Heaven's Bureaucracy of Blame

Honestly, you’d think when you’ve accidentally turned the planet into a rather dismal ash-heap and become immortal to boot, the least the universe could do is grant you a direct line to the top. Apparently, not. Nope, my cosmic screw-up, it turned out, came with its own set of very, very annoying administrative hurdles. And wouldn't you know it, those hurdles were located squarely in the pearly gates. Or, well, the celestial equivalent thereof.

"Next!" a voice chirped, utterly devoid of the gravitas one might expect from a being in charge of, you know, the afterlife. I shuffled forward, clutching my worn leather satchel, which, incidentally, now contained a half-eaten sandwich and a very worried-looking pocket watch. The ‘desk’ was less of a desk and more of a shimmering cloud. Behind it sat a creature that looked like it had been assembled from spare parts of a harp convention and a particularly stern librarian. It wore spectacles perched precariously on its nose, which, I swear, were made of solidified moonlight.