The Banjo Players Must Die, page 179 by Josef Assad
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ery comfortable. What this place really needed, Rupert declared, was sidewalk cafÈs with tablecloths which contrasted with the handwoven fabric of the napkins. Break dancing classes would also do wonders for the place. Oh, Purgatory would be horrible once he was done with it, Rupert assured the angels.
Rupert certainly seemed to be well-connected[One could almost say he was connected up his arse, but with male interior decorators that is almost always so literally true it would make this expression ashamed of itself.]; he was given charge of Heaven and Hell too.
And all of this on the very eve of the Ramsesists' group suicide.
* * *
"Oh Lord, new-comers."
Three more Ramsesists materialized in puffs of acrid black smoke; there was no wind, and it was really beginning to stink something awful from all of the materializations.
It was not only wind which there was none of; there was none of a lot of other things in this strange place. In fact, the only thing there seemed to be a surfeit of was women with big tits.
"Roger look, that one is so fat it almost looks as if she has sprouted a third boob under her two other ones..." Martha Fugler-Wolfird pointed.
"Where? " Roger Andersson asked.
"Right over there - oh wait, she is right behind that cloud of black smoke - oh here she is, see her? "
Someone sneezed and muttered something about an allergy to boob sweat and Russian income tax forms. Martha pointed.
"What, the girl beside the balding young fellow with the goatee? " Martha nodded.
* * *
Recall if you will that existence is fundamentally well-designed[Oh come now, let's pretend, alright?]. When you die, you go to Heaven or you go to Hell. When neither exists yet, you don't just drop out and unexist; you default to Limbo. And in Limbo, you have plenty of time to reflect how nice it would have been to just have ceased to exist.
But that is not what life is about; it is not about you and your wishes.