Richard stands before the desk of St. Peter at the Pearly Gates.
St. Peter clears his throat. “That’ll be $8.50.”
“E-eh?” Richard stammers.
St. Peter explains, “50¢ each time you should’ve died but didn’t.”
Richard calculates, counting on both hands, tongue wagging sagaciously.
“I’m only counting sixteen.”
“That cocaine fueled weekend. Salt Lake City. Those underage Mormon hookers, that bloodthirsty midget and those poor poor turkeys.”
Richard nods with revelatory paleomnesia, smiling fondly.
“I’d forgotten. But I’m naked. Got no cash!”
With a gleam in his eye, St. Peter flips a lever.
Richard shrieks, plunging to the depths below.