The River Styx and The Frozen Pond

“There is simply no way I am dead. If this were true, how would we be having this conversation? Death implies the end of consciousness, does it not?”

“I think perhaps this is a talk best had with some of the many great philosophers that lie in the other realms. Unfortunately, you won’t meet many of those where we’re going. We’re headed to heaven, and sadly, most of the renowned writers that could probably help you with your existential queries live several stories below in the underworld.” “But we do have many of their books available in the celestial library.”

Edgar accepted for the moment that he was to take Ambulo at his word. For the moment, anyway. Arguing seemed fruitless. But at least the traffic started to lighten. And much like on Earth, once it started to dissipate, there didn’t seem to be any clear reason why it started in the first place. This led Edgar to wonder if rubber-neckers were a “thing” here. They seemed just perfect for purgatory…

As the traffic eased, the Chariot continued its journey onwards. But to Edgar’s surprise, what awaited him was not quite what he had expected. When humanity is told of the “pearly gates” of heaven, one typically envisions white, luminescent gates surrounded by clouds. A beacon for lost souls. The visions that stood before Edgar, however, were far more startling.

Before Edgar were gates, yes, but as he walked off of the Chariot and towards them for closer inspection, his worst fears were confirmed. The gates were “pearly”, alright. Entirely composed of what looked to be human teeth.

“Jesus!” he yelled.

“No, I’m afraid he’s off sick today after dealing with the lepers.”

Edgar let the anachronism pass, knowing fully well that, even if he were dead, it was certainly past the historical battles with leprosy. And besides, the fact that there were gates before him entirely made of human teeth meant his mental landscape was otherwise preoccupied.

“No, I mean—I, I-“ he stuttered for a moment. “Are those…human teeth?!”

“Why yes, sir. Where did you think your teeth went when you were a child? We preserve all of the human teeth and bones throughout history. Of course, we replicate them so the sentimental humans can keep their records and do their carbon dating. But what you see before you are very real specimens of human dentistry. Sometimes we keep the dentures, too, but we started to develop a surplus after you silly humans invented high fructose corn syrup. Teeth were rotting out quicker than we could keep up!”

Edgar’s eyes widened in disbelief. His delusions were starting to fade. Even he wasn’t quite sure that his subconscious was this creative. Or so deranged. He started to think he may really be dead…

Deciding not to follow up on Ambulo’s overshare, Edgar proceeded to his next line of questioning.

Terms and conditions in limbo. As a seasoned lawyer, Edgar was no stranger to terms and conditions. He decided to play along with the charade. He even considered preparing a dramatic opening statement to wow the audience. He may even get a chance to impress Dickens. It’s not every day you get to meet a 19th century author of dystopian English literature, after all. Best to make the most of every moment, even if it was a figment of his imagination.

“So we’re meant to discuss terms, then.” “How exactly am I meant to do that?” “I don’t see anything else out here but you and me at the moment.”

As if the ether heard his query, a lone creature popped into view, from what looked like thin air. Yet again, Edgar could not believe his eyes, or the failings of his imagination. A winged pig stood before him on his hind legs. “Christ, even in my dreams, I am the most cliché of uncreative sods….A flying pig… really?!” he thought.

The pig opened his mouth to speak. “Edgar, I presume?”

“Yes, sir –”

“Cerdo’s the name. Tell all the jokes you want. The Spanish had it correct the whole time, what can I say?” “Did you bring your change?”

Edgar stood perplexed. He didn’t recall any of the stories of the gates of heaven as having a toll. Travel on the River Styx? Sure, but one would think the gatekeepers in paradise would be a bit more generous. Especially considering the free upholstery they were consistently supplied by poor dental hygiene.

“It’s 4 cents, mate,” Cerdo uttered.

“I’ll play along with your charade here, but if memory serves, even the trip to hell should only cost 2.”

“Inflation. It’s 4 cents or no entry.”

Ambulo returned to the chariot and conjured a couple of cents from the front of the vehicle. “Consider it a gift, sir.” “It’s the least we can do after the incident.”

Edgar graciously accepted the offering, and made a mental note to question to what incident Ambulo was referring to, later.

Transaction successful, Amublo and Edgar walked through the gates. It was truly a feast for the eyes. There was a flurry of action and more people than one could count. Edgar tried to make out any familiar faces from the crowds before he realized where he was. He blinked a few times in disbelief. It couldn’t be….could it? Edgar squinted his eyes until the outlines of figures came into full view. The blurred figure emerged, along with old memories of one of his favourite places on Earth: the British Museum.

He chuckled a bit on the inside. Whether this was real or fictional at this point mattered little to him. At last, he, or the gods that be, had a sense of humour he could appreciate.

Sure enough, Edgar found himself stood at the interior of the British Museum. The hall was as expansive as he could remember, ceilings as high as the sky. Elaborately painted frescoes laid on the ceiling, and the tiles’ hypnotic patterns entranced his mind just like they did the first time he recalled laying his eyes upon them. The rotund, transparent donation box lay in the middle of the room and passers-by dipped their coins and paper into the box below.

He sat marvelling at the irony of it. As he had recalled, at his last visit, there was extra queuing at the museum, just outside the oversized wooden door. No queuing. This really was paradise. But ever-curious, he had to inquire. Logical consistency had gotten the better of him.

Before he could open his mouth to ask, Ambulo replied, anticipating his question. “The extra queuing is specially reserved for hell. It’s quite similar at first glance to what you see here, though permanently encased in a frozen pond as an homage to Dante’s ninth circle of hell.

Screw over your countrymen? Enjoy the cold, and have fun getting out. The ice is impenetrable. The notion that God can create a stone so heavy that even he cannot lift it also applies to the frozen pond of hell, too. He can indeed create a sheet of ice so thick you could spend eternity trying to break through with no success.” “That is, after all, the point.”

We have a few special exhibits in hell, too. Madame Tussaud’s wax figures are on permanent display, and we have a few exposés on memorable U.S. presidential enactments. One of my personal favourites is the exhibit on Ronald Reagan’s attempts to legislate ketchup as counting as a vegetable serving towards the recommended daily allotment of fruits and vegetables.”

If the afterlife was real, Edgar thought, it was certainly more interesting than he ever could have imagined. If the lobby served as any sort of benchmark, he knew its interior held even more mysteries.

He recalled one of his favorite exhibits he saw on his last trip to London. DaVinci’s notebooks were prominently on display, his etchings of man’s early airplanes and acqueducts sketched deftly on the page.

“Is DaVinci’s notebook still here?” he inquired.

Ambulo paused for a moment, considering his words carefully. Edgar could see the wheels turning, half expecting steam to emit from his ears at any moment.

“They were here, yes. But there was a bit of a disagreement with the underworld over their proper placement. Some felt his works had no better place than paradise itself, while others felt his work on aeronautics was fit only for hell, given it inspired a number of treacherous inventions. Sure, the airplane itself was mostly harmless… the only ostensible danger it presented was perhaps the assault on the eyes at first glance. It was far too wide and bland in colour to be in any way commendable. But the contraptions that came after it were ghastly!”

Edgar tried to do the mental calculations. He may not have always been a fan of the décor of the average airplane, but that didn’t really matter, did it? Who was going to see it other than a pack of pigeons or a fellow pilot? The passengers would certainly be more concerned with arriving at their destination safely, than which of the seventy-four shades of taupe the designer chose to fit the plane with.

He sat wondering just what could have merited DaVinci’s works being placed in the depths of hell. Yes, while the modern drone was an incredible feat of modern technology, it was by the same token, obnoxious. Nothing could ruin day at the beach quicker than the monotonous drone of the, well, drone. Its buzzing would get stuck in your head for days, and taunt the thought of sleep at the wee hour of the morning. But while this was annoying, he certainly didn’t feel it warranted departure to the underworld.

“I despise the incessant humming of the drone like any other respectable man, but does the sin really justify the punishment?” he questioned.

“I implore you, Edgar, to think a bit harder about your question. It’s not just the airplane itself, or the drone it inspired, which was repurposed by the lay tech enthusiast on a day at the beach. It is more than that.” “Do you know how many people have died at the hands of drone warfare?” “Can you truly appreciate the dehumanization that its invention really brought to humanity?”

It seemed obvious in hindsight, but wasn’t something he had ever devoted much neuronal time to.

“500,652,894 is the number you’re searching for, by the way. A number which surpasses the number of people lost to World War I, II, and III combined.” “What makes matters worse, is, with the additional invention of the camera and advanced facial recognition systems, drones have made it such that you don’t even need to look the person you wish to kill in the eye. You no longer see them as human. Warfare becomes nothing more than a video game, where your target is simply a button you press on the joystick.” “This is why George Eastman and Woodrow Bledsoe are also in hell. I’m sure they never thought when they invented the camera or facial recognition, it would be repurposed as such. But there you have it.”

Edgar considered this for a moment. He supposed during his time on Earth, he had simply become desensitized to these realities. Never one to aim a target himself, it never seemed important to consider the ramifications of these technologies.

“Isn’t this a bit consequentialist?” he inquired.

“Spoken like a true lawyer,” Ambulo retorted. “Remind me to introduce you to Machiavelli later… Something tells me you both will get along.