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by Scott Micheel

It started with a slap in the face with a wet mackerel. I didn’t see it coming, having my eyes closed. Pow.

"Okay, butthead, rise & shine! Time to face the music. End of the month and the rent’s due. Time to pay the piper. Next in line. It’s time to make the friggin’ donuts!" Somebody wanted me awake. It was strange, but the first thing that registered was the fish.

"Hey, you just hit me with a fish!" I mean, really. It was a wet fish, my cheek stung and dripped fish water. It was only then that the guy himself registered. An angel, one of those short little cherubs, but he was almost bald, and looked like a forty-year old midget. He had a big fish in one hand, a cigar stub in the other, and an annoyed look on his face. Directly out of a cartoon. "You’re an angel," I blurted.

"Oh, we got us a real winner here. What was yer first clue, Einstein? The wings give it away? Yeah, I’m a freakin’ angel. And before you ask, yeah, you’re toast. Bit the big one. Pushin’ up daisies. Turn out the lights..."

"Dead?" I’m dead?

"Got it in one. Whadja think’d happen when ya mixed all that shit up? Yer in deep shit now, buddy. That explosion blew up the whole lab. Now ya know why Alchemy was considered evil back in the old days. Never can guaranteed the results. And using blood pushed you over into Black Magic. Cheetah blood, bean sprouts, tri-sulfer dithionate, powdered opal, I don’t even wanna know how you came up with all those slug cocoons and stuff. Using a hydraulic press was an interesting idea, but trying to cast a binding spell on the mess while it was under pressure was just idiotic! Last mistake of your life, buddy."

I had been trying to create an ultra-fast catalyst. Scientists had been able to transform lead to gold for decades now, but the process took a long time. Measurable only in radioactive half-lives. I figured if I could speed that up, I’d be rich. I researched for weeks, spent more weeks getting the ingredients. The blood samples were lifted from the biology department. But the stuff didn’t gel properly. I tried everything. Finally, I had to get a friend to try a binding spell. John had once majored in metaphysics and said he could do it.

"What happened? I was looking at the press, and all I remember is this flash of white light. Did we use too much pressure?"

"Freakin’ A. Wanna know what happened? I’ll tell you what happened. The spell worked way too good. Buddy didn’t know his own strength. He also managed to seize up the machinery you were using, and the fire sprinklers. The goop worked way too good too. You ever think that metal containers can rust? Your goo sped up the oxidation rate. Like, to a few seconds. Do you know what they call rapid oxidation? Yeah, that’s right genius, the container caught fire. And the whole hydraulic press too. And since the sprinklers weren’t working, the whole building. Twelve million dollars in damages, five people dead, including you and yer partner. You screwed up royally this time, kid. The big boys are a mite ticked off with you."

Now, this caused me considerable embarrassment. I knew he spoke truly. It just felt right. And here I was, lying in bed in some heavenly hospital room, seeing angels flit by past the window. So I was dead. But why was I in trouble? I mean, I made it to heaven right?

"But... isn’t this Heaven? I mean, isn’t this it? The afterlife?" In my idea of heaven, you never got into any trouble.

"I thought I made you pay attention during Sunday school. Yeah, this is the big place in the sky, but you haven’t made it in yet. In fact, with those dead guys on your record, you’re headed on a one-way trip downstairs. Don’t bother seein’ Saint Peter at customs, he’ll just kick yer sorry ass right outta here. Soul stained right through."

Shit. This was like, really bad. "So, ah... what am I doing here?"

"That’s where I come in. I’m yer guardian angel, bub, and I’m the only thing that stands between you and that pit o’ fire with your name on it. And it ain’t gonna be easy." He slung the fish over his left shoulder and put the cigar butt in his mouth, looking disgusted with me, but smug at the same time.

"Now, before we get on with business, I’m obligated to tell you what you’re in for." He produced a remote control and flicked on the big screen TV in the corner. Up sprang pictures straight from Hell, scenes of people roasting in fire pits, impaled on pitchforks, screaming in terror, the whole nine yards.

"You got suicide, which usually means eternal torment with no hope of escape." The channel switched to a bunch of guys pushing boulders up a hill, while birds plucked out their eyes or something. "You got black magic, which means some devil has your soul on his personal list." Channel 27 featured a huge devil, twelve feet tall at least, red skin & horns, cackling evilly as he sat at a desk and contemplated a list of names on his office computer. "And multiple murders – just an all-out fun time. Especially since they died by fire. That’s kind of a specialty down there, of course." Channel 66 just showed a huge blast furnace being stoked by minor imps. "That doesn’t even count the theft of university supplies, property damage, and some left-over coveting from last semester. Though Sandy was a hot one, I gotta admit..."

"But it was all an accident!" I blurted out. "I didn’t mean any of it! Well, the explosion stuff." Sandy would have been worth it, I thought.

"Don’t matter to the big guy. He’s known for being pretty strict – I thought you’d at least remember that from church. Geez, kid, what were you doin’ all those sundays?"

"But you said you’d fix it for me? I get a second chance?"

"Maybe

"Yep. Ol’ Harv here talked with the big kahuna, and such a deal I’ve got for ya! I mean, I really outdid myself here. Thing is, you’ve got to make up for that bad stuff. So yer gonna be doin’ good deeds. A lot of ‘em. And yer gonna have to do ‘em fast, cause you only got five years. Even I couldn’t talk ‘em outta any more. Five years, then pfffft! Yer dead again and they weigh your soul for the last time. If’n it don’t swing right..."

"But... five years? Is that enough time?"

"You might be able to do it... if you were Mother freakin’ Theresa! The fanfare when she got in... oy! But ol’ Harv pulled some strings. Thing is, the guy upstairs looks at results. If’n I can turn a lost soul like you around in a mere five years, We both come out of it smellin’ like roses. So I got a friend in the miracle department to help you out a bit. You’re gonna be a Super, dude!"

"Oh, wow! Like Trooper? And Flint & Steel?"

"Yep! Your search for the ultimate alchemical catalyst ended up dousing you with a formula that turns you into the fastest man alive! Well, dead. That is, sorta."

"Sort of? What do you mean? Am I a zombie, or something?"

"No no. It’s just that Dave over in Miracles used to be a car salesman. Usually, in these kind of deals, you get five years, period. You lead a charmed life – no early check out. You get a full five years. But in your case, I had to give that up. In trade for the speed. Dave gets a commission on the unused miracle energy if you kick off before the time is up. What it means is, you can die. Only you’d better not, cause then we’d both be kissin’ our butts goodbye. I put it on the line for you, kid. And I’m gonna make sure that you toe the straight and narrow."

"Can I still, uh, you know..."

"Unh uh. And none of that either. And I’ll be watchin’ you on dates, buddy, to make sure you don’t try anything funny. From now on, you even think of doin’ anything bad, I’ll smack you right upside the head."