Afterlife: Oblivion #Wattys2024

14. Elevator Pitch from Hell: Confronting Your Demons at 120 mph

POV Jane Doe.

As Raphael hauls my ass through the grand archway like a bouncer tossing out a drunk, I spot a familiar rainbow-hued disaster heading our way. Fuck me sideways, it's Ollie, looking like he's just been vomited out by a unicorn after a three-day acid bender.

His suit is an eyesore that'd make a peacock blush - neon pink and green jacket clashing spectacularly with pants that seem to be having an electric blue and purple paisley seizure. His hair defies gravity, a glittering silver mohawk that screams "I stuck my finger in a socket and liked it!" And don't even get me started on the makeup. It looks like he's gone ten rounds with a possessed Lisa Frank sticker book and lost.

"Jane, sweetums!" Ollie squeals, shoving Raphael aside like yesterday's trash and crushing me in a hug that threatens to rearrange my newly-resurrected organs. "Ditching the party so soon? I wanted to show you off to all my friends!"

I gasp for air, trying to pry myself out of his Fabulous Death Grip. "Sorry, Ollie," I manage, shooting a glare at Raphael over his shoulder. "But apparently, I don't know how to behave myself in 'polite company.'"

Raphael's eye-roll could power a small city. He looks about as thrilled as a cat in a bathtub. "She needs to start her training immediately," he growls, sounding like he'd rather gargle razor blades. "We don't have time for your circus act, Olivier."

Ollie releases me, his pout reaching Olympic levels. "Oh, don't be such a wet blanket, Raphy-poo," he whines, flapping a bejeweled hand. "All work and no play makes Janey a dull corpse, you know. Besides, I was thinking she could join me for lunch tomorrow. It would be the perfect opportunity for her to impress some donors from the Elysian court!"

Well, fuck me running. My ears perk up faster than a dog hearing a slice of cheese hit the floor. Lunch with the Rainbow Tornado? Sign me the fuck up. Sure, my common sense is screaming bloody murder, but when have I ever listened to that naggy bitch?

I mean, yeah, Ollie is nuttier than squirrel shit, but in a weirdly endearing way. And any excuse to ditch Mr. Stick-Up-His-Ass for a few hours is A-OK in my book. Rubbing elbows with the celestial upper crust sounds way more entertaining than whatever torture Raphael has lined up for me.

One look at Feathers' face tells me everything. He looks like he's just chugged a gallon of sour milk, all pinched and puckered up like a cat's asshole.

Dude needs to chill.

But, I can't resist poking the bear. "Aww, what's wrong, Raphy? Scared I'll corrupt your fancy friends?"

I can see Raphael's jaw clenching so hard you could use it to crack nuts, and I have to admit, it gives me a twisted little buzz. "Or maybe you're just jealous you didn't score an invite to Ollie's cool corpse club?"

Raphael and I lock eyes like a pair of wildcats ready to tear into each other over the last scrap of meat. His glare is arctic, but I've faced far worse in the twisted depths of my mind. Take that time I superglued my shoes to the floor mid-panic attack. Now that was a proper shite storm.

Ollie, bless his rainbow-puking heart, breaks the ice with a theatrical groan. "Oh, for the love of all that's unholy, would you two just hate-fuck already? The sexual tension is thicker than my hair gel!"

I feel my face go hot enough to fry an egg, while Raphael looks like he's swallowed a wasp. Before he can bitchslap Ollie into next Tuesday, the fabulous freak backpedals: "Oopsie! Guess all that necrophilia fanfic's rotted what's left of my brain!"

I snort so hard I almost choke on my own spit. Gotta admit, Ollie and I are on the same wavelength of fucked-up. Reminds me of... well, let's just say there are some skeletons in my closet that are staying buried, capisce?