Ah, this is a tale worth telling.
See, I am going to die and I have no qualms about it. So one day my body slumps over, and the rest of me is standing there like a chump in the deepening gloom with my hands in my proverbial pockets, giving the wreck one last kick like a flat tire before finding better things to do. I'll sniff the wind and feel where it is pulling, and head along it like a feather in a hoover. Light in the far end turns out to be the hole I am spit out of to land on my ass, finding myself in a huge hall reminiscent of an airport only without the exit gates. I'll get myself a too hot coffee and a too cold pizza slice and feel right at home while watching an infinite number of sewer pipes spit out more souls faster and faster.
That's when the big guy shows up. Or rather, the big guy's local representative's junior executive's assistant's trainee. Looking impressive with a huge robe and hood and wings and a chest sticker saying 'Staff'. He'll pull me off the floor with two fingers and plonk me down as soon as he is sure I am convinced he can beat me to a bloody pulp without breaking a nail. His voice will be flat and unemotional and as welcoming as a repo man, which is pretty close to his function. And the conversation will be something like this.
- Well number 128485635734334587, another lifetime come and gone. Would you like to have a five second replay?
- Thanks but no thanks, once was quite enough.
- Actually it was your 1573rd life.
- Does it matter? It's not like I have been allowed to keep them in mind while going through this one. What's the point in going to school and not be allowed to remember it?
- The past HAS affected you, shaped you into who you are today. You are your own exam papers.
- Oh, wonderful. So how will these multiplied grades affect my afterlife? I get to hang them up on the wall?
- I am obliged to tell you your score for this last life. You haven't done much of value, have not achieved anything, haven't gotten any wiser, haven't helped anyone much. Mostly you have been sitting on your ass complaining. On the other hand you haven't stepped intentionally on ants or similiar acts, not often anyway, so you get to go stay with the other billions and billions of souls in the Big Garden and do nothing but water pot plants and look at screens. Which means your postlife won't really be much different from your past life, so there you go. Congratulations. Off you go then. Door number 1. And here, have a flyer: "how to water pot plants."
I am not moving. Something is niggling me.
- Hey, wait a minute. You sound and feel like any other bloke but you look real buff and those are Maserati wings. How come you don't look like me and get sent off to graze like me? How'd you get your job?
The big guy chuckles, and pulls off his hood then leans down enough to look me in my eyes. Underneath is a guy in maybe his 60s. White, grey haired, a few moles, heavy eyelids and a smirk that could overturn a boat.
- Because *I* went to church every Sunday. Mostly just to oogle the choir boys, but it didn't matter - it just turns out that the Big Guy really really likes asskissers.
That's the point where I grab the guy by his robes and headbutt the angelic ass kisser so hard that I get teeth marks in my brow. And THAT is why I am now going to hell.
But I am going there with a pretty good conscience.