As consciousness returned, he found himself standing in a very long line of people. He had no recollection of how, why, where, or what. After about an hour or so, he categorized this whole affair futile. But, he had little to no choice. Wait or step out of line. When he looked behind him, the line was much longer than the one in front of him.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, he had a funny-ass feeling. Allowing his intuition to steer his actions, he carefully plucked out some anal beads from his orifice. He smirked knowing there was still some more up there. With this, a raucous flash of memory rushed over him like crack cocaine on a first time user. He was Hugo Furst! He was Scottish! And oh man, he was Scottish. Kilt-wearing, bagpipe playing, red-headed, constantly reel dancing, Scotch tape praising, rugby loving, yet fourth generation American. He retained his Scottish accent to basically say, “Fuck you, I’m Scottish, and whatever the fuck you are, I will destroy you.” It is odd. He never recited those exact words in that exact order before. If he had, he may have been better understood. Pity.
His jaw dropped, locking him in a state of absolute dumbfoundedness. He knew what this was, all of it. He felt a sharp pang of equal parts regret, relief and heartburn. The three-pronged attack on his conscience and body made him question his whole life up to this point.
Who heads up a kung fu blade exhibition where martial artists strap katanas to the bottom of their bare feet? Better question: who volunteers first? He smack dab bopped himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand knowing that St. Peter would not take kindly to such an utter display of recklessness leading to such a stupid death, his.
Sadly, the wicked reality of Hugo’s plight was brutal. Yes, he was dead waiting for judgment, but he was not waiting in the correct line to be evaluated by St. Peter to determine his afterlife. No, he was in the line for unresolved cable bills. The kicker: he never had cable in his life.