"Gary Steven Boggs, right?"
"That's it. But Harry sounds cooler in real life."
"Gary in the papers? Gary then. Next. Went to regular school, eleven grades. Grew up in a village. Moved to London, studied at University of Oxford. Made some cash, bought a sports car, smashed it into a truck."
Some dreary clerk with a pitiful face read off my life like a grocery list. Around me—just a boring office. This wasn't what I thought heaven would be.
"Wait a sec," I cut in. "I didn't smash it—I hit the truck!"
"Yeah, sure, Gary Steven Boggs, look at this."
He flipped his laptop around. Picture of my sports car, totaled to hell.
"But the truck swerved out of its lane! So I hit it!"
"Alright, whatever. Truck driver tried dodging you, that's all."
"Enough crap. Move on."
This guy was pissing me off, and I wanted out of his stupid office fast.
"Fine, let's keep going." He stopped, squinted at the screen, and read, "Religion: believes in Bitcoin. What's Bitcoin?"
"Cryptocurrency, moron. Mining and stuff. How do you think I got money for a damn sports car in my twenties? Bitcoin. You know what it's worth now? No? I do. Next."
"Don't be rude."
"Don't ask dumb questions."
The clerk kept droning on about my life: good stuff, bad stuff, whatever. Things I already knew. But he said it was all for some Supreme God. Paperwork, even in heaven.
When the "white collar" handed me my life's file, I headed to God's office. Down the hall, two lefts, one right—there it was, a fancy golden door like some church painting.
I didn't think twice, just shoved it open and walked in.
A gray-haired guy with a beard and a mean look sat at a desk. Wore a white suit. Whole office was white. Looked more like a CEO than a Supreme God.
"No one teach you to knock?" he growled, looking up from his laptop.
"What for? Supreme God got a clingy secretary?"
"You're my servant. Act like it."
"Yeah, right. I'm no servant, never was."
"Cocky little punk. Come in, sit, give me your papers."
I plopped into a cushy chair across from him and tossed the folder on the desk. He glared at me but didn't say anything, just started flipping through it.
"So where am I going? Heaven? Hell? Back to Earth? I just got a new car down there."
"Shut it."
I sighed and waited for the beard to finish.
After a minute, he looked up.
"So, Gary, twenty years alive. Sixty percent good deeds, forty percent bad."
"Where'd you pull that from? I step on a bug I didn't even see, and that's bad now? Wasn't on purpose!"
"Doesn't matter. Facts are facts. With that split, no heaven or hell for you. You get a second life. Decent one, not scraping by. Come on, I'll show you you're luckier than some."
He took me down the hall, waving open doors on the right.
First room—bunch of scrawny kids dunking other kids' heads in toilets. All of 'em weak and sad.
"What the hell's this?"
"Authors who wrote about those kinds of 'heroes.' Giving 'em a taste of it. Got a week left. Funny, they can't fight back and be heroes," he said with a grin, slamming the door.
Next room—computer game players. Some in VR goggles, crashing into each other, getting zapped.
"Some can't score points, others stuck as noobs for six months, no fix," the god said. "Lit-RPG and real-RPG writers."
"Why're they here?" I had to ask.
"Shitty game worlds, broken perks, nonsense rules, messed-up numbers. Good writers didn't end up here."
"Guess that's fair."
"Yeah, all fair."
Another door—wild scene. Naked guy wandering around, rocket for a dick. Catgirls flying around him, missile silos between their legs.
"What the hell?" I winced.
"Bad erotica authors. This one's lucky, could be worse. Just a couple days left."
"Then what?"
"Haven't decided. Next."
He kept showing me rooms. Werewolves and dragons jumping "gray mice." Bosses torturing girls—BDSM stuff. Some old English blokes in red coats making authors write rubbish, smashing their heads on tables. Harems where the authors couldn't get it up. Weak heirs stuck on thrones they couldn't leave.
I didn't get why he was showing me these screwed-up authors turned into the opposite of their characters. What's it got to do with me?
Next door opened to nothing—just empty space.
"You get a choice," he said. "Either—"
"Harem and a throne," I jumped in. "Nothing less. Hot girls all around, wanting me all the time, anywhere, anytime."
"Don't cut off God, servant!"
"You a dog or something? I'm not your servant, I said!" I crossed my arms, staring him down. "Harem and throne. That's it. Too much for you?"
"Village life, simple family. That's all you deserve, servant!"
"Then screw you."
I turned and stomped off down the hall. So what? Let him think it over. Was one wish really a big deal?
"Stop!" he yelled, voice like thunder. "Stop or it's worse!"
"Worse than what? Dead at twenty, stuck in a lame office with your dumbass staff and an asshole god? Look at yourself!"
Didn't see the divine kick in the ass coming. How's this guy a god? Kick was solid, though—thought my butt'd fall off.
But I didn't hit the floor or a wall. Flew out into nowhere. Everything spun, lights blinked, then—greenery. Tons of it. Grass. Trees. Real pretty. Problem was, I was dropping toward it from two or three stories up…
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