I skipped back towards the gates of Nethroxia, but my thoughts were not of the great festival, but of the painful death of Satanviper, the most unvelievably catholic muffin I had ever met. I remember that painful Tuesday like black styrofoam. I had been picking up Satanviper from confession when suddenly a rabid francophone had stepped on him. I drooled with anger as I imaginced the francophone picking the moist crumbs off his shoe later on in the privacy of his lair.
I was startled back into reality by a large Indian who was hitting me in the face with a large cow udder he had nailed to a stick. He was screaming "Blankets... blankets." I handed him small change upon which he ran in small circles and whipped himself.
We both died.
"Kate," a small shingle whelped.
"Oh and I suppose..." I wondered.
The gates. They weren't all THAT pearly, but then neither am I. I looked at Indian who was standing beside me looking like a crack-addicted sheep. He smiled as if to say, "Sorry I hit you repeatedly with the udder on a stick. I needed some blankets." I smiled back as if to say, "That's okay... I deserved it. So. This is heaven. Shall we got through the gates?" He took out a burning hockey puck and ate it in a way that seemed to say "Yes."
Gently, but not TOO gently, I opened the gate. I proceeded forward, like a hawk, but different. Suddenly... nothing. I walked up to a large building. Much to my dismay the Indian had stapled himself to my back and he now dragged idly behind like bicycle spokes in July. I opened a large somewhat wooden door which had somehow been labeled DOOR. I screamed. He screamed. As you can see I co' smoked his ass. In front of me, he stood. I called him... God.