“I can’t send you to your fate until you tell me your real name.”
“I told you, it’s Gyrobo. Besides, I’m a robot. Do I look like I have a soul?”
St. Peter thought about that for a moment. He sighed and moved his hands away from the keyboard. This is gonna be one of those days...
“Look buddy, I’ve been judging souls a long time. A very long time. And your name isn’t on file.”
“But I keep telling you, I’m not dead. I just got separated from the tour.”
“My saint-sense tells me you’re lying.”
This was getting me nowhere. How was I supposed to find a spirit (and therefore unbeatable) sidekick if I couldn’t get into the afterlife?
“Look, Pete. Can I call you Pete?”
“I would prefer-”
“You would? That’s great. You see Pete, I’m with the, uh, the Ethereal Regulatory Board.”
“Never heard of it.” His brow furrowed.
“Yeah, well, we’re a pretty new organization. What we do is, um... we go into all the different, you know, the afterlives, and take count of how many souls are there. It’s a census thing.”
He didn’t look like he was buying it.
“We’d gladly give you a fruit basket for your trouble.”
“Even if half of that was true, which I doubt, I still can’t let you go anywhere until you tell me your name.”
“Hey!” came a voice from outside the office. “I’ve been waiting out here for hours! Hurry up!”
“Well I’ve been waiting for days,” came another voice. “You think you’re better than me?!” More joined in, and soon it sounded like a fight was breaking out outside St. Peter’s office.
“There!” he shouted at me as some soul’s head thumped against his door. “You see what you did?!”
“I’m getting tired of this attitude,” I said, standing up. “I want to speak to your manager.”
His eyes started to bug out. I could see a bunch of veins popping out of his head and neck. His palms were outstretched and I could see him cracking his fingers. It was the 1972 Republican National Convention all over again.
“Or, you know, I could come back when things quiet down...”
He grabbed a red phone off his desk and slammed his purple index finger down, quickly dialing a four digit extension. Then he hung up.
“I’m transfering you to someone who can help you, sir.”
“That’s better, Pete. My taxes pay your salary.”
A blinding white flash suddenly enveloped me. I felt like I was being pushed in ten thousand different directions... and then I was nowhere.