Dead Short

Better Off Dead

'Name?'

Desmond sat staring down at his feet, barely aware the desk clerk had spoken. See through, he noticed with rising panic. His feet were see through!

'Your name, sir,' the clerk repeated, more forcefully.

'Oh. Er, Desmond,' Desmond replied, looking up and foolishly attempting to meet the clerk's gaze. He was now disturbingly aware that he could see right out through the back of the man's head. 'Desmond Arthur Dretcher.'

'Uh-huh.' The clerk tapped out a quick note on his keyboard. 'Now,' he said, returning his attention to Desmond, 'Mr Dretcher, how long have you been suffering from your affliction?'

Desmond's pallid features huddled together in a mass of confusion. 'I'm dead!' he said. 'It's hardly what I'd call an affliction.'

'We prefer not to call it "death" here,' the clerk explained. 'It's such an unfriendly word.'

'It's not exactly a friendly experience, either,' Desmond commented. 'Being hit by a two hundred tonne tube train...'

'If you have something to gripe about sir, I suggest you go see one of our many fine afterlife counselors. In the meantime, could you please just stick to answering the questions. Now, how long have you been "dead" - as you so crudely put it?'

'I really have no idea. Look, is all this really necessary?'

'Please show a little patience sir. I've got another eighty lost souls to get through by lunchtime and you're not helping here.'

'Well I'm sorry,' Desmond grumbled, 'but this is all a bit new to me.'

'Oh I see,' the clerk replied. 'This your first time, is it?'

'Of course it is.' Desmond rolled his ethereal eyes at the ceiling. 'How many times does one get to die, for God's sake!'

'Ah,' the clerk said brightly, 'that all depends on whether you previously opted for one of our comprehensive reincarnation schemes.'

'That's it,' Desmond said, rising to his feet. 'I've had just about as much of this as I can take. I thought that at least in death I'd get to escape the endless paperwork. I demand to speak with someone in charge!'

'I'm afraid God's a little busy right now, sir,' the clerk said, smirking.

'Oh.' Desmond sank pitifully back into his seat. 'Yes. Yes, of course. Sorry.' He cradled his head in his spectral hands. This afterlife business was going to take some getting used to.

The clerk leaned over the desk and treated Desmond to his best imitation of a sympathetic smile. 'Look, I tell you what I'll do - I'll leave all these awkward questions until last, shall I?'

'What does it matter?' Desmond said, his voice barely a whisper. 'What does anything matter anymore?'

'Cheer up, sir - it's not all bad, you know. There are many benefits to be had from being ectoplasmically-gifted.'

'Benefits?' Desmond said. 'What possible benefits can come from death?'

'For starters, come next Tuesday you'll have the opportunity to see Elvis in concert.'

Desmond's thick blonde eyebrows scaled his copious forehead, and took refuge in his hairline.  'What?'

'Just one of the many advantages of passing beyond the veil - you'll get to hear original musical numbers straight from the mouths of your favourite afterlife singers. I'm told that even without the aid of lungs Elvis is still very good.'