Strung out in heaven’s high

I was gnawing on a skewer of chicken satay, and then I wasn’t. I found myself face down on laminate flooring. I fumbled around, and my satay was gone! I was still hungry. This would not do. I picked myself up and sat on an uncomfortable yet unobtrusive bench. What a strange room. Why is Karen Carpenter sitting across the room reading an Allure magazine from 1998? Did she take my satay? This cannot be. Where are my keys? Where is my phone? I thought this kind of predicament only happened to Lady Gaga.

I poked my head out in the hallway, and I spotted a desk staffed by unflappable women in tidy smocks. I inquired, and they pointed out that, derp, I had been raptured. Oh. That explains my robe and fuzzy socks with rubber grips on the bottom. They said my personal effects were being stored for safe keeping in a little locker. The first day would be free, but there would be a nominal charge after that. My first thought, after my family, yadda, was “Where is Lambchop?” And I thought this would be jazzier somehow.

I was still hungry, so I followed some brutally direct signs. I finally found Lambchop in line at the cafeteria! We have a natural affinity for steam table food, and her last supper was similarly interrupted. We were surprised at how desolate the place seemed, and eventually it came to light from chatting up a man with a ladle that we were the only two citizens of Earth to make the cut on May 21st.

WHAT? That’s not at all what we were expecting. Why would He take us, deprive us of our family and friends, and leave Morrissey? Why was the only thing on the menu Swedish meatballs with lingonberry jam? How can a coffee table cost only $14.99? We held each other, weeping. We put back our own trays like the brutal signs instructed. Why the fuck was everything printed in Verdana? I expected at least Helvetica from heaven.

The man with the ladle shrugged and said they were projecting more guests as well, but that’s just how the PEPPARKAKOR crumbles. Three consulting firms had their sticky paws on the algorithm that controls all the technical stuff pertaining to rapturing. The whole project was just a nightmare.

The man normally works upstairs, but he had kindly offered to staff the serving line in case of a rush. Something seemed familiar about his honeyed tones and suave British accent. He was quite striking, really, with one blue eye and one green eye. He smiled a rather rakish smile and told us to go enjoy the rest of our night. Enjoy? In heaven? Who was this guy kidding?

To be continued….

 

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