This week, we had to write about the afterlife.  Yup.

“We’re gonna need to intubate!”

Morgan was floating just above consciousness.

“What happened to her?”

“Looks like a cocktail.  Valium, Klonopin, and Ativan.  Okay, let’s do this!”

Morgan fell under.

************

“Are you awake, dear?” The voice was upbeat but twitchy, as if the speaker was in a hurry.

“Mmm?” said Morgan.  She opened her eyes.  The room, or whatever it was, awoke her senses.  Bright white flooded the area.  Besides the man before her, she was the only perceivable…thing in the room.

“Wonderful!”  The man, wearing a suit and tie, smiled warmly.    “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Are…?” Morgan squinted at the man before her.  “Is this?  Are you?”

The look on his face beamed with anticipation.

“God?”

“Oh, lordy lordy, no!” he replied.  “But don’t worry, I’m not upset.  Nobody ever gets it right on the first guess.”

“Then are you…”

“Or the second guess for that matter.  Tell you what, since today is your lucky day, I’ll just come right out and tell you.”

Morgan raised her brow.

“I’m Ray Combs!”

Morgan raised her brow further.

“And it’s time to play…The Feud!”

From out of nowhere, a platform with a red buzzer appeared before her.

“Okay Morgan, now get ready for round one!  Buzz in when you have an answer.  We asked one-hundred people who recently committed suicide; would you like to go to Heaven?”

“Uhhh…” Morgan stared at him, wondering if he was serious.  “Yes?”

“Ah ah!” he said.  “Gotta hit your buzzer.”

Morgan pressed the buzzer.  It beeped at her.  “Yes?”

Ray turned around, looking up at the white nothingness.  “Show me…yes!”

As the sound of an electronic bell filled the area, her answer appeared in bright yellow letters.  Next to it, the number 100.

“Yes!” shouted Ray.  “Now don’t go away, round two is coming up next.”

“But…” Morgan started.

“We asked the same one-hundred no-longer living people; what was your most grievous sin?”

Morgan continued to eye Ray Combs with caution, but hit the buzzer anyway.  “I once cheated on my husband with his best friend.”

“Good answer!  That certainly was sinful.”  Ray turned around once more.  “Show me adultery!”  A loud buzz filled the air, as well as a giant red X.

“I’m sorry, but it appears to be not as grievous as you thought.  You still have two strikes left.  Do you have another answer?”

“Um, well that year I taught English in the inner city school?  I slept with one of my students to get some cocaine.”

“All right, that’s good!” Ray said reassuringly.  “Show me getting in the sack with a black for some crack!”

The giant red X appeared again.  The buzzer seemed louder this time.

“Okay,” Ray said.  “I don’t want you to be nervous, but you now have two strikes.  One more strike and you know what that means.”  He looked at her, his brow furled with great concern.

“I’m going to hell?” Morgan asked.

“With a brand new copy of our home game!  But don’t worry, I’m confident you’ll get it right this time.  Now Morgan, think really hard.  What was your most grievous sin?”

Morgan bit her lip.  “Would it be my severe depression and anxiety that led me to taking too many pills this morning in hopes of falling asleep?”

“It might be,” Ray said.  “Show me suicide!”  The bell dinged, with the number 100 appearing before her guess.

“You’re going good Morgan.  This is the third and final round.  If you get this right, I am authorized to grant you passage into Heaven.  Are you ready?”

“Sure.”

“One-hundred sinful people just like you were asked this final question.  Who do you ask for salvation from and accept as your personal savior?”

Morgan laughed and hit the buzzer.  “You.”

“Why, thank you.  Let’s see if anybody else did.  Show me Ray Combs!”  The bell dinged.  Ray’s name appeared in the air, with the number 2 beside it.

“And those two people have a copy of our home game!  But you have another chance.  Do you have an answer?”

“I think I do Ray!”

Morgan knew the answer all along.  It was the hardest thing she ever had to do.  And Ray Combs helped her do it.

“My answer is Jes…”  Before she could finish, Morgan felt a tingling sensation.

“Damn it, not another one!” shouted Ray.  He watched as Morgan phased out of and back into the area.

“What’s happening?” Morgan’s look of peace had changed to fear.

“The doctors are bringing you back to life.  Now listen very carefully.”  Ray placed his fingers on Morgan’s temples and looked directly into your eyes.  “You will forget everything that’s happened here.  When you wake up, all you will remember is that you moved up through a tunnel that was filled with a radiant white light.”

And with that, Morgan disappeared.

Ray Combs sighed.  “Morgan,” he said to no one, adjusting his tie.  “I hope I never see you again.”

Spooky: Whoa. This is a riot, but also pops with drama, as Combs himself was a suicide victim (nice job assuming I’d know this already, Survivor; I do indeed have a twisted obsession with death). It’s a hard thing to use comedy to bring out this much of an emotional response, but here we are. Excellent stuff. 5

DK: This was funny and touching all together. Another great concept, and I really got a kick out of this case. I was hoping it was going to get even more towards dark humor for a little bit, but I don’t really have a problem with the way it ended up going. 3

I thought of this concept with four hours left until the deadline, and I wasn’t sure even where to go with it.  But I felt Ray Combs was an amazing game show host so it was easy to write for him.  I was surprised that I was able to fit some poignancy into the script.  Adjusting his tie at the end was a nod to the way he ended his own life.

Also, being that I work with people on a daily basis who contemplate suicide, I wanted to make a point in the story that one of the most dangerous things someone can do to someone who is considering suicide or has attempted is to make them feel shameful for doing so.  People who are at that point need love, compassion, and support.  Not judgment.

But I have to be honest.  I can’t stop giggling at the sight of Ray Combs yelling, “Show me getting the sack with a black for some crack!”

Yet another week from the incredibly broad concept factory had us writing about a character’s unfortunate strength and how it puts them in an undesirable position.

Graham Michaels was a dead man.

Not in the figurative sense, though he had also been that since last Thursday.  At this moment he was genuinely dead.  And in sixty seconds he would realize this fact.

Graham’s net worth was 1.9 billion.  He did not live lavishly.  He did not care about status.  He made money because he was good at it.  Really good at it.  Being a hedge fund manager was sheer joy.

While he would publicly bemoan every new regulation placed upon his work by the government, Graham secretly relished each new change to the game.  While he had the talent and the stamina to make money within the system, finding ways to game it was his primary hobby.  And for nineteen years, he had never been caught.

Last Thursday he was caught.

No charges had yet been pressed, but a close friend tipped him off that the SEC had proof of insider trading.  Graham did not fear death.  Death was just the end of the game.  But he feared prison, where the game continued without him.

Five minutes ago he met his friend at a villa outside Riga.  Sipping on some wine, his friend extended his hand out, inviting Graham to have a seat.  He obliged, resting his attaché case on the wicker table. Perhaps it was a bit conspicuous, but Graham had to carry as much cash as possible with his bank accounts soon to be worthless.

“You know,” his friend greeted him.  “Lugging that thing around could get you killed.”

Graham raised his brow.  “By you, perhaps?”

His friend grinned, pulling out a pistol.  “Perhaps.”  Graham let go of the case.  “You see ol’ friend.  What I didn’t tell you was that the SEC found a little Ponzi scheme you ran in ninety-nine.  I lost half a mil that year.”

“I’ve made you back twice that,” said Graham, ignoring the weapon.

“So you did,” he replied, opening up the case.  “And now, it appears, twice that again.”

Not only did Graham not fear death, he did not fear living.  Sewn into the lining of his suit was enough money to keep him comfortable for a long time.  He took a sip of the Sauvignon and considered opening a winery.

“Guess I no longer need this,” his former friend said, putting away his gun.  “Hope your soul is prepared.”

Graham put down his glass.  “The wine?”   He laughed.  “Classic.”

Sixty seconds later, Graham opened his eyes.  A red mist clouded most of his view.  He did not know what to expect from the afterlife, but he was surprised to find all of his senses still in working order.   The smell of sulfur nearly knocked him back.

Never one to hesitate, Graham strode through the mist.  As it cleared, Graham was aghast to see dozens of grayish souls wandering, sulking.  He expected spirits, yes.  But the sight of people resigned to their fate was abhorrent.  He didn’t pity them.  He hated them.  And he had no time for them.

Ahead, he saw what looked like a river, black and uninviting.  As he approached, a ferry came into view.  Its operator stood erect, but otherwise appeared calloused, bereft of life.

Graham accosted the spirit.  “Do you take me across the river?  Is my soul to be judged?”

The spirit lifted his arm, pointing to a sign.  On it, a picture of a coin.

Graham felt around inside his suit.  Bingo.  “I have cash.  Will a hundred thousand do?  After all, I can’t take it with me, right?”  The spirit nodded, and beckoned him to the ferry.  The trip was long, especially since Graham’s companion was not conversational.  However, before eternity passed, they reached the other side.  The spirit extended his hand.

“Oh, right.  Your payment.”  Graham removed everything stitch of clothing that held money, leaving him in his briefs.  He handed his clothes to the spirit, who donned them and stepped off the boat.  He handed Graham his oar.

“What’s this for?”

The spirit finally spoke.  “I finally have enough to pay my dues.  I sincerely thank you.  Now I must be going.  I am through with this world.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” sputtered Graham.

“You are Charon,” the spirit replied.  “You pay your dues.”

Spooky: There’s actually a fable like this, where the oarsman is replaced, but that’s trickery rather than punishment. This reads like a cautionary tale, but isn’t ham-fisted enough to be annoying. I dug the mood…though I would have taken it even darker. 3

DK: I like the development of this character and the ending packs a little more punch for me because of that, I think. 3

Dang it.  It’s my fault, but I did not want this to come off like a cautionary tale.  First, I tried to make it obvious that Graham did not fear death, so being murdered was not the undesirable position of him being so good at making money.  After that I’m not sure what the cautionary tale would be.  Don’t accidentally die with tons of money lined into your suit?   Charon didn’t get replaced because Graham was a bad guy; he was replaced because he just happened to have the money Charon needed. Maybe that makes for a weak climax, though.

Since I was a kid I’ve always found Charon and the river Styx to be creepy.  Once I knew Graham was going to die, I wanted something bad to happen to him in the afterlife, but not for any moral reasons. So I ran with this concept.  For anyone who has played it, I was also obviously influenced by Tim Schafer’s Grim Fandango, where the protagonist has to pay his dues in the afterlife (though for different reasons).  Spooky’s right that I could have made this even darker.

In good news, the Vogons are back to their winning ways, and are sitting with five members with nine left overall.