BOOTS

When I woke up from what is commonly referred to as "Fishing Out" from overdosing on an unwanted mixture of GHB and cheap vodka I found myself in a tiny concrete room with slate grey walls that lacked doors and windows. Above me a tiny, yellowish light flickered in and out of existence. I was seated in a metal chair in front of a grey table. It was freezing cold in that little room; cold enough for ice to be growing on the walls. Even though I was wearing a thick, tan trench over my black cocktail dress and a thick pair of nylons underneath I felt like I was sitting in the middle of Grant Park in December.
In walked the dorkiest, most awkward man I'd ever seen. He wore ill fitting khakis and a wrinkled, over sized plain button down white shirt that was wrinkled and stained at the armpits. His posture told me that he was an insecure man; his straw-orange hair and pale, freckled skin told me that he was Irish.
"So, Miss Allen," he said to me in a meaty, Irish drawl, "I'll take a seat and we'll get started." I wasn't sure where he was going to sit since there was only one chair in the room. I assumed he wanted mine. I stood up shivering, hugging myself, more concerned with the snag I had just detected in my nylons then the fact that I was dead.
"You can have it," I said, pissed off. "It's uncomfortable as hell anyway."
"I seriously doubt that Miss Allen. Kind of you, but that won't be necessary." He went to sit across from me and POOF! A chair appeared right under him. It was a leather, brown club chair. I desperately wanted to trade.
"I'm Patrick," he said as he folded his legs in an overtly homosexual manner. "And I'm here to review you're file." I heard a deep rumble above us. The ceiling opened up and a thick Manila folder fell from the opening onto his lap causing an awkward, high pitched moan to pry itself from his thin, crusty lips. His face turned a bit red.
"So, Miss Allen." he said again. Death by overdose. You look much too conservative for GHB; I'd take you for more of a coke whore really. Thoughts?"
I was fucking shocked.
"You did NOT just call me a coke whore."
"No Miss Allen, I said that you look like one. Over the knee boots, ripped nylons, dress that's too short for a respectable woman... yup, coke whore."
"Listen to me you pasty fuck. Everyone wears over the knee boots. I can where thick knee socks under them and... why the hell am I even justifying my shoes to you for Christ sake? And why is so cold in here?"
"Because, Miss Allen," he said, leaning into me, looking deep into my eyes. "You're in hell and I'm allowed to say to you whatever I want. And because Hell is freezing over."
This jolted my attention from anger to curiosity.
"I'm in Hell? Why didn't I get into Heaven? I mean I figured out that I died and everything but I assumed this place was sort of an ... oh I don't know... in between?"
"Oh, it is. It's in between your personal death and your personal hell. See?" He said pointing behind me. On the wall where nothing hung before was a sign that said, "Next stop HELL".
I wanted to cry. I suddenly thought of all the things I'd never get to do. I'd never find the love of my life, never get married or have kids. Not that I was dating anyone while I was alive; I hadn't had sex in so long that my hymen had probably grown back. But still. Who knew? After all, the only reason I even went to that stupid party was because I was a little lonely. I wanted to meet someone.
My world felt heavy.
"Loneliness just leads to... death," I muttered to myself.
"Oh, boo hoo." he said, his Irish Catholic voice ringing in my ears. "Little miss hooker boots is getting all sentimental on me. Suck it up. It's not like you died of famine or disease. You died at a party."
"The worst party ever. You know the last people I had to make small talk with before I died? I mean small talk is bad enough. In ANY social situation. But these people..."
"Yes actually," he said licking a finger and flipping through my file." The last people you encountered before your spoiled little death were a drug dealer named Sam Higgens, a hustler named Billy McGee and a home appliance inventor named Diamond Sullivan."
"I'm sorry," I said, laughing, filled with disbelief. "Home appliance inventor?"
"Yes Ms. Allen. Diamond apparently invented a home appliance which is used to, and I quote, 'Fasten rhinestones, studs and patches to material, clothes and accessories.' That's according to Wikipedia."
"You mean to tell me that old bitch invented the bedazzler?"
"Yes I do. And according to our updated system she'll be going straight to Heaven for that one. Major contributions to culture which pushes society forward automatically warrants you a visit to Heaven. Not to mention the millions in donation she's made to various charities and causes in the past four years..."
"Does it also mention that SHE is in fact the coke whore in her file? Whatever. Fuck that little piece of paper."
"Actually Miss Allen this is not regular piece of paper. It looks like paper, feels like paper, even smells like paper in my hands," He paused, closed his eyes. Patrick raised the paper to his nose and took an obtrusive breath. He was sniffing the paper the way a creepy old man attempts to smell your hair without you noticing. But I noticed.
"But," he continues, "It's actually a touch screen computer system no different then your average iphone. Just quicker. It's linked to the Halo Network. Heaven sells us their technology for... well not so cheap. Let's just say they make a hefty profit."
"Did you just say that heaven sells stuff? For Profit?"
"Oh, yes Miss Allen," he said, smiling uncomfortably wide. "That's exactly why little tarts like Diamond get into Heaven and little tarts like you don't. She's useful."
"I'm useful!"
"Well, let's let the file determine that, shall we?"