Heaven. 3:33 p.m. Death was on his way to see the Big Guy, when he bumped into somebody in the waiting room.
“Oh, hey, buddy. How’s it going?” Satan greeted.
“Not too bad. Gonna be winning a title soon in sports entertainment. Yourself?”
“Ah, the usual. You know. Corrupting the innocent, whispering lies into every human’s ear. The usual fun stuff. Just had to stop in to talk to Mr. “I’m God.” I’ve been looking for Kurt Angel everywhere. He owes me for some good weed I sold him.”
“Aww, Satan. Don’t you ever give up?” Death said, shaking his head in disappointment.
“St. Peter off today?”
“I guess so. It is football season. So…have you seen WWE.com lately?”
“No,” Death said, sounding intrigued. “Why?”
“Oh. No reason. Say, I’ve got to get going. Give me a call sometime. We’ll go out for drinks like the old days.”
“Sounds fine. See ya.”
Satan headed out, shutting the door behind him. Death was about to go knock on God’s door, but paused, noticing that St. Peter’s computer was on. Tempted, Death took a seat and clicked on Internet Explorer and typed in the WWE Web site. He saw the usual stuff there, but there was a rotating advertisement for this evening’s pay-per-view. Then, something came on that made Death say:
Death heard the door creak open behind him.
“Who shalt take your Lord thy God’s name in vain?” God demanded.
Death slowly turned around and looked at God.
“Death?” God queried. “What could possibly makest thou take your Lord thy Employer’s name in vain?”
“Matt Freaking Hardy.”
“Oy. Your Lord thy God was afraid thou wouldst see his T-shirt.”
“Stronger Than Death? Who does this punk think he is?” Death asked.
“Was that a rhetorical question?” God asked.
“Matt Hardy, you little jackass. You think you’re so great? You’re a moron, Matt. Were you not working for those idiots during the amazing invasion angle a couple years ago? C’mon, Matt! You couldn’t even finish a match last month, you pussy! Yeah, I’m scared of you, you punk ass bitch!”
“Oy, a shoot promo in your Lord thy God’s office. Come in when thou is finished yelling at the computer screen.”
“Your federation has handled this farce of a storyline as good as a virgin would have handled a porn star. Your company is a joke. That’s why I won’t even go work for those idiots. Well, that, and I’m a fictional character, but that’s not the point. The point is, you are going to be seeing me real soon, Matt Farty. Oh yeah, I went there. Bring your real ass to BOB and we’ll see who will not die then. That’s right, I’m calling you out Matt Farty. Bring your ass to BOB and we’ll see who the man is. You’re pathetic. And you have a lazy eye! And your brother Jeff has two modes: crappy and crappier!’
“Is thou done yet?” God asked from his office. “I have dinner with my son in an hour.”
“Umm…I guess. Coming, Boss.”