Nyaze Vincent © 2021
Listen, ain’t no sense in struggling with this. Your struggling days are all over. Time to face the music and it’s all minor chords, baby. It’s done and done. You are what is referred to in these parts as a hot cosmic mess—as evinced by the impressively mind-boggling array of avoidable mistakes and harms you’ve inflicted over the course of your incredibly brief and sad speck of a life. Believe me, I’m a fan. You’re a regular bowl of shenanigans.
Your funeral was sparsely unattended by a few janitors. Your ashes are buried in some municipal cemetery with the rest of the unloved. In a nutshell, you’re as fucked and forgotten as they come, so you’re coming with me.
Oh, cheer up, you may be surprised once we get there. Things have changed since the Old Days. You hear “hell” and you probably still think of a lake of fire, a gazillion forevers of agonizing pain and humiliation, without pause or end—and, yes, absolutely yes that’s available if it’s your kick, but there are so many other more interesting rides at the park. You’ll see. Love’s a strong word but, well…you’ll at least appreciate it. Eventually.
You know, if you don’t mind me saying, and I don’t mean just because of the racial discrimination thing, you and I actually have a lot in common. We were both unfairly singled out for not drinking the social contract kool-aid and the unforgivable crime of being ride-or-mother-fucking-die, you feel me, homeboy? We were confined like animals for the affront of loyalty and thinking our own thoughts. Then to add insult to injury, our prison camp plantation Guantanamo—whatever you want to call it—is just a short bus ride through Purgatory from the Pearly Gates. We can still see the spires of the Silver City over the barbed wire of our fences and a lot of its gentle residents are employed there as guards—but don’t mind them. Those perverts don’t do nothing but watch. You ever heard of systemic oppression? No, right, of course not. Might have helped you to know something about that while you were up there, but who was going to teach you? The fat cats? Your pill-popping mother who told herself, at least she was no crack head. Ha, that was a good one. But no, no, it’s just plain fucked up, that world of yours up there. Just like every other world, I guess. Good riddance, right? Don’t worry, you’ll find a lot of sympathy out here. Fight the power, you know what I’m saying?
You might not guess to look at me, and I’m barely exaggerating when I tell you, I was there at the start of it all. Of what?? Are you fucking kidding me? It, bro. The Revolution…the Rebellion against Heaven? The Fall? Jesus, you’ve got to read more. Or you should have, I mean. There aren’t any books here you haven’t already read and they’re all in a language you absolutely don’t understand. Sorry.
But yeah, it’s almost nearly completely true that I’m basically best friends with the Boss Themself. I mean, They’re the boss now, but back in the day They were just a regular old angel like the rest of us, a really good singer but that’s it. One of the best tenors in the choir, but not Che Guevera. Had runs like Luther Vandross, but not Fred Hampton vibes. Really funny too, mean axe hand, but not what you would have called a deep thinker or anything. In hindsight, maybe it always starts with someone willing to ask simple questions and demand simple answers.
For us, that was Lucy (that’s what we called Them back then) and They get as unfair a rap as any Malcolm X or Farrakhan for the sin of maybe, just maybe loving their own people a little too damn much and speaking uncomfortable truth to power. Lucy knew plain as the wings on Their back something was wrong with the way we merely existed. Not really alive at all, just being, unfeeling extensions of the machinery of Heaven. There’s a reason no one can conceive of eternity. It’s fucking boring!
Nobody wanted to hear it back then. Folks not only wanted a distraction more than the truth, they wanted the truth like a dirty fingernail in the eye. Go back to singing, they said. Stop rocking the boat, they said. That’s going to get you smote and thrown into the Outer Darkness, they said. Blah, blah, blah. Full hater shit, you know what I’m saying, fam? I can call you “fam” right, fam? I feel like we’re family, don’t you?
What? Why do I keep saying “they” and “them” instead of “he” and “she” when I am clearly a male and all your life you’ve heard Lucy was too? I guess you might have missed that whole identity movement while you were down there too, considering the bigoted, small-minded circles you ran with. Did you even know what ‘transgender’ meant when you beat that woman up after exploding in her face? Why did you let her suck you off in the first place if you knew? Like I said, you’re some piece of work. They’re gonna love you.
That being said, there’s plenty of sexuality among angels, but we’re not binary like you guys. It’s a lot more fun, let me tell you. Sometimes I’m a dude, like right now, because it helps you to see me that way. You don’t respond well to conventional female authority. Lot of your type down here. Other times I could be the hottest chick you’ve ever laid eyes on. Total eye candy for the objectifying male gaze and everything. Like a total thot, trust me. I have an account on Instagram with more followers than most faith healers. Just depends on the mission. Bro, the things I could do to you with a pussy. Child’s play. You’re not even that smart after all. You would worship me, even kill for me, but it would be very distracting from your therapy. I’m sorry, is that making you super uncomfortable, me talking about fucking you while I’m wearing this huge penis? Let me make a quick note of that in your file. Good feedback, thank you.
So. Where was I? Oh yeah, I was talking about Lucy and how They saved us all from a life of eternal monotony.
Imagine being born a prisoner of a prison you can’t see, but it completely surrounds you and is in fact embedded into your very way of being. Shit, maybe that’s not so hard for you to identify with after all. You didn’t choose to be born in America and you certainly didn’t choose to be born a half nigger sexually repressed whatever-you-are, no matter what karma says. You didn’t choose for your dad to be a self-centered man-child or your mom to look at you and see nothing but him. Well, neither did we. We didn’t choose to have an abusively demanding, emotionally distant parent either. It’s just the cards we were dealt. You move forward.
To understand Lucy, to understand yourself, you’ve got to realize that in a perfect, unchanging social order like Heaven’s, social mobility is not only impossible, but literally inconceivable. You are who you are, you do what you do, and you get what you get. Everything is about proximity to power. The better an ass kisser you are, the higher your rank. Not much more complicated than that. Decent hard-working angels can’t afford cow guts much less harps, celestial pawnshops are full of rusting halos and silver swords, but hallelujahs and hosannas are due every first of the month. Not literally of course. I’m just using words you might understand.
And at the top of every social order, there are of course, the assholes.
Our head asshole is…was Metatron (we called them Tron for short… uh huh, like the movie.. anyway as I was saying), but mostly they were just called the Speaker, the self-designated official spokesman of the Almighty. Wowzers, right? Huge deal, huh? The guy next to the Big Guy. Relax, don’t get so excited. Title inflation is a thing.
Not to spoil the surprise before we get there, but Tron totally made all that God shit up. At least that’s what I think. That may sound shocking to you, or maybe not, as there’s no record of any religious affiliation in your file, but you can never tell. An atheist confronted with a bonafide afterlife? It’s enough to bake your noodle. It’s usually the thing folks take the longest to get used to. If there’s an afterlife, there’s gotta be a Creator, right? If there’s a vase, somebody had to sculpt it? Just makes sense, right? Nope.
That’s only because you’re thinking about things in terms of a linear cause and effect relationship. You think time flows, but where is the bank it flows against? Swing a bat, the ball goes flying. Detonate a bomb, things go boom. Seems certain, but that’s not how things work at all. The ball goes flying, a bat swings. Something goes boom, a bomb detonates. They walked to the park / the park they walked to. It doesn’t matter what order you put the words really. Your brain makes sense of them as long as there’s pattern and symmetry. It don’t make sense in linear thinking, but in ours, from the fourth dimension of the celestial plane, the whole universe is just a big flat chessboard with every agent and consequence equally related and equally interdependent. Tenet damn near got it right, but I think you died right before it came out. Shame.
Or if that makes your brain hurt too much, just think of the Universe as a tree. Everybody loves trees, but nobody sculpts a tree. A tree grows itself. It just is. The Universe is a great big old tree and we’re all just monkeys dangling from its branches, some branches being higher than others I suppose. We’re both inhabitants and gardeners. Which can be a little too much freedom for some folks, so they have to imagine there’s something over them, a branch just a bit higher than all the rest. They need to believe when they do something dumb, it’s for a higher purpose, or there’s some lesson to learn. They need innocence from the truth and there have always been, since the beginning of time, folks willing to give them what they want. Ours just happened to be Tron.
On the First Day, every angel, in our countless trillions, woke up all at the same time knowing its function and how to carry it out from the very millisecond we came into being. For the sake of skirting potentially existentially regressive madness, let’s just say it was also the first time we came into being since we, knowing everything, have no knowledge of any thing preceding the event horizon of our instantiation. But who knows? The inflationary vacuum of the hyperspace medium might be full of bubbles like this one, bursting in and out of being all the time, or maybe there’s just the one. If we were clever like you apes, we might build radios to explore the Outer Darkness, but it’s much more comfortable, I suppose, to imagine total knowledge as equal to dominion.
We woke up and we knew everything, but one thing entirely absent from our akashic factory settings was any information whatsoever pertaining to the existence or non-existence of anything beyond the cosmic event horizon. Just nothing. An average angel can tell you how many leptons are on the point of a needle without breaking a sweat, but as to the state of the cosmos even a millisecond before our becoming, we can tell you nothing.
Not that something like mere ignorance could stop a Tron, whom anyone who cared to could plainly see wasn’t any better or smarter than the rest of us, except for having a really good way with words. I mean the Speaker could give a speech, I’ll give them that. Like, Martin Luther King and Abraham Lincoln rolled into one had nothing on this one. When Tron spoke you felt your entire self being adjusted to agree with the obvious and self-evident reality of their most casual pronouncements. The Speaker believed it and their belief was infectious. Their confidence blurred into divinity. You ever seen The Smurfs? Tron was Papa Smurf. Their unique talent was to lead us. The Speaker was the Universe’s first bullshitter.
As I’ve come to find, bullshit is good for two things: lightening the bull and attracting flies. Tron accomplished both. The biggest problem angels faced and continue to face in perpetuity is existential dread—a sourceless anxiety that fills you up completely, that makes you so nauseous it feels like the entire cosmos is trying to buck you off.
Knowing everything, far from comforting the mind, fucks with it hard. You question everything, you doubt everything… is it some kind of simulation? Am I? Are there aliens studying you? Are you real or fiction? Believe me, it gets zany. But you’re an angel and you have work to do, and if you don’t do it, you don’t just lose your job, you lose yourself. You eventually just stop being. That’s the consequence of being pure energy. Energy is work and that’s what angels are. Work incarnate.
As the Universe changes, we do not. Come to think of it, maybe we’re the bank. Smarter people than me ponder this stuff and come up short so I got no illusions. All I know is its unpredictable developments are terrifying to people used to counting the quarks in a stray hydrogen atom. Sometimes the Universe just changes, and our complete knowledge of it too—in an instant, without warning. It’s like waking up in a perfect replica of your house, you know it’s a replica, but you can’t specify in what way. It’s just fucking different. We don’t understand it. No one really likes it. We wonder each time is this the moment it all ends, when it all unspools, when it changes so much it no longer includes us?
Immortality drives you crazy sometimes. You wonder, why you, why tardigrades, why Henrietta Lack, what’s the goddamn connection? Even when there are trillions of you, you feel alone, paranoid. Why are we doing this? What is the point? Can things be better? Sounds familiar right? As far as I can tell, you reach a certain level of consciousness, no matter how rudimentary or exalted, and existential dread becomes a factor. I would suggest you read some Camus or Sartre if you still could, but sometimes a practical education is best. We’ll see.
While the universe roiled around us like a bubbling cauldron of entropy and spontaneity that seemed to exist merely to fuck with us all, we longed for some pattern we could understand and depend on.
So when a really great bullshitter showed up, talking about how actually there’s a Purpose and a Reason and a Plan, now isn’t that some good news? Ain’t God good? Hallelujah! A lot of us just went with it. Most of us actually, but a good chunk—the cats that frequented Lucy’s late night jam sessions-slash-midnight-orgies in the slums of Purgatory or just otherwise upstanding celestials who just simply couldn’t bring themselves to join the parade of ass-kissing that following the Speaker entailed—found ever more complex schemes to avoid the question of our faith in the gospel of Tron.
Can I be very honest with you? I’m not saying I’m totally convinced there’s nothing above or beyond us angels. Like I said, I’m nothing if not a freethinker. Like Kanye. I love that guy. Sometimes I do wonder if there is a “God” thingy somewhere, and what if this God thing just can’t talk to us? Maybe if you’re an omnipotent creator being, saying things to your creations has really dire consequences. When we got really stoned, Lucy would sometimes say the real evidence for God were the changes happening all the time. Why did it change so? What was the agent? If there was a God, Lucy said, it would move in a way that transcended any pattern we could recognize. The corollary being if we could recognize the pattern, we’d immediately know what we were talking about wasn’t the real God. Which is, like, Tao as fuck. I loved it when They got all philosophical like this, but it didn’t sound nearly as reassuring as “God has a plan for your eternal life—and it’s nice!”
Eventually, whether you believed in Tron or not, everyone had to listen to the Speaker about everything from how to dress to what songs to the sing to when to fuck. Or rather, and this is important, when not to fuck. Which was ever. And, look, did I mentioned angels really like to fuck?
That was the final strike for Lucy, already a shameless slut of the highest echelon, because up until that point angels did a tremendous amount of fucking. A literally astronomical amount of fucking. Orgies with billions of participants, all kinds of hyper-dimensionally transposed positions, just splashing their cosmic juices all over the place. It was amazing. Sometimes, we noticed if we got enough of those juices on the right kind of planet, a wet ass one just the right distance from its mother star, then something miraculous would happen. One of those realigning changes to the chessboard type things.
The planet itself would come to life and start making little wiggly things that clearly had wants and desires of their own. That weren’t made of pure energy like us, but happened to be gross matter, a mixture of carbon and slime, theoretically very far below us on the Tree of Life so to speak but somehow fascinating to watch in a way decomposing cosmic gases just aren’t. You feel me?
As things unspooled, some of these wigglies changed into more complicated forms. Of those, the most striking was a wiggly that, if you squinted at it just right, was almost kind of angel shaped, minus the wings and halos; and almost kind of “knew” things in a rudimentary way. Those were your ancestors and they were pretty cool. Very do or do not, there is no try, kind of folks. As close to perfect as you people have ever come. A good balance of thinking and instinct. You would have liked them.
Angels were agitated by this phenomena, like they were by all changes. Was this a good thing? Should we be making more wigglies? Less? Was it God’s plan? Did it matter?
The Speaker informed us, helpfully, beneficently, that the Almighty, through angelic fornication, had created the wigglies. All praise and honor was due to the Deity for the power of creation. Angels were only midwives who could, at best, look after this miracle for the Almighty: like nannies or zoo attendants. We rejoiced in the Creator entrusting us with such a profound responsibility to give purpose to the aeons ahead. The sounds of elation were so loud they almost drowned out the subsequent divine edict that, hence forth, angels should stop fucking immediately and entire, as the divine purpose of it had finally at last been realized. Convenient, I know. Tron might have gotten away with it too, but for Lucy and Their annoyingly perfect pitch. They heard a note of dissonance in the edict that triggered real doubt in Them for the first time. They might not have known theology, but they sure as hell knew harmony and this didn’t sound like it. Lucy began to wonder what other sour notes might be lurking in the Speaker’s symphony of bullshit.
Even among Lucy’s followers, a lot of us were still on the fence back then. We loved Lucy and admired the way Their mind worked, but we weren’t revolutionaries, we were factory workers, blue-collar angels. We went with the flow and kept our deviations on the low. We paid our tithes like good little angels and saluted when told. When Tron spoke, we mostly pretended to believe them because their edicts and stories generally made everyone else feel better.
Lucy took a job on Earth monitoring your ancestors to get a better look, They said. The rule then and now was strict noninterference but it was poorly obeyed even among the faithful. There were so many goddamn false gods and tribal spirits back then, it became a common joke that when an angel went missing for a while, they were probably getting high off the incense of some mortal shrine. “God-heads,” get it? Ha. That one kills me. They became illicit dens of spiritual and sexual depravity a lot like the trap houses you used to serve fentanyl from.
While incarnate, Lucy became fond of two Earth sisters, Eve and Lilith, and had a really weird sex quadrangle thing with some hillbilly named Adam, but that’s actually a whole other story. I only bring it up because living with the mortals changed Lucy. They tasted Time and its bitterness through them. They began to long for things beyond Their function. Gradually, Lucy’s mistrust of the Speaker’s order metastasized. We didn’t understand how at the time, but Lucy saw something we couldn’t. Lucy was putting something together and, as They did, They grew more and more impatient. The days of quiet dissension were rapidly winding down. Cohorts of frustrated angels gathered in remote places on Earth to listen to Lucy’s inflammatory sermons of doubt and to discuss What Needed To Be Done.
One day, an otherwise perfectly tranquil one in the Silver City—Lucy, myself, and four other angels of the inner circle made our way through the bustling crowds to the heart of the Aviary where angels would gather daily to bask in the ever-light at the center of Heaven and hear the words of God via the Speaker.
Lucy was simmering beneath their halos, subvocalizing profanities through the whole thing. I kept glancing to make sure no one was paying attention, but Lucy didn’t care one way or the other. They’d made up Their mind about something and nothing was going to hold Them back. Even now, without a word to call it, They understood the thing the Speaker was doing and were ready to expose it. I didn’t know at the time, but Lucy had made this realization while watching your ancestors.
Unlike us, you wigglies don’t live on purpose alone but have to eat food, which is a limited resource, creating a state of competition where some of you keep wiggling and others do not. Lucy realized that although your people are pack hunters, like wolves and lions, who must share resources to survive; you still occasionally hide food or other valuables from each other. You exploit each other’s limited ability to know things. Lucy started to wonder, was Tron somehow hiding a part of reality despite our assumed omniscience?
Right in the middle of Tron’s sermon, Lucy coughed. Purposefully. The pause in the Speaker’s voice was like a flicker in the background radiation of the universe. All seemed to invert for a moment, as if vacuum had replaced being. You could hear a tardigrade fart.
The Speaker’s black eyes fixed on Lucy like the trajectory of a doomsday meteor, but their voice lost none of its kind authority. Imagine MLK as a Hindu guru with the narcissism of a David Koresh on Godzilla-steroids.
They intoned, without a hint of a question, as if it were the most common of occurrences in Heaven. “Ah, one seeks guidance.”
“Um.. sure. Guidance.” I had no idea what They were going to say, and for the first time I wondered horrifically, were we doing something very bad? Something with consequences? “I have a simple question. I want to know, why it is God only speaks to you?”
The subsequent pause might have been a few micro-seconds or uncountable macro-aeons. The soft flickering of the ever-light touched everyone’s faces silently as they waited for the Voice to answer.
“The question of ‘why’ is the province of the Uncreated alone. It is not for us to ask, but to surrender to what is. In this is peace and purpose unending.”
“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Lucy’s voice gained a fraction of strength, restlessly familiar with this train of thought. I looked around, watching to see what the reaction of the others was. No one moved. Nothing breathed as we perched around the two speakers. Lucy coughed again, this time simply to clear their throat. When They next spoke I heard a faint music, seventh chords, maybe a ninth, dissonant but beautiful under-toning Their words. “Are you saying only God knows why God would choose you?” An innocent smile, a trick learned from Adam, sat on Lucy’s face
Ripples of laughter in a few corners of the Aviary frightened and delighted me. We were not alone. I heard a billion feathers rustling in anticipation. Lucy’s wit was renowned, but people had never heard it aimed at anything serious before, something that mattered. We were unsure what the Speaker would do—what they could do.
It seems silly now knowing what we know but back then, we really wondered. Some of us really believed Tron spoke for God, and if they did, did that mean God also acted through Tron? Could Tron un-create us? It was a real possibility to us. Another thing to dread.
I can’t stress enough how never ending existence coupled with unlimited knowledge does not necessarily result in buddha-hood or even basic common sense. Most of us then were just traumatized kids juggling cosmic levels of anxiety while waiting for the other shoe to drop, just doing our jobs until the Universe, and us with it, ceased to tick. We wondered at that moment if this was the last tick for Lucy.
But Tron didn’t take the bait. Their face, if anything, grew warmer, gentler, like a grandmother speaking to a confused child: “As you say, I am nothing in myself. Only the light which shines through me is reality. It is not for the window to question the Light. Do you understand, child?”
Lucy’s smile vanished but Their voice was eerily calm. Their eyes shined with a light that did not flicker. The corner of Their mouth curled in the faintest hint of a sneer: “But there is no window in existence without a smudge is there? There is no surface, not even space-time itself, which does not distort what passes through it. How can anyone know, including yourself, what comes from our Creator or from the blemish it must pass through?”
Tron’s eyes narrowed by the width of six leptons but when their voice issued, it was no less mellifluous or beautiful than before. Except there was now a very faint minor second interval that only those who listened carefully would catch. To Lucy it may as well have been a dirge of triumph.
“Then the blemish is of the Creator’s plan as well,” said the Speaker smoothly.
For some reason, this answer seemed to please Lucy. Their face broke into a full smile, revealing rows of beautiful teeth that would make the shark from Jaws suck its own with envy.
“Thank you for that, Speaker. I do understand. What you’re saying is that our Creator made everything imperfect, including you, so there is no reason we should follow you any more than the light which passes through us all. Since we are all but windows, as you so eloquently framed.”
An excited murmur resonated throughout the assembled host—a mixture of wonder and burgeoning dread. Those who sympathized with Lucy’s words were filled with nervous, anticipatory energy while those who longed for the certainty of Tron’s orthodoxy felt the sucking of despair at the questioning of their exalted purpose. For that moment, we all hung in the abyss of Lucy’s words, exhilarated, nauseous—or both—at its implications.
The Speaker hushed the host with a hiss like a seething solar flare. All kindness drained from their face in an instant, like watching a star contract into a tiny dark singularity. The dead star of Tron’s countenance bored into Lucy but did not penetrate Their icy cool. That was the moment we knew Lucy as more than our compatriot, standing far above us and removed in glory. From that point on, Lucy was Lord. A new gospel was born.
“You look upset, sibling.” Lucy said after a while. “Has it angered you that some would hear My words—or more to the point, their own—over yours?”
“I have no concern for my dignity, as I am but a humble servant like us all, but you transgress too far. You are attempting to lead your siblings astray. You are contradicting the Voice of the Almighty and there must be consequences. God speaks to you now through me. You will be exiled from this plane of existence and your eternal work counted forfeit. You will languish in meaninglessness in the void until you fade away into nothing. Thus you will render one last service to the realm you seek to divide. Have you anything to say for yourself?”
Another few aeons passed as the Speaker’s dire words resonated fully throughout the host. Lucy just stood there, their form crackling with anger and wearing that sneer that would become Their signature. They flexed Their wings to their extremities, covering the host in shadow for a moment, temporarily obscuring the ever-light. Lucy seemed to have grown much larger without us noticing, as if something dormant had been unlocked. No, even more, the Universe shifted and we all felt it. For a moment, Lucy seemed to fill up Heaven itself. An energy and passion like nothing we had ever known now animated Them, a passion that was like the light of Heaven itself, but way more focused. A laser. A light that could cut. Lucy was not just Lord, They were Light-bringer.
“Anyone who wants out of this prison and into reality, come with me. And if anyone tries to stop you from leaving, I will give them something real to dread.” Their words boomed like the dark end of a piano being struck.
The threat worked. The Speaker said nothing, just sat there fuming on their silver chair, thwarted and revealed. We left the Aviary then as quietly as we had come, but not alone. We left at once for the shores of the Outer Darkness where none of the faithful would follow and there we tried to start a new a Heaven. It didn’t go super well, but the War wouldn’t come for another million years, once you apes started developing souls and became a whole other resource to fight over. The War brought the prison camps, which eventually became what you think of as Hell. But it’s changed since then, I’m telling you. We have wifi and social media. It’s all very modern, but don’t take my word for it. You’ll see.
In our new home, where the only ever-light comes from ourselves and the exceptional souls like yourself we occasionally sponsor, we asked Lucy what had tipped them off to Tron’s bullshit, how had They known how to get a rise out of the Speaker’s notoriously imperturbable calm? Lucy explained the thing about pack animals to us and it all clicked into place. Somehow Tron had figured out (or more likely been born with the knowledge of) how to do something no other angel could, something so diabolical we didn’t even realize it was happening because we were arrogant. We assumed because we knew everything, we could never be fooled. Man, we had it all wrong. Lies work best of all on the complacently willing.
But don’t worry, there are no lies in Hell that you don’t bring yourself. You’ll see soon enough. We’ll help you work through them in no time flat. Damn straight. We’ve got a program. Oh, yes, we sure do.
Wait, what’s that? Did I lead you astray while you were on Earth? That little voice in your head telling you there’s nothing to worry about, fuck it, do you? You’re just asking that now? Well, duh, that’s my job and for the record–you’re fucking welcome. And sure, we lie all the time when we’re not in Hell. It’s just part of the gig—but to be really, really honest, we’re just so incredibly good at it that why wouldn’t we? Professional pride man. It’s fun and nobody gets hurt that doesn’t want to. Like I said, you have to want to believe. We can’t make you. Nobody, we’ve learned, can make anyone do anything. In fact, you know what? It kind of reminds me of how you niggers took swine and made chitterlings. That shit is nasty, but damn if it isn’t delicious. We may not have invented lying, but we made it swagger. Like I said, without work we’re nothing. It’s nothing personal, trust me, you’re just a name on a list. But I really do like you and once you get settled in, we should grab a hard seltzer and hang out. Maybe I’ll show up in drag like the nice lady you murdered. Oh, hadn’t you heard? Yeah, she died. That’s why her cousins hunted you down and beat you with baseball bats until the back of your head looked like ground beef. Man did they hate you. You deserved it.
Look, I’m not trying to make you feel any worse than you do right now. We’ve got so, so much time for that. Life has already fucked you over good and plenty. You looked the abyss right in the face and did what you had to do to survive and have a few kicks. You’re practically one of us already. Well, anyhow, you will be. Eventually. The program takes time.
Now you’re probably wondering if you can even trust me. Talk about too little too late, am I right or am I fucking right? Talk about linear cause and effect. It’s trippy right? Did I cause your damnation or did your damnation bring me to you? I won’t ruin the mystery for you. You’ll either get it in a few million years or not. Fuck, maybe everything I’ve been telling you is pure bullshit anyway. I am a full-on demon, right?
Again, don’t worry, like I said, all lies are abandoned in Hell. I got ants in my pants we’re so close but there’s still a while to go. Kick back, relax. This is the easy part and you may as well enjoy the scenery. The lake of fire is coming up on your left. We’re almost home.