Bots in heaven? Are you kidding me? I did not spend countless hours getting on my knees, standing up, getting back down on my knees, lip-syncing Latin, and nodding off in countless Masses to find myself here! I want angels. I get gambling bots.
Worse — and believe me no one is going to clue you in about this one — we have to punch a timeclock.
You heard me. Right behind serene old St. Peter (btw, what’s with the red lego-head there, Pete?), positioned so you can’t see it while you’re in line to get in, is The Eternal Timeclock. Your card is waiting in the rack. You can tell it’s yours because to you it glows. There it is. Your name, well all your names, which can get complicated, along with some pertinent information. Date of birth, date and cause of death, mother’s maiden name. And then you’re back in another line to punch that card.
I was looking around at my fellow Heaveners, wondering if anyone else thought this was weird. Nope. I’m thinking a lifetime of showing up reasonably on time to work, eat, sleep, fuck, watch television, and die has conditioned most people to accept this happy horseshit.
Or so I think until it’s my turn to clock in to Heaven. Canny bastards have positioned The Eternal Timeclock right next to a small rift in the clouds that offers a tantalizing glimpse down into Hell. There’s even a whiff of sulfur to keep the faithful moving. I punch my card and move towards The Inner Pearly Gates where several bots — without wings, of course — are lined up to greet us newbies.
“Welcome to Your Eternal Reward, friend.” No apparent gender or eyes. Offputting as fuck. But I’m going along with all of it because it’s not as if I’ve got a choice, right? I mean I do, but no, I don’t.
I’m used to it and I guess I even can sort of appreciate the structure of punching in and out of my daily attendance in one of the many rooms in the House of My Father (and when they say many, dude, they are not even exaggerating…more like a kajillion and counting). I’m convinced that these “rooms” are being created and destroyed hourly. For instance, I’ve never clocked into the same room twice.
The “work” isn’t hard. Nothing here is hard after you get used to those bots. I kind of miss things being hard occasionally. I mean, here’s weird, money actually floats out of the sky every morning even though there’s nothing to buy.
I heard someone actually refused to punch in last week. No one’s talking much about it, what with Our Heavenly Father being privy to our innermost thoughts and all, but Edgar whose card is next to mine in the rack indicated with a complex series of gestures what it was like when the rebel got sucked through the rift in the clouds.
How bad it is Down There?
© Remington Write 2020. All Rights Reserved.
Read AleXander Hirka’s version here:
In August 2020, AleXander Hirka set himself the challenge of creating a daily digital collage based on an image and a concept. The image is that of the antique Omega watch that belonged to his Mom and the concept is Time. In September 2020, the Anomalous Duo is challenging themselves to write a short piece of fiction for each collage — the Our Hours project.