Wrote a story.
When I looked down and saw the stake through my chest, I knew my troubles were only just beginning.
Everything went red, and I prepared for the interview to come. I’d have to explain to some sanctimonious mid-level Cretin exactly how I’d ended up dead, and what I planned to do differently next time. For somebody in my position this was bound to be a humiliating experience. Death is so very inconvenient these days. Hell, unsurprisingly, is full of bureaucrats, and they do so enjoy stretching out the paperwork while you’re lying in some pit with your entrails wrapped around your throat.
That was why I was surprised to hear the harps.
If you fancy reading it and have a spare five minutes, it’s here.