You Are Dead. [Sign Here Please]

by Andrew Stanek

  “Really.”

  This is not really how positron emission tomography works. In real PET, the radiotracer is administered further in advance and, generally speaking, by a man who knows what he’s doing.

  Nathan sat and waited while Dr. Vegatillius manned a nearby computer console and tapped furiously at his keyboard. He started humming again, for the same important reasons as last time. After a few minutes, the computer made a loud dinging noise, which Nathan took to mean that the scan was done.

  “Incredible,” Dr. Vegatillius exclaimed.

  “What is?” Brian asked.

  “This is a very healthy, normal PET scan. Very healthy indeed.” He pressed a button. “But enough about that. I’d better take a look at yours instead, Nathan...”

  He peered at it. Like all doctors, he now had good news and bad news.

  “Well, the good news is that I can definitely declare that your brain damage is not sufficient cause to declare you insane. Here, let me write you a note to that effect.” He very quickly scrawled out a note certifying that Nathan was not insane due to brain damage.

  “What’s the bad news?” Nathan asked as he took the note.

  Dr. Vegatillius did not immediately answer.

  Thanks to his access to the PET scan, Dr. Vegatillius saw part of the very disastrous thing that was about to happen shortly before it happened. It turned out that the highly radioactive fludeoxyglucose tracer that had been used as contrast dye in the PET scan had accidentally been mixed with Baker’s Choice brand corn starch due to manufacturing error, and subsequently thickened. As a result of this thickening, Nathan was about to have a stroke and Dr. Vegatillius was about to regret that, unlike the bureaucrats of the next world, he had not had the foresight or wisdom to try to get Nathan to sign a liability waiver. Then again, the people of the city really didn’t put up with that sort of thing, and the motto of Dead Donkey’s medical researchers had long been, “shoot ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out.”

  Nathan’s head lolled to one side as his stroke began.

  “What is he doing?” Brian asked sharply.

  Dr. Vegatillius consulted the PET scan.

  “Dying,” he reported shortly.

  It was at this point that a confluence of other factors that Nathan was previously aware of but did not regard as important - namely that they were adjacent to the ground floor animal testing laboratories and below the second floor graduate residences - and factors that Nathan was not aware of - namely that the ground floor animal cages were made by the same people who’d “made” the animal cages for Dead Donkey’s zoo, and that the ceiling had not been built to code - resulted in Nathan’s demise.

  Nathan was rapidly losing consciousness principally due to the fact that he was having a stroke, although he was also feeling quite tired after all this walking around and such. The last thing he heard before he fell into darkness was Brian’s voice as he suddenly looked up towards the nearby open window.

  “Is that a badger?”

  A badger had just come through the window and, as it happened, was rather angry and slightly embarrassed about the hairstyling experiment that several sociologists had been conducting on it and decided to take out its frustrations on the nearest person to itself. The badger started to maul Nathan’s face.

  At exactly the same time, one of the faulty bathtubs that had been made by Nathan’s second grandfather came crashing through the ceiling above him. Its fault was that it did not drain properly, but instead leaked onto the floor above them, weakening the ceiling - which as mentioned had not been built to code - until the ceiling gave way. It then managed to completely miss both Brian and Dr. Vegatillius but hit Nathan squarely, crushing him and the badger.

  And so Nathan died.

  Chapter 14

  Though the bureaucrats of the afterlife run reality - making sure all the right atoms smash into all the other right atoms and so on - they have very little actual leeway. Generally speaking, they HAVE to make such and such an atom smash into such and such another atom at just such an angle to be in compliance with the universal laws that they exist to uphold, and cannot actually influence events even though they have the power to make them happen. Therefore, there is very little point in blaming them when something bad happens, like when you catch the flu or when your house falls on your dog. These things are simply the effects of the logical causes that created them: shaking hands with a hobo and hoisting your house above your dog, respectively.

  However, the bureaucrats do actually have tremendous discretionary power in one and only one aspect of life: sports. The universal laws say nothing about sports, which generally but not always consist of the transfer of balls from one location to another. There is no particular mandate for how these events need to play out, and so the bureaucrats have vast power in the filing of the form 288026: Instrument Determining the Result of a Sporting Match. This means that during a sport, absolutely anything can happen. The ball may explode. The referees may discover a new and previously unmentioned rule that allows players to use jetpacks. One player can fall in love with, and marry, another. Coaches may be allowed to switch teams without notice. Cricket - an activity that literally no human would ever think to engage in if it were anything but a sport - draws the attention of millions worldwide. Etc. etc. etc. While this is one of the reasons that sports are so exciting, and so many of the classic sporting moments in history have been so truly bizarre and unexpected, it also means that literally every sporting match that has ever been played has been rigged (or, counting the influence of the gamblers, rigged twice).

  Unfortunately, this also means that all of the pre-game: the assemblage of players and practice and the determination of the team, amounts of steroids taken, etc., is more or less irrelevant unless it impresses the bureaucrats. A team of girl scouts stands on equal footing with an NBA all-star team if it pleases and amuses the bureaucrats. Fortunately, the bureaucrats are often impressed by hard work and displays of physical athleticism and sometimes decide the game on merits. More often they just pick whoever amuses them, or whoever has filed their tax returns properly that year.

  The other exciting implication of this revelation is that virtually anything can be changed by rendering it a sport. If the economy were declared a sport, anything would be possible: the Americans and the Chinese would be favored for the win this year, but they might be upset by the Tuvaluans at the last moment in a startling come-from-behind victory that future generations of economics fans would enjoy.

  Nathan had always hated sports, which is why his life was so drearily predictable, though the significance of this was lost on him as he made his way to the afterlife once again.

  Chapter 15

  “Station negative two please,” the loudspeaker voice rang out. Nathan materialized in front of a desk with a severe-looking gray-haired middle-aged woman in a mauve blouse behind it. A sign identified it as the Desk for People Who Died of Badger Attack While Simultaneously Having A Stroke And A Bathtub Fall On Their Heads.

  Jeanne (the woman in the mauve blouse) barely looked up as she thrust a form at him.

  “Name, type of badger, type of stroke, type of bathtub,” she said, ticking off the boxes he needed to fill out with her pen.

  Sadly, Nathan was not paying much attention to her. He was still being mauled by the badger. His response therefore went something like, “Auuughhh, why are its claws so sharp?”

  Despite the hideous pain, it did briefly cross Nathan’s mind to wonder exactly why the badger had come with him to the bureaucratic death offices when the bathtub had not and, similarly, he was no longer having a stroke.

  The Vatican has long answered the sorrowful questions of young children grieving at the loss of a pet cat or dog by cruelly insisting that only ensouled creatures go to heaven, that these animals do not have souls, and that they are therefore banished to the void when they die. While they are absolutely correct (provided that the necessary Form 12234 - Banishment Of Beloved Pet To Void is filled
out in triplicate), it turns out that humans are not the only ensouled creature. Badgers also have souls. Dogs, cats, gerbils, budgies, etc., do not. It is only humans and badgers. Badgers are therefore entitled to consultation with and technical assistance from the afterworld bureaucrats, in much the same way as humans are. This mandate has caused some difficulty for the bureaucrats, because while they might have souls, badgers are not particularly fond of tedious paperwork, and getting them to sign forms is almost as difficult as getting Nathan to sign. Fortunately, their signatures can usually be bartered for a stoat, which keeps the wheels of cosmic bureaucracy turning at their usual efficient pace.

  This was also the reason that even though Nathan had died, the badger was still mauling him. As strokes and bathtubs only very rarely have souls, they obviously did not come with him.

  “And then I need your signature on the bottom,” Jeanne explained as Nathan rolled around in agony.

  “Auughhh!” he replied. “Why does it have claws on its feet too?”

  “You’re lucky,” the man from one desk down (the Ebola desk), said as he watched Nathan roll around. “I haven’t gotten a single one all week.”

  Jeanne appeared unimpressed with Nathan’s tortured screaming.

  “Very well,” she said. Her tone was businesslike but tinged with repressed loathing, much like the frumpy woman at station four’s had been. “I can see you will need some assistance filling out this form.” She peered over at the badger which was at present still biting hard into his neck. “Type of badger - North American taxidea taxus. Type of person - approximately thirty year old caucasian male. And if I recall correctly your name is Nathan Haynes. Do I have that right?”

  “Yes,” Nathan gasped.

  “Good. What was the type of bathtub?”

  “Porcelain enamel and cast iron wall fixture,” he managed to yell between screams. With great effort, he wrenched the badger off his chest, though it continued to strike at his arms like - well, an angry badger. Due to the fact that he was dead, the badger attack had left no wounds on his person, and because of his brain damage, he almost immediately forgot about it.

  “And type of stroke?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. My doctor just said it was a stroke.”

  “Unspecified,” she muttered. “Oh dear, well, I’ll have to ask a few more questions.”

  Because Nathan had forgotten how painful it was to be attacked by the badger, he let down his guard and the badger slipped out of his hands. It landed on his chest and started to maul him again.

  “May I ask your marital status?” she said.

  “I’m single,” Nathan said.

  Jeanne adjusted her glasses in agitation.

  “I was speaking to the badger.”

  The badger growled.

  “Unmarried. I see. Do you have any children?”

  It growled again.

  “Two adopted.”

  It growled a third time.

  The bureaucrat adjusted her glasses.

  “I do not,” she said crossly, “need to hear your life story.”

  She checked off several more boxes and then handed the form to the badger. Things went on in this vein for about half an hour, with her asking the badger various questions about its dependents, family, immigration status, insurance, and so on until she had finally finished.

  “You are dead,” she told it. “Sign here please.”

  It scratched through the signature box with one of its foot claws and disappeared. Nathan was very grateful for this, because when the badger vanished it stopped mauling him. He stood up and dusted himself off a bit.

  “Where did it go?”

  “To badger receiving,” replied Jeanne.

  “Er... how is that different from here?”

  The clerk adjusted her glasses.

  “Obviously it is staffed by badgers. It only came to human receiving because you both died together.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Now back to your form. You are dead. Sign here please.”

  She pushed a form towards Nathan. It said “Form 21AYC - Acknowledgment and Waiver Of Liability Subsequent To Dying of Concurrent Stroke, Falling Bathtub, and Badger Attack (for human)”

  There was a time when Nathan would have regarded this form as silly, but now that he had actually died of CSTFBABA he felt quite grateful that they had been thoughtful enough to set up a special desk and paperwork for it. Still, he wasn’t feeling grateful enough to actually sign the form liked he was supposed to.

  “I’m not signing anything,” he said stubbornly.

  “You have to sign it,” she insisted.

  “But I won’t. I’ve already been through all this before. That’s why I came to see you a few hours ago. Why don’t you just send me to Director Fulcher? Then I can get this all sorted out.”

  “Protocol must be followed,” Jeanne said menacingly. She thrust the form at him very insistently.

  “He’s telling the truth, Jeanne,” said the man from the desk on the right side. Nathan recalled that this was the desk for affairs pertaining to Mr. Travis Erwin Habsworth, of 2388 Shillington Road, Albany. Its attendant seemed to have taken his view of things.

  “Stay out of this, Warren,” she spat at him.

  “Director Fulcher said if this Nathan fellow showed up again he should be directed straight to his office. It was in this memorandum.”

  Warren rummaged around his desk, knocking aside documents labelled “Notice You Are About To Receive A Memorandum,” “Notice You Are About to Receive A Notice That You Are About to Receive A Memorandum,” and “Verification That You Have Received A Memorandum.” He eventually found a document that was simply labelled “Memorandum: Nathan Haynes of Dead Donkey, Nevada.” Warren slapped it with his knuckles.

  “It says that if Nathan Haynes of Dead Donkey, Nevada arrives at any receiving desk and refuses to sign his form, he should be sent to the director’s office immediately.”

  Jeanne sniffed airily.

  “I did not receive the Response To the Verification Of Receipt of Memorandum,” she said.

  “Oh for god sake’s, Jeanne,” Warren said testily. “There’s more to life than paperwork.”

  The room (which had several other bureaucrats’ desks in it) suddenly went deadly silent. Everyone glared at Warren as if he’d said something dirty.

  “You would say that, wouldn’t you, Warren?” she spat. “That’s why they put you at the Travis Erwin Habsworth desk.”

  “Who is-” Nathan started, but Jeanne turned her evil eye back on him.

  “Fine,” she said. “I will send you to Director Fulcher’s office. But if you are ever simultaneously crushed by a bathtub, mauled by a badger, and killed by a stroke again don’t come crying to me!”

  Nathan blinked and in the next moment he was standing outside of Director Fulcher’s office.

  Chapter 16

  Director Fulcher regarded Nathan severely from over the polished top of his frightfully clean desk.

  “I am beginning to think that you are suffering from a point of confusion, Mr. Haynes. You may be interested to know that the average life expectancy for someone living in your country is more than seventy years. You have died three times in one afternoon.”

  “It’s all been very interesting,” Nathan said brightly. “I got to meet a badger.”

  “Yes, well, unfortunately for you, our little game is nearly at its end.”

  “Are we playing Monopoly again?”

  Fulcher held his head in his hands.

  “There is no Monopoly involved,” he said. “No Monopoly.”

  “Operation then? Do you have one of those gameboards with the little buzzers?”

  The director took several very deep breaths.

  “The point is this. We have nearly filed the forms necessary to declare you insane in the mandated dodecduplicate, at which point I will have power of attorney over you and be able to sign your 21B on your behalf. Then this will all be over.”

&nb
sp; “Oh no, I don’t think so.” Nathan smiled genially. “I have this note from my doctor that says I’m not insane.”

  He reached into his pocket and found that although he had died the note was still there. He handed it to Fulcher.

  Fulcher read it with a deepening frown.

  “You were examined?”

  “Yes. He took a PET and an EEG and told me I was A-OKAY.”

  “Who is this man Dr. Vegatillius?”

  “He is my doctor.”

  “Is he a medical doctor?”

  “He’s an art historian.”

  “Blast.” Director Fulcher stared at it furiously. “But this isn’t adequate,” he announced at last. “It doesn’t say that you aren’t insane, just that your brain damage doesn’t render you insane. You might still be insane in one of the usual ways. That, Mr. Haynes, is what we in the business call a loophole.” He grinned evilly.

  Nathan was nodding.

  “Oh yes, I already know about that. But the last time I was here, you said you’d read my file and found out about my brain damage, and decided that was the reason I was insane. So I suppose you have prepared all of your paperwork assuming that is the cause of my alleged insanity.”

  The smile vanished from Fulcher’s face. He suddenly looked very grim.

  “Touche, Mr. Haynes. My hat is off to you.” A large top hat materialized on his head, which he briefly took off before it disappeared again. “However, the evidence speaks for itself. You must be insane. What other possible explanation can there be for your repeated deaths? Your reckless disregard for danger? Your stubborn intransigence? Your awful dress sense?”

  Nathan looked down at his clothes. He thought they looked fine.

  “You have bought yourself a few hours at the most,” the director continued.

  “Oh, but you can’t have me here for a few hours,” Nathan replied. He felt he was catching on to this whole bureaucracy thing. “I might sue you. I’ve already been attacked by a badger on your premises.”