45. Virgil the Guide (chapter 1)-Eric




• Some people claim they've had near-death experiences. They were legally dead for a few minutes for one reason or another, perhaps on a gurney in an ambulance, or on a operating room table. They claim to have seen celestial beings and dark tunnels with light at the end. Some even say they've seen deceased relatives who impart words of wisdom.
  
  I didn't see any of this. Instead, I apparently had tickets to some underground gothic club. The air had that stale odor typical to a crowded club when all the oxygen has been sucked out of it. There must have been a fog machine blowing because I couldn't see two feet in front of me. It was as dark as a closet.
  
  Music was blaring in my ears and all I wanted to do was leave. I blindly groped my way through the crowd in search of a source of light. My hand hit something soft. I hoped it was my angel of light who would impart those words of wisdom to me.
  
  Instead I heard a voice say, "Get your hands of my tits."
  
  "Hey asshole, you're standing on my foot." Said another masculine voice.
  
  Just moments later I was thrown out, arm in arm, by two bouncers. I was eighty-sixed from my own near-death-experience, right back into the alleyway of my life. Perhaps I didn't deserve more.
  
  When I finally came to, my eyes saw a black dress shoe almost touching my nose. I followed that shoe up to a Roman Collar. That's when I suspected trouble.
  
  He was smiling at me the same way a taxi driver might, except this was a priest. His hair was slick iron-white. His little, blue-speckled eyes told me not to trust him. He leaned down and extended his hand to me, but I stood up on my own. He shrugged his shoulders.
  
  "Where the hell am I?"
  
  "Close," he said.
  
  "What?"
  
  "You're in purgatory, but the bus to hell'll be here any minute."
  
  "Who are you?"
  
  "I'm Virgil."
  
  "What happened?"
  
  "You died."
  
  He didn't waste any time and neither did I. That's probably the only thing we had in common, and possibly the only thing I liked about him.
  
  This couldn't be happening. I pinched myself several times. I even slapped myself in the face. Virgil snorted and rolled his eyes.
  
  "What?"
  
  "You're dead. The longer you keep denying it the harder you're gonna make it on yourself. Come on, we've got a bus to catch."
  
  "You sure you're not a taxi driver posing as a Catholic priest?"
  
  "Asshole."
  
  "What did you say?"
  
  He gave me a look and snapped his fingers and about five seconds later I heard hoofs clumping. Several large, black horses galloped around the corner, flailing their heads every so often. They turned sharply and almost ran me down had Virgil not shoved me out of the way.
  
  They were beautiful beasts, and at the same time horrifying. Puffs of fire and smoke billowed out of their nostrils when they snorted. Maggots continuously crawled out of their hallow sockets.
  
  Surprisingly, what was more disturbing than the undead horses was what their reins and bits were pulling-a big bus with LA TRANSPO enscribed on the side in bold, dark letters.
  
  "Hell's in Los Angelas?"
  
  "No, you're in the Midwest. Indiana, actually. Let's just say LA lets them borrow their buses. They've been short on equipment. Look, we've got to get go-"
  
  The bus door flung open, startling Virgil.
  
  A little Imp, no more than four feet tall hopped out. His little horns wiggled. He was the color of strawberry.
  
  "Get your asses moving. I don't know about you, but I've got a schedule to keep."
  
  We hurried inside the bus. The four-foot Imp stood on a stack of old, dusty books. He held the reins in either hand and whipped them. We sped off towards the rising sun.