A Lake of Fire, Chapter One

A Lake of Fire, Chapter One


It was a mild day in Heaven, but then all days in Heaven were ‘mild’ – warm, with a light breeze, birdsong, the smell of not-too-distant meadows. Mild. And utterly boring.

Dr. Martin Luther King was ready for some hot action. He was now fully engorged and congratulated himself for having already slipped a condom over his penis before getting dressed that morning. It was a trick he had learned from JFK, which significantly cut down on the distractions of clumsily unwrapping the thing and sheathing one’s pecker in the moment. Of course, it hadn’t prevented the President from contracting syphilis on Earth, or from spreading his extensive catalogue of STDs through the Afterlife.

King had made some progress on his memoirs and now rose from his desk, stretched, and aimed a solid slap at his bulging pants. ‘Down boy! Down!’ he chuckled. The breeze slipped through his office window, perfumed with lavender that he imagined rested in dewy drops on soft necks and breasts in the village outside.

Somebody was going to get fucked.

Of course, King had always been lucky in his pursuits, in both this life and the previous one. Even the night before he received his magic bullet in Memphis, he had heard the young women giggling outside his motel room. He smiled to remember the prickles running thrillingly up his neck, listening to them tease and dare each other to knock at the door. Vietnam had been on the television. White wine had chilled in a bucket beside his bed.

Now things were almost too simple.