After Life

It was the first time in journalism history that the headlines were written with glitter. The expensive kind. Newspapers the world over spared no expense spreading the joyous news to the public; financial difficulty be damned. And the public rejoiced, they ran screaming in the streets, tears of joy and relief pouring down their faces. Every news station on television and radio, every newspaper, every Internet feed reported the very same thing:

Little Billy was dead. Nobody was quite sure how it happened, but as a rather guilty looking man threw a frisbee off an exceptionally high cliff in an attempt to persuade his neighbour’s annoying chihuahua to get better acquainted with the local sealife, he noticed the well preserved body of a little boy floating vertically in the ocean. After a rather frantic call to the coast guard – who, it bears mentioning were unamused by the chihuahua’s background commentary – a search and rescue team confirmed the death of the well known anti-hero. They considered being mournful for a shade longer than two moments, then whipped out the balloons.

Death, for those who have not vacationed there previously, is followed by a view of a long tunnel with a bright light at the end. After walking through the tunnel one enters an elevator with no buttons. Good people are gently raised to heaven. The bad are raised as well, but only as a joke. Once their spirits are sufficiently lifted the floor of the elevator disappears and perdition takes over.

Little Billy, oddly enough, found himself at the back of a long queue of people waiting to enter heaven. The administrative staff at heaven’s door were processing a huge backlog of the recently deceased. Suffice it to say that Little Billy was quite busy during his last days. Nonetheless, he did qualify for entry into heaven, for the laws of entry contained a loophole which he qualified to exploit: children are technically considered “innocent” and are granted entry regardless of their mistakes.

The scene was less than pleasant. While nobody wished to risk their entry to paradise by causing a fuss, almost everyone seemed intent on ensuring Little Billy got a hairy eyeball full of their most nasty stare. Little Billy however, quite unaffected by the glares of his more recent victims smiled serenely at each glowering face, often greeting them by name and asking if the knife in the back was really as painful as it looked, or reminding them just how delicious they tasted with the right combination of condiments.

The queue slowly shortened bringing Little Billy ever closer to the gates he so dearly desired entry into when finally, after what seemed like an eternity in his breathless anticipation, he found himself face to face with a rather sour looking doorman who seemed none too thrilled with allowing Little Billy passage. He examined Little Billy’s file and scanned and rescanned the regulations hoping against hope that some by-law perhaps had been passed recently which would work in favour of heaven’s inhabitants, but to no avail. And finding none, he unwillingly stepped aside revealing behind him, the beauty of paradise.

And there they stood. Santa with his crowbar standing beside Rudolph holding a flame thrower and eagerly awaiting Little Billy’s arrival. The tooth fairy carried a butcher’s spoon, very large and very blunt so as to really hurt when cutting through bone. And behind them stood an army of cows, udders at the ready, waiting with mad, gleeful expressions on their faces for their tormentor’s arrival. Little Billy’s victims gathered in their vast numbers, each seeking their heavenly wedgie of retribution.

Little Billy smiled his most delicious smile; the one his soon-to-be persecutors were all too familiar with, and a shadow of doubt crept over the waiting horde. He smiled serenely, looking left and right at the angry but confused faces staring back at him, then turned and ran as fast as his little legs would carry him towards the elevator, the armies of heaven pouring out in their multitude behind him, pitchforks ready and torches lit. Little Billy hammered at the closed doors, kicking and screaming for them to open; Santa almost at his back, the rest of the crowd a field length behind. And fate – glorious fate – shone down upon the little anti-hero once more. The elevator doors parted to reveal a kindly old gentleman, a look of sheer relief on his face for the eternal bliss awaiting him. Little Billy ducked to the ground tripping up Santa, causing him to crash into the old man. Little Billy grabbed the crowbar and stomped on Santa’s jolly belly time and time again until finally, with Santa screaming for Rudolph to use the flame thrower and end his misery, the floor gave way. Little Billy clutched onto Santa’s beard and rode the fat man down the elevator shaft, leaping off at the door to the tunnel and prying them open with Santa’s crowbar of doom. The crowd screamed their rage from above and Little Billy, the smile never leaving his face, caught a whiff of flame grilled Santa before speeding down the tunnel, back the way he came.

The cemetery was cold and dank, a heavy frost settling on the graves, soaking the ground. An ever louder crumbling noise shook the night air and the plump grounds keeper peered into the darkness for the source of the disturbance. He neared the grave of the infamous boy so despised by so many and for a moment, he felt a pang of sympathy for the deceased child who, despite all the wrong he may have done was, after all, just a child. Little Billy’s hand leapt out from the grave and grabbed the grounds keeper’s leg, clutching on with a vice grip. The poor man screamed blue murder into the thin air where not a soul heard his pleas for help. And Little Billy crawled back to life, that most delicious smile on his face, the grounds keeper at hand and just a hint of flame grilled Santa dizzying his senses.