Chapter 2: Dummies Guide to Being Dead

A Chapter by Joshua J. Bracks

A few life-tips on being less than alive.

From The Journals of Demitri S. Fubu: The Exploits of a Dead Woman

Chapter 2: Dummies Guide to Being Dead

Now, I’m not sure if you've ever been dead before. But, I can tell you from personal experience that it is quite an experience to be had. Though I wouldn't recommend it. You see… When a person dies, they become both very confused and very agreeable. Why, I once agreed to immortal life after dying. I’m not saying that I had to die in order to be coerced into agreeing to being immortal, but it did make the decision process much faster than had I not just died.

At any rate: Carla had just died. And, as such, she agreed to something that I surely wouldn't have.

“I need you to enter a contract of spiritual servitude with me,” the mysterious winged man in white told Carla as he held up a single onyx marble. The material didn't so much matter for his contract. It was the markings that were etched onto the marble that did. “Simply enter this orb.”

Having died only a few seconds ago, Carla was - of course - in a very confused and agreeable mood. She didn't consider the ramifications of entering a spiritual contract. She didn't wonder things that most people would have wondered had they been say, alive or even, not-so-freshly dead. Thing like: “is this contract binding?” or “What are the conditions of entering said contract?” or even “Will I be given a written copy of the contract?”. She didn't even consider reading the contract before entering it. Though, I don’t suppose she could read the wizard language it was written in.

I know I can’t.

She just went ahead and entered the orb thus, entering the contract.

So, the Mysterious winged man in the white robes sent her body to a place where it would not change - head and all - and he placed the onyx marble into a leather pouch that hung around his neck from a hempen cord. For a short time after this, Carla rode along in this onyx orb, within the leather pouch, hanging from the mysterious man’s neck by a hempen cord without question; though still filled with confusion. Much like in her life, the details didn't really matter.

Then, exactly three minutes and seventy-two seconds after her death - I’m told that this is a strange way to denote time and I understand this. I just think it sounds better than four minutes and twelve seconds. I don’t like the sound of twelve - Carla Quinn was filled with more anger than all the anger she’d managed to accrue in her life " EVER.

“What kind of twisted pool-hall hustle have I gotten into!?” the spirit of Carla Quinn cried. “And who the hell are you?”

The mysterious man expected Carla wouldn't be very happy with her. But the amount of anger she presented was more than even he could have projected. And he was always very good at projecting.

“I’m the one who will save your life,” he told her.

“You’re the one who killed me!” Carla replied. If a Spirits voice could shriek, this surely was a fine example of it; although nothing else could hear the screeching of Carla Quinn - just the winged man who, to this point, still remained quite mysterious. “You were supposed to save me!”

“That is part of my plan.”

“You were supposed to come flying in on wings of Ebony glory,” Carla clearly wasn't listening to what the winged man had to say at this point, “and fly me off into the sunset…”

She had, at this point, hit the phase of just being dead that I like to call spiritual loose lipped intoxication. It’s like when your Aunt Wanda has had too much to drink and says stuff that no one really cares about while simultaneously not caring about anything anyone else has to say.

“…and remove your hood revealing yourself to be John Stamos. And then we were gonna land on the beach and make love, but not babies, after which you’d buy me a condo where I’d live out the rest of my days sipping tropical cocktails and you’d only return sparsely for more love making or the occasionally trip to Disney Land and even though I don’t like the place, I’d go with you anyway, ‘cause I know you do.”

Carla’s John Stamos rant continued on for another longer than I’d care to write because it’s that number of minutes that I don’t like the sound of. Be warned! This kind of delusional honesty is the risk one takes when listening to a soul of the very nearly departed.

Once Carla finished this, shall we call it, "pouring of her soul", she felt a bit better about being dead. She was still absolutely furious! But, she was slightly less furious than she had been before-so.

For perhaps many more hours, the winged man didn't speak at all. Carla’s rage slowly subsided and she became used to the dark oblivion that was the onyx orb. She didn't know where the winged man was taking her or if he took her anywhere at all. She imagined that he must have been taking her somewhere and, if he were, he must have been flying. She’d also resigned herself to the likelihood that he was not John Stamos and to the reality that she liked him less than anyone she’d ever dis-liked in life. Though, she didn't particularly dis-like anyone in her lifetime other than Hough and herself. And even that was near the end of her life.

For perhaps many more hours, Carla Quinn waited for the hooded winged man’s instructions.

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