It had been a long night of standing around and looking tough at Club Flypaper. The highlight of my whole night had been throwing out a pair of drunks who got handsy with one of the servers, and then thought they would be tough guys with me when I told them to knock it off. They soon found themselves in a dumpster out behind the club with a pair of headaches that's have little to do with their hangovers, and with a little less cash I their wallets.
I usually go right to sleep when I get home, but I got paid last night, and I want to deposit my check before going to bed. I used to just out it in the ATM, but after the time the bank claimed to have "lost" one, I have gone extremely old school, and always deposit with an actual teller. Unfortunately the bank is not open at four in the morning.
I while away the final hours of the night on the computer with a cup of coffee for company. You would think being a bouncer at a crappy club would pay well; it doesn't. I frequently supplement my income with bounty hunting, so I divide my computer time between looking at the current bounties thought to be in the area, and watching videos on MeTV.
The time for the bank to open rolls around, so I bundle up in my coat, and head out into the cold. The sun is shining, bringing the temperature to a balmy forty-three degrees. It's almost enough to make me go hang my coat back up, but I don't.
I am surprised to to see a line waiting at the bank. I thought everyone used the ATM now. I guess it's because I want to go home and go to bed.
Towards the front of the line the line there's a young woman that catches my eye. She has long curly hair, and keeps looking around the bank. She doesn't look nervous, in fact she looks more like she's checking for something. She also looks really familiar.
I pull out my phone and start looking through some of the pictures I had synced to it earlier. There she is, Cassandra Morveign. There's a thousand dollar bounty on her. I could use a thousand extra dollars.
I step out of line, and reaching into my coat pocket for the pair of handcuffs I keep there for just such occasions. I walk up to stand behind her and to her right, earning me an angry look from the man in line behind her.
"Cassandra?" I ask like she were an old friend, "Cassandra, is that you?"
She turns to face me, and I get a good look at her face. It's definitely the same girl from the picture, right down to the cruel look in her eyes.
"Do I know you?" She asks.
"No," I say, grabbing her left arm. I slap one of the cuffs onto her wrist with a loud series of ratcheting clicks, "but it seems that you've left someone owing a lot of money, so you and I are going to take a little walk over to the police station."
I'm surprised when, rather the look of fear or horror that usually crosses a skipper's face when I tell than I am going to take them back to jail, Cassandra smiles at me,
"I don't think I'm going anywhere with you, asshole," she replies.
"And why is that?"
The answer to my question comes not from her mouth, but from the metallic click next to my right ear. The click is followed by the feeling of cold metal pressed against the side of my head. Similar sounding clicks echo around us.
I turn my head a little to the right, and find myself staring down the barrel of a handgun. I can also see a few of the other people in the bank holding guns as well; a couple are pointed at me while the rest are pointed at the bank staff behind the counter.
Turning back to Cassandra, I see her pulling a gun from where it had been obscured in her waistband by her overly long blouse.
“Ah,” I say lamely, “You're in the middle of something. I'll come back later.”
“You'll stay put,” Cassandra says, pointing her gun at my face, “On your knees!”
The person holding the gun to the side of my head steps away, and kicks me in the back of the knee. I'm a pretty big guy, it's what makes me a good bouncer and a somewhat successful bounty hunter, but I don't care how big you are, a good solid blow to your knees will take anyone down.
I drop down to one knee, and now Cassandra is looking down into my face, pressing her gun into the flesh right between my eyes, “So what's the bounty on me now? I haven't been keeping up.”
“A thousand,” I reply.
“Is that all? Well, maybe this'll push it a little higher. It still amazes me that there are people stupid enough to help me get back on the street.”
“Cassandra, stop!” a new voice calls. I don't dare turn my head, but Cassandra looks up towards the door to the street.
“Oh really? You couldn't get me in jail, you're not going to get me now, certainly not in front of all of these people,” she says, still smiling, “not without taking out this mortal anyway.”
“Let him go, Cassie,” The man's voice says, “I'm taking you down eventually; there's no need to hurt other people before I do.”
“Oh for--, someone shoot him!” Cassandra orders.
I hear four different guns fire, and the newcomer grunts as the bullets hit him. I hear a body hit the floor, “You know you can't kill me, Cassie,” the man says, although with obvious pain in his voice; it sounds like
“No, but I can kill him,” Cassie looks me in the eyes, pulling the gun far enough away from my head so that I can see the end of the barrel, “Of course whether I do or not depends on how he answers a question. So tell me, bounty hunter, do you believe in God?”
“What?” I ask.
“God, the creator of all things, the son of a bitch that condemned me to Hell while he lets monkeys like you roam the rest of creation. Do you believe in God?”
“Yes.”
“I didn't hear that. What did you say?”
“I said yes.”
“Give him my regards.”
Time slows. I can see her finger tensing. I don't hear the gun fire, but I'm dazzled by the flash. I can't move a muscle as the bullet emerges from the end of the gun, spinning as it comes towards me.
And then, darkness. I am not a fan of darkness.
A point of light appears in the darkness. It's growing very fast, and then I realize that it's not growing, I'm moving towards it. I try to put up my arms to block the light, but my arms are gone. I try closing my eyes against the light, but they are gone too. I try to scream, but I have no mouth.
Then it's over. I'm back in my body. I'm sitting in a chair in a room with wood paneling. There are more chairs around me, and a table with magazines. Ronald Reagan graces the cover of the one on top.
On one wall there is a frosted glass window next to a brown door. I can see a shape moving behind the window. There is a sign on the wall between the window and the door that reads ,”PLEASE WAIT TO BE CALLED”.
I look around the room again, and that door seems to be the only way out.
I rise from the my seat, and approach the window. I tap gently on the glass.
The glass slides open, revealing an older woman with large glasses and even larger hair. On the desk in front of her is an old CRT monitor, the surface of which is mostly obscured by brightly colored troll dolls. As cute the trolls looks is approximately as mean as the woman looks.
“Please wait until your name is called!” she snaps.
“I'm sorry, I just wanted to know what happened?”
“How should I know? I wasn't there.”
“I think she shot me,” I say, struggling to remember it clearly, “in the face.”
“Well there you go, answered your own question.”
“So am I dead?”
“Do many people survive being shot in the face?”
“No.”
“Then draw your own conclusions.”
“Where am I then?”
“Where does it look like you are?”
“It looks like I'm in the waiting room at the dentist's office.”
“If you like.”
“So you're saying I've died and gone to the dentist's?”
“I'm saying that you need to sit down and wait for your name to be called,” she demands so forcefully that I take a step back. She must have taken than for obedience because she slams the window shut.
I take a seat and begin flipping through the magazine with Reagan on the cover. Apparently things are heating up between Israel and the PLO. I toss the magazine back onto the little table.
The window slides open again, and the woman sticks her head out, “Gabriel Nigh!” she yells, as if the room were full of people.
I look around, and then rise from my seat.
“Come along, boy!” she calls to me, “You were in such a rush before.”
I approach the window again.
“Through the door,” she points to the door next to the window.
I try the doorknob and find it unlocked. I open it to see a balding man in a suit at least thirty years out of style standing behind it. He looks friendly, especially compared to his receptionist, and he is holding a beige folder in his left hand.
“Good luck with this one, Reg, he doesn't listen too well,” the woman says.
“Thank you, Rose,” he says with the air of a man who has learned to deal with someone else's quirks. He extends his right hand to me, “My name is Reginald Thracken, but you can call me Reg.”
I shake his hand, he has a firm grip.
“Come to my office, Gabriel, we have a lot to talk about.”
“I prefer Gabe, if it's all the same to you.”
Reg opens the folder in his hand, and looks at it for a second, “Yes, so you do. Come along, Gabe.”
He proceeds to lead me through a labyrinth of identical looking hallways with identical looking doors on either side of it, “You're lucky you came through at a quiet time. Sometimes that room can be an absolute zoo.”
“Is this heaven?”
“Some people complain about being inside this place all the time,” Reg says, ignoring my question. “but me? I like it in here, there's good air conditioning. I never was the outdoors type though.”
“No?”
“No. They say that no one ever died wishing they worked more? They're wrong. Heck, had I worked more I could have put off coming here for who knows how much longer.”
“Where is here?” I ask.
“Here we are,” Reg says, opening a door on the right side of the hallway. He motions for me to enter.
The office is small. There is a desk that dominates the center of the room with a comfortable looking office chair behind it and a pair of less comfortable looking chairs. In front. There is a computer that looks to be about the same vintage as the one on Rose's desk, and a large filing cabinet in the back corner. The placard on the desk reads “Reginald Thracken”.
“Please, sit,” Reg says as he closes the door.
I take a seat in one of the less comfortable chairs while he goes around the desk to sit in the larger chair. He places the folder on the desk, flipping it open.
“Okay, Gabe, here is the situation that you find yourself in. The afterlife is not quite what you may have learned in life, in church. There's Hell, but that's only for the really bad people; people who knew the things they did were wrong, but enjoyed doing them. I'm not talking about mischief, but actual evil. You're not one of those people.”
“So this is Heaven?”
“No, and stop interrupting; I'd like to enjoy the you're-not-a-pain-in-my-butt-yet period as long as possible,” Reg said, leaning back in his chair, “Heaven is only for the truly good, and most of us aren't. That's why we end up here. Welcome to Purgatory, Gabe. This is where those of us who were good people but who were not as good as we could have been end up until we can work off our sins.”
“We?”
“Yes, we. If I keep working here, eventually I will move on to heaven and someone else will take my place here to welcome people like you and give them their assignments.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Since about 1979, but I've only had this job since the early two-thousands. It took a while to work my way up to this.”
“So I am going to spend the next half century working in the afterlife's mail room?”
“You? No. I don't deal with those sorts. It has been decided that you have potential to be something more than just an office drone. It's going to be a little dangerous, but if you are successful, you'll probably move on before I do,” He opens a drawer to his right, and removes something.
Reg places a small, wooden box on the desk in front of me, “That's for you.”
“Do I have any choice in this?”
“Not really, no. You're stuck here until you earn your wings, so to speak. Open the box.”
I take the box from the desk, and pop it open. In it is an odd looking ring, and it looks big enough to fit me.
“Put it on,” Reg urges.
I pop the ring free of its velvety prison, and slide it onto my right hand; it fits perfectly.
“Congratulations, Gabe Nigh, you are now an Agent of Purgatory. Your training begins immediately.”