The Happiest Whore in Heaven

Bruce awakens in a bed of mist, scrambling to his feet, realizing he is swaddled in a field of clouds. There is an unending line of people stretched out before him whose end he cannot find. Some are impatiently tapping their feet, others are nervously twisting their bangs, and a few people are napping as they hover in the air.

Confusion overtakes him as he kicks at the fog, parting it slightly, unveiling a sea of eternal blackness. He notices countless distant stars, assuming he is floating somewhere in the cosmos. He grabs at his chest, hoping to relieve some semblance of angst, though when his hands touch his skin, he becomes unnerved. Where his right pectoral once saluted now stands a perky, sizable, breast. It marks the limit of what he can mentally shoulder and he tackles the person in front of him, praying he can find some answers.

“Hey! What the fuck is going on? Where am I?” Bruce banes.

“Hi, I’m Todd, nice to meet you too,” the man sarcastically mutters. “I think we are in purgatory or something. I’ve been in this line forever and it never seems to fuckin move.”

“Purgatory? What do you mean Purgatory? There is no such thing,” he scoffs.

“There is when you’re dead,” Todd fires, retracting as his new friend unhinges.

“Dead? I can’t be dead! I’m barely 40. There is no way. I’m too young; too healthy,” Bruce whimpers. “I belong to a gay CrossFit group for Christ’s sake.”

“For one, anyone who belongs to a CrossFit group comes home with a stinky finger,” Todd flatly explains. “For two, if you are forty and a fag, you were dead 15 years ago.”

Bruce stumbles back, tearing at his hair, appearing untamed. He dramatically throws his arms to the side, releasing a scream so loud it causes everyone in line to turn and gawk. He falls into convulsions, shaking wildly until a strong hand muzzles his mouth.

“Earl, we got a screamer,” a deep voice booms, spinning his capture around.

Bruce’s eyes bulge out of his skull as he sees the most beautiful man standing before him. He is nearly eight feet tall with smooth skin stretched over mountains of hyperextended muscle. His hair appears to be spun from gold, falling in soft barrel curls onto his strong shoulders. His eyes fade the glow of the moon, whose piercing shine threatens to blind him. The most intriguing feature is his iridescent wings, falling from the crest of his sinewed back into organized rows of opalized feathers.

“Who are you?” Bruce shyly inquires.

“I’m one of the angels who keep everything in order around here,” the man replies. “The name’s Jack but everyone calls me Hammer. Nice to meet you.”

“Why do they call you Hammer?” He wonders. “Do you forge lightning bolts or something?”

“Nah, I just have a huge cock and like to nail hard,” the winged creature winks. “Speaking of which, you smell like you’ve played a few forbidden clarinets in your day. Come closer.”

Hammer pulls Bruce into his chest, sliding his fingers into his mouth as he abruptly opens it. He sets his nose close to his teeth, inhaling deeply, slightly licking the top of the man’s upper lip. He proceeds to eagerly sniff every inch of Bruce’s form, working under his armpits, down his back; eventually setting up shop between his two, perky, butt cheeks. He motorboats them ferociously, instigating a soft clap to ring into the air.

“Excuse me,” Bruce titters. “I said excuse meh…”

“You’re a filthy whore,” Hammer exclaims, standing at attention. “Earl, we got one!”

Bruce attempts to turn around to see who the angel is talking too, though he is quickly thrust onto his back as an explosion of feathers envelopes him. He feels something smooth work its way between his legs as his balls are meaningfully suckled. He cannot help to find comfort in the sensation, wondering who is tea-bagging him with such artistry.

In a few moments, he is flipped into the air, landing on his feet in front of another gorgeous angel. He is equally as tall and sculpted as Hammer, with glistening black skin staccatoed with thick pulsing veins. Perfect braids fall across his chiseled chest, tickling the tips of his perky nipples.

“Someone is getting a hall pass,” Earl excitedly spurts. “Hold on!”

The angels simultaneously take Bruce’s hands, drawing him high above the line of souls. They soar so fast, the people below become a blur as they move beyond the speed of light. Eventually they stop in their course, gently placing him at the very front of the line.

He notices a wizen woman standing behind a podium; donning oversized, cat eye glasses tucked beneath the sides of a gigantic beehive. She is smacking her lips aggressively as she chews on a piece of bubblegum, using her long acrylics to trace through lists of names in a thick book she rests on the top of her overflowing cleavage.

“Next!” the woman shouts.

Hammer nudges Bruce in the shoulder, forcing him to fall forward. He starts his trek towards the pulpit, becoming distracted as shouting fills his ears.

“What do you think you are doing young man? I’ve been waiting in this line for over three centuries,” a wobbly voice putts. “You don’t have a hair on your ass if you think you are cutting in front of me.”

“Norma! Can it! You never showed an honest emotion in 86 years of life; don’t abandon your German-Protestant roots now,” the lady behind the podium snips. “Let’s go, hoe, before the old fart cracks.”

“Aaa, hi, I’m Bru…” he attempts to say.

“Bruce “slopobottomus” Blowrod. Yes, I know who you are,” she zings. “I hear you’ve had more rosebuds than an English garden in Spring. You can go through.”

He looks past the pulpit and sees a set of golden gates shimmering in the dusky light. They slowly open, unveiling a dainty cobblestone path lined with shining bricks. He assumes this must be heaven, apprehensively making his way through.

“I just walk through and that’s it?” Bruce asks.

“Yeah, just walk through,” the woman shortly confirms.

“I didn’t think it was going to be so easy,” he admits. “Thank-you…God.”

“God? Wait. What? I’m not God I’m Saint Chris,” she replies.

“So, I’m not in heaven?” He clarifies.

“Fuck no, you were in a line,” she sizzles. “Head down the road and stop when you see two old bitches; can’t miss em’. Make sure you pass along I am about a century past my martini break and to send some other tit mouse to tag in.”

Bruce exhales deeply, trudging through the gates as he makes his way down the road. It would appear to go on forever, though right when he is about to quit, he sees the outline of some figures in the distance. As he approaches, he notices two absolutely gorgeous men sitting in large director’s chairs.

The man on the right is wrapped in a skimpy exomis, barely concealing the mounds of muscles comprising his form. A glowing ring of light hovers above his head, instigating a mischievous twinkle to form in his opal eyes. He wears strong gladiator sandals, belted around sinewy calves found on the bodies of swift runners.

The man on the left is equally as mystifying, whose blood red skin traces over every inch of his athletic body. His face is angular and severe, sporting onyx ram horns which twist on either side of his blocky head. He has piercing pink eyes and gleaming white fangs, adding a delicate touch to his otherwise intimidating appearance. He wears a black leather loincloth; whose many buckles “ting” against the tops of his iron boots.

As Bruce draws near, he notices the pair wildly laughing, batting at each other’s hands as they kick their feet in the air. He cannot help to wonder if this is God and The Devil, and he does not know why they are in the same room together, let alone, getting along. Eventually, he finds himself standing before them, clearing his throat in an attempt to make his presence known.

“Why look, another little soul,” the devilish figure hums. “You look so sweet, and yet, you reek of cock. What is your name?”’

“I’m Bruce,” he mutters. “Are you like, Lucifer?”

“So formal!” the creature jests. “Yes, in fact I am, though you can call me Lucy. This is God.”

“Welcome,” the man whispers.

“I’m a little confused,” Bruce stutters. “I thought you two were supposed to be sworn enemies?”

The pair exchange a glare before exploding into laughter. They hold each other steady, attempting to locate some self-control. Eventually they wipe away a few happy tears, settling down into a more composed state.

“Enemies? Heavens no,” God titters. “I could not get through an epoch without this dirty merkin by my side.”

“Awww! Sisters!” The Devil pips.

“I thought you were supposed to be diametrically opposed?” Bruce asks. “There isn’t one account on Earth saying you get along.”

“We are,” Lucy sings. “I want one thing and God wants another. It does not mean we have to be at odds. We simply compromise- it is nothing more than good business.”

“…And the bible? The Quran?” Bruce questions.

“Oh! Those…” God guffaws. “Well, I tried to inspire scribes to write down a few guiding anecdotes, though that shit the bed. It’s like giving a baker a recipe to make a sponge cake and they whip up an A-bomb. Never hire ghost writers.”

“No. Ghost. Writers,” The Devil punctuates with claps. “It worked in my favor though.”

Bruce lets his jaw gape open, illustrating he is utterly perturbed. He squints his eyes as he tries to wrap his head around the “bombshell” the two men have presented him with, feeling like everything he learned was completely wrong.

The two gods merely stare back, amused by his confounded state. They drum their fingers on the arms of their chairs, waiting to see who will be the first person to break the silence. To their boredom, the naive spirit never budges, instigating a number of groans.

“At least you made him pretty,” Lucy murmurs under his breath, turning to Bruce. “Art thou confused?”

“Yes!” he blurts. “I don’t understand how everything can be this far off!”

“More like misinterpreted,” God clarifies. “For example, your peeps say I assumed my mother’s body and soul into heaven as she neared the end of her earthly life. Except that wasn’t me. Mary got beamed up by a group of Greys from Sirius B and has had her body repaired more times than Cher. Since then, she has been tipping cows and mooning every celestial body to hell and back.”

“Somebody figured out how to turn back time,” Lucy giggles.

“Or, there are a few mortals who insist I will give them 72 virgins if they die fighting to defend my name. Not exactly true. See, if you die, and you are not a complete dick, you get 72 virgin cocktails when I let you into heaven; not 72 sexually willing houri.”

“That sounds more like a punishment than a reward,” Bruce admits.

“It’s not forever. We have to pad the heavenly bars. We have hard liquor though it’s a pain keeping a steady supply. After you down your obligatory 72 virgins, you have a free pass to drink as much of the “good stuff” as you like,” God says. “The NYS Liquor Authority is a real bitch; even up here.”

“Everyone with their hand out,” The Devil interjects.

“You serve liquor up here? I thought alcohol was a no-no?” He exclaims. “So, if booze is cleared in heaven what do you serve in Hell?”

“Why, eternal Shirley Temples,” Lucy maniacally seethes.

Bruce grabs his chest and throws his head back, exploding into blood curdling screams. Though God covers his ears, Lucy sadistically grins, drumming his fingers together in delight. He finds the man’s anguish intoxicating, and yet, he cannot help to notice the musical qualities in his shriek, humming a few notes to test Bruce’s pitch.

“Ohhh, I want him,” Lucy insists. “He would be a perfect addition to Hell’s welcoming choir. I need another bari-moan to anchor the falsettos.”

“Absolutely not, I usually give you everybody,” God harumphs.

“I call bullshit! Name the last person you coughed up without a fight,” he challenges.

“Epstein,” God quickly fires. “Not to mention, you get 95.5 percent of all organized religion and practically everyone who participates in politics. I am at a severe disadvantage; we are far from halfsies.”

“Come on! I’ll trade you,” he pokes.

“I cannot believe you are nickel and diming me right now. He has sat on so many cocks he sounds like a dime store kazoo every time he farts; try keeping your choir in tune with that trombone hanging around,” God squeaks, squinting his eyes. “Who would you give me?”

“Tammy Faye Baker,” Lucy yells.

God pets his chin and becomes lost in thought, gnawing on this tempting offer. He begins to nod his head as he mutters to himself, weighing the pros and cons of the trade.

Bruce looks anything save pleased, and he fidgets in place, becoming progressively worried his fate is about to be sealed. In a ditch effort to save himself, he leaps forward, throwing a wrench in the pair’s plans.

“Tammy? You don’t want all that mascara up here; imagine what she’ll do to your clouds!” He shouts.

“She does cry a lot,” God remembers. “No dice. The tart is right. If she comes up here there will be Maybelline and Aqua Net everywhere. It will look like I let Pollack go rogue.”

“Well Bruce, I hope you packed a stash of Vaseline to lube up your asshole because if I win this fight you are eternally fucked!” The Devil threatens, turning back to his counterpart. “How about a blowie?”

“With what genitalia?” God whines.

“You mean you guys sleep together too?” Bruce shrieks.

“Oh no dear, we are merely amorphous balls of light and shadow; we can’t,” God clarifies. “Our appearance changes from soul to soul. For you, we are beefy, top shelf, pieces of grade-A man meat. But we would look different if you were someone else. How you see us is simply a projection of your mind.”

Bruce looks down at his hands and studies his form, running his fingers along his arms and chest. He settles on his one, perky breast, jiggling it lightly in the palm of his hand. He squeezes it to confirm its density, awed by its realness, becoming more confused than before.

“So, I am guessing it works the same way for me?” He whispers. “My appearance is a reflection of my most intimate earthly desires? I never knew I wanted a tit.”

“No, no. You will always look as you are. The boob is a gift from Lucy and me,” God beams.

“It means you are energetically evolved,” The Devil supports. “You get one if you are “woke.” You have another blow hole too; where your taint used to be. We believe all ascended beings should have the right to experience double penetration.”

“Thank-you; I guess?” He awkwardly mutters.

“But with God and me, we shape shift depending on who is in front of us.” Lucy explains. “So, let’s say Mike Pence was standing where you are. I would clearly look like AOC and God would be…”

“Anita Bryant, hands down,” he quickly interrupts. “Early Anita though; like when she ran her orange juice campaigns. I want Pence to pop a chubby so I can watch him cry while he begs me for forgiveness.”

“Okay, Yahweh!” Lucy gasps in surprise. “SOS! Her name is Abba and she is going to get you!”

“I can’t wait for him to arrive,” God sneers. “He definitely DOES NOT get a ta-ta.”

“Definitely, no ta-ta,” The Devil parrots.

The two men break into rounds of cackling as they pinch at each other, eventually quieting in their course. Once composed, The Devil clicks his fingers, causing a large scoreboard to erupt above his head. It has Bruce’s name spelled out in carnival lights. To the left of his name stands a large red zero, and to the right, a zero lined in blue.

“Okay, my little cum guzzler, it is time to decide your fate,” Lucy snickers. “God won’t give you up easily so it looks like I am going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.”

“We are going to ask you a series of questions and we expect you to answer honestly,” God instructs.

“First off, in your time on Earth, did you ever wear a bolero hat, say “in gratitude”, or believe you could reduce your carbon footprint while living in one of the 5 burrows of New York City?” The Devil shotguns.

“No,” Bruce stutters. “At least, I don’t think so?”

“Have you ever owned a man romper, put “getting tacos” as the food choice for your perfect first date on a dating app, or closed an e-mail using “with love and light?”

“Eew, no,” he squirms. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“One more,” Lucy stressfully grunts. “Have you ever wanted to live in Williamsburg, tried to use essential oils to cure an actual medical problem, or said “gastropub” with a straight face?”

“NO!” Bruce hollers.

“Well dear, it looks like he isn’t a tool after all,” God gleams.

“FUCK!” The Devil bellows.

God claps his hands excitedly, pointing at the scoreboard, releasing a bolt of lightning into the blue zero. It spins around in all directions, morphing into 33.345. He sticks his tongue out at his partner in crime, feeling confident in his formidable start.

“Okay, now it’s my turn,” he gleefully proclaims. “How do you feel about Portland, Oregon?

“They’re trying too hard,” Bruce hits back.

“Good,” God says. “L.A.?”

“Trash,” he rockets.

“Absolutely,” God agrees. “Bushwick? Queens?”

“Gritty but fun,” he admits.

“We all love a little stank on it,” God supports. “Now, have you ever had weird sex with a kinky partner and failed to finish them off after you were taken care of?”

“I may have done that once or twice,” Bruce mutters under his breath.

“Oh! Oh! He is lying I can smell at least 7 dicks on his breath he didn’t finish off,” Lucy tattles. “You’re in the shithouse now slut puppy! If there is one thing God hates above all else, it’s a selfish lover.”

Bruce covers his face as he watches the scoreboard fly into a maniacal ballet of clinks and clonks. Unending numerals snap into place on each side of the panel as a number of bells ding into the air. His eyes practically pop out of his head as he realizes the scores are tied at 99.999.

“A tie?” Bruce exclaims. “What does that mean? Am I bound for purgatory or something?”

“There is no such place,” The Devil unveils. “You either burn or you boink.”

“It appears we are going to have to break out the most important question of all.” God huffs. “A question so great, its very essence has the power to redefine the fabric of the cosmos. So, with great reverence, I will ask you; how do you feel about Dolly Parton?”

Lucy gasps with shock as he grabs onto God’s hands. They lovingly lock eyes with each other, letting trace tears muddle their sight. They pull in close, staring at Bruce with pained anticipation, hoping he provides them with the right answer.

“She’s perfect,” he proudly proclaims, courageously puffing his chest out.

The two men jump to their feet, cheering wildly as they command a symphony of sirens to detonate around them. They charge after Bruce, hugging him tightly as they tweak his new boob. He cannot help giggling at their elation, feeling like he is destined for the clouds.

“Girl, it looks like you are staying with me,” God confirms. “Anyone who loves Dolly is okay in my book.”

“We are planning on enshrining her tits and making them a site of holy pilgrimage when she joins us,” Lucy uncovers. “We figure those balloons have a good 5000 years left on them before they need a tune up. Though, humans are going to exterminate themselves by then so talk about low maintenance!”

Before Bruce can respond, the two men grab each one of his hands, leading him towards a set of pearly white gates which open as they approach. Music begins to blare as a sea of gorgeous angels flit into their presence. They happily applaud as he passes through, welcoming him into the great beyond.

“Are you playing “Let’s All Chant?”” he questions.

“Yes pumpkin, we only spin “thumpa-thumpa” up here,” God asserts. “It turns the angel’s loincloths into teepees in a snap. I think it has something to do with the pounding beat. Now, off with you! Go get your Shirley Temple!”

God and The Devil watch as Bruce flosses his way into heaven, waving at all the beautiful creatures cat-calling him. Eventually Hammer rockets out from behind a cloud, enveloping him in his strong wings. They tumble through the air, playfully wrestling as if they were old friends.

“Awww, look at those two! It hasn’t been five minutes and Hammer’s dick is already in his mouth,” God coos, clasping his hands together like a proud mom.

“I can’t deny, he really shines up here. I don’t think I have ever seen a soul fit in so quickly,” Lucy surrenders. “Bruce, without question, is the happiest whore in heaven.”