place I arrived and resembled a modern subway. The place for trains not collage boys jerking off in your food. There was a reseptionist desk above the tracks where an old lady sat, shuffling through files and chewing bubble gum.

"I need a cab for earth." Barked the guy dressed in black, the other was dressed in grey. The one in black did most of the talking.

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

"Nah, hon, he's a lucky 'un, he's about as dead as the fucking pope. So give 'im his rulebook and holler for a cab, and hurry, I got to get an autistic kid and schizophrenic murderer through customs."

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. I wondered where's the Satinca Americana but I was too shocked to speak. 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 back then; it looked like a subway train you'd find in any metro nowadays.

The doors hissed open and the men waved me inside. I lugged myself in, glancing both ways and feeling every object sight. They felt real even. Everything else felt dreamy. The guy in black pushed me inside, sat me down, and ordered "A meteric shiton of beer" from an intercom. The train belched, and blasted off faster than Albert Einstein multiplies on Adderall. The blackness was occaisonly intertwined with some fleeting grey shapes, like clouds on a night sky. The train was desolate, it felt creepy as fuck with the infrequent flashes of grey across the compartment.

Grey and Black bickered about the ethics of castarting rapists and then about should faith healers go to heaven or hell.

"The Lord of Lies needs con-men and swindlers," was an argument and it was retorted with "Satan should not take children who follow God's will," which was countered by "Not unless the bible instructs preachers to steal from cancer patients."

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

So why did I tell you all this shit? Well because I'm tired of hearing feminists, Christians, Muslims, atheists and fucking retards 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 experienced a time where men and women created amazing breakthroughs in science, a time where if you wanted change you fought for it, not bitched on Twitter.

As I sit here, drinking vodka and eating gummy bears, I wish there was no afterlife. I had fun but it wasn't worth all this bullshit; that's why I hope my story will make an impact. Or else I might just slip American nuclear launch codes into some Russian's handbag.