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Heaven is super awesome and perfect beyond anything you, reading this, can imagine except one thing which is that all the shirts are about three sizes too small and not in a sexy way. Everyone flies–not with wings or anything silly, but as racing beams of thoughtlight–but they do it with their arms kind of stuck out to their sides, pits chafing.

“This is Heaven, right?” says Eugene, his electrum trumpet voice only the littlest bit nervous. “We’re all sure about that?”

The infinite expression of all possible love beams down on him, and does not pick a wedgie.


The Rapture makes serving divorce papers difficult. “Consider yourself–” is all Shyler gets through before they disappear–pop!–leaving just their shoes behind. Does everyone in Heaven, she wonders, float around in sockfeet?

After a few weeks Shyler starts thinking that the number of deadbeats getting assumed into paradise is really high. Might she be God’s unwitting messenger? She prays lots of cuss words about that, on hold for hours with the Vatican. A raspy prelate tells her she needs witnesses.

So next time she takes Eugene along but the Rapture gets him too, which sucks (he had the car keys).