Afterlife: Oblivion #Wattys2024

10. Ghost of Fuckups Past: Guess Who's Haunting Me Now?

POV Jane Doe.

Jesus fucking Christ, not another one! If I have to sit through one more of these divine circle-jerks, I'm gonna lose my goddamn mind. You'd think with my ass on the cosmic chopping block, I'd be all ears. Nope. My give-a-shit meter is buried so far in the red, it's practically bleeding.

Then Fate, that glorious asshole, opens his mouth. Out comes a stream of verbal diarrhea that would make a used car salesman blush. "Hailing from the gilded kingdom of El'dorah," he purrs like a cat in heat, "I give you - the Aurifex Ascendant, the baron of bountiful benisons, the one, the only...Aurelius Gilt!"

I drag my eyes back to the stage just in time. Another celestial douchebag is rising from his fancy-ass throne. Holy shitsticks, this one looks like he's stepped right out of a horny housewife's wet dream.

Golden curls? Check. Eyes bluer than a clear sky over Fuck-Me Mountain? Double check.

If Abercrombie and Fitch ever started a "Gods and Demigods" line, this prick would be their poster boy.

He actually pauses for applause. I shit you not. Flashes a smile so bright it could've given the sun an inferiority complex. I roll my eyes so hard I think I sprain something.

Great. Just what we needed. Another ego the size of Jupiter crammed into a walking, talking Ken doll. Fuck my afterlife.

This Aurelius dipshit starts ranting about "mindsets of magnificent manifestation" and "alchemical formulae for opulent success." It's like listening to a motivational speaker who'd huffed too much gold spray paint. I check out somewhere around his third reference to what sounds like a "cornucopian jizzcascade."

Pretty sure that wasn't it, but hey, a girl can dream.

Just when I think I might slip into a boredom coma, Raphael's voice slices into my brain like an ice pick through butter.

"Aurelius is a true master of prosperity magic," he mind-mutters at me. "Under his guidance, even the most hopeless cases can achieve staggering abundance..."

Oh spare me the sermon, Feathers. Nobody asked for your two cents.

But Bishop Buzzkill just can't let it go. He keeps nattering on like a sanctimonious squeaky toy.

Let me translate that pompous drivel for you: Lord Midas over there has the Merry Minstrels of Cash so far up his glittery sphincter, he probably pisses liquid assets. Spend too long huffing his sparkly farts and you might find yourself turning into a money-grubbing goblin, frothing at the mouth for your next hit of cold, hard cash.

So color me fucking unimpressed by Aurelius Gilt, the guru of filthy lucre himself. Call me crazy, but I'd rather not stake my immortal soul on the financial advice of a guy who looks like he bathes in liquified Rolexes.

But hey, to each their own cosmic pyramid scheme, right?

And just when I think we've hit peak bullshit, Fate opens his mouth again. "Hailing from the serene vales of Serenica, I present to you the maven of mindfulness, the doyenne of dulcet tones - Resonant Sage Euphoria Bright!"

I try to focus on the new figure rising from the dais, but my brain feels stuffed with cotton balls soaked in NyQuil. The parade of cosmic horrors is blurring into one neverending freak show, each new act more surreal than the last.

This latest one looks like a Stepford wife by way of Goop - all flowy hair and serene smiles, radiating a tranquility that makes Valium look like meth. What was her name again? Euphoria something? Fuck, I can barely keep my own name straight at this point.