Reporter’s Briefing in Purgatory Alarms Ecclesiastics

Melvin O’Toole’s brief sojourn to Purgatory, (not to be confused with Paraguay) was not planned. Like a lot of other metaphysical marvels it kind of just kinda fell out of the sky, or at least he did.

The mysterious and proverbial holding tank, reputedly a place that accommodates souls not exactly eligible for heaven but not quite damned to hell, does not accept drop-ins and has no patience for the growing number of lost spirits seeking reconciliation before moving on to a more stable eternity.

“When Toole popped in we were engaged in a game of darts and we needed a target,” said a longtime gatekeeper in the misty fog that covers the impenetrable lakes and marshes doubling as access paths and roadways in or out of the intermediate state of existence.

“He was perfect in that he was round, moved slowly and didn’t seem to mind the darts bouncing off him,” said the gatekeeper. “He probably thought it was part of the purification process or the cleansing before he moved on.”

During the entire outing O’Toole kept his eyes open and his mouth shut. Somewhat hesitant to describe his experience upon return, he focused on visible impacts such as the countless car washes that pepper the spotless landscape.

“I was held in the reception area for over two hours while they decided what to two with me,” O’Toole said. “It looked like a corporate-induced buffet breakfast nook at a generic interstate motel where everyone grabs and chows down on USDA recommended chemicals for the day. No personality whatsoever. No one talks to each other.”

Since I was flying standby I did not even receive a welcome kit. The attendants laughed when I politely asked: “Where to next? I have a voucher from one of the airlines that lists my final destination as heaven”

In a related piece aliens from thirteen different celestial bodies and six galaxies have asked that earthlings stay where they are until they resolve glaring inadequacies that threaten to destroy their social experiments once and for all.

– Estelle Marmotbreath