Hours ago Pat Robertson felt incredibly light & full of an energy he’d lacked for years. A voice said, “Come this way.” He saw his 93-year-old body, supine, in bed. “I’ve passed,” he said to himself & began to walk into a bank clouds that soon enveloped him. He wasn’t surprised 1/6

when the path turned upward. The surface, under his bare feet, became more smooth He glanced down. “The streets of heaven are paved with gold.” He saw he was naked, but strode more righteously. The clouds dissipated. Gates inlaid w/pearl opened. A lectern seemed to hold 2/6

a large, thick ledger that lay open. Beyond he saw a garden in which people labored. He squinted and recognized Jerry Falwell and Ernest Angley and Billy Graham. He turned and a woman now stood behind the lectern. “Where’s St Peter?” Robertson asked. The woman ignored him, 3/6

but recited from the ledger his full legal name, date of birth and his last home address, & asked if these were correct. “Of course,” he said impatiently. “Good,” she said. “Welcome to Hell, where you have chosen to spend eternity.” She smiled. “This is the place you imagined 4/6

when you made your pitch to get people to write checks. And because you have judged yourself, you are here. This situation is not novel. Seriously? Who wants to screw up their knees walking on gold for eternity?” He heard the gates shut. “And so you know, I run both places. 5/6

You’ve referred to me as ‘the Almighty.’” “But a woman!?” he almost spat. “Yes, you little cutie!” she said sarcastically, and he found himself working in the garden next to Falwell who said, “Welcome to Hell. The only fun is the pineapple stuffing at 4:20.” 6/6