The next thing Sal Romano knew, he was sitting at a desk in front of the Pearly Gates.

"What the hell happened?"  Sal asked the guy in the white gown, who was smiling at him from other side of the desk.

"You just drove off a bridge, Sal.  You’re dead."

"Dead?"

"Yes.  Dead."

Sal looked down at himself.

"But I feel fine!"

"Yes."

"You sure I drove off a bridge?"

"Absolutely.  Horrible accident."

"But nothing hurts."

"That’s because you’re dead."

"I’m not even bleeding.  And—"

"I know.  And there’s not even a scratch on you.  That happens once you die.  Sort of a fringe benefit.  At least for now."

"What?"

"Not important at this time.  So welcome."

"Yeah, thanks, I think," said Sal, looking around.  Everything was white. Pearly.  And there was music.  A choir was singing.

"Who’s that singing?  They sound great."

"Not important.  Now, Sal, we do have some very important business to conduct at this time."

"So . . . I’m dead?"

"Yes.  Dead—as a doornail."

"So . . . then . . . you are?"

"I’m the Gate Keeper, Sal.  And I have a few forms for you to fill out."

"Forms?  What forms?"

"Well, Sal, this is sort of the intake desk.  And I’m what you’d call the intake clerk."

"Wait a minute!  Are you Saint Peter?  Are you that guy?  I bet you’re that guy.  Right?  You’re him.  Come onnnnnn.  I know it’s you.  You’re Saint Peter."

"Actually my official title is Gate Keeper.  But I’m really just a clerk.  A mere pencil pusher.  Now, here are the forms," said the Gate Keeper, pulling out three extremely thick multipage documents from his desk drawer.

"Jesus Christ!  How many pages do those forms have?"

"Each one contains a page for every day of your life.  Soooo . . . you were forty-seven, two months and three days when you drove off that bridge. Therefore, each form contains . . . seventeen thousand two hundred and nineteen pages."

"You’re kidding!"

"We never kid at the Pearly Gates, Sal."

"Okay, so how many questions are on each page?"

"Hmmm.  Good question.  Let me see . . . well, looks like it varies.  Some pages have . . . ten questions . . . others have . . . oh . . . six or eight."

"And I have to answer every one?"

"You certainly do.  It’s procedure."

"Procedure?"

"Yes.  Are you ready?"

"I don’t have a pencil."

"No problem.  Here we use a very special writing instrument," said the Gate Keeper, handing Sal a golden pen.

"Nice," said Sal, trying to scribble his name on the desk top.  "It’s out of ink."

"It doesn’t use ink, Sal.  It uses blood.  Yours.  Let me show you."

The Gate Keeper took the pen from Sal and jabbed it deep into Romano’s heart.

"Owwwww!  That hurt!  You could have killed me!"

"Sal, you’re already dead.  Okay.  Pen’s full," said the Gate Keeper, handing it back to Sal, who was looking down at his chest and rubbing it.  "You ready to start filling out these forms?"

"Yeah, yeah.  I guess so.  How long do I have to do it?"

"All eternity.  Would you like me to help you?"

"What the hell. Sure."

"I’ll need that pen back," said the Gate Keeper, taking the golden pen from Sal.  "Alright.  Name?  Sal ‘Sally Boy’ Romano.  Occupation?  Um . . . let’s say thief.  Address?  Hell’s Kitchen.  How ironic, Sal!  But I’m not surprised. Age?  Forty-seven.  Cause of Death?  Auto accident.  We get a lot of those since you humans invented the cell phone.  Were you talking on your cell phone when you drove off that bridge, Sal?"

Suddenly Sal’s cell phone rang.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his blackberry.  He glanced at its screen, then answered it.

"Hello . . . Shirley?  Hey!  It’s me.  Sally.  Shirley!  Shirley can’t hear me," said Sal, looking at the Gate Keeper.

"That’s because you’re dead.  Were you talking to Shirley on your cell phone when you drove off that bridge, Sal?"

"Nah, nah.  I was talking to Bambi.  She’s a stripper.  Very hot, nice bod. Shirley’s just my wife.  Bambi’s . . . you know . . . for fun."

"I see.  Okay.  Next question.  Have you ever killed anyone?"

"Can I take the Fifth on that?"

"Ouuuu, I’m afraid not, Sal.  Here you have to answer every question honestly."

"Shit.  Then, um—no, I never killed nobody."

"Did you ever beat your wife?"

"Is that one of those trick questions?"

"Not at all."

"Well, I ain’t answering it."

"I’ll just put down a yes.  Alright, only a hundred and thirty seven thousand seven hundred and fifty-two questions to go."

"Jesus!  We’ll be here forever!"

"Actually, no, Sal.  I’ll be here forever.  You’ll only be here for a while.  This is, after all, just the intake desk.  You’ll be moving on shortly, relatively speaking, of course."

"Really?"

"Yes.  As I said, this is only the intake desk.  Okay, next question: Have you ever cheated on your wife?"

Sal looked at the Gate Keeper, who smiled at him.  The guy or ghost or spirit waited for Sal’s answer.  Sal knew he cheated on his wife every chance he got.  There was Kim, Lisa, Jan, Fran, Honey, Mandy, Julie, Tammy, Cindy, Bambi and Vinnie.

"Sal?  Have you ever cheated on your wife?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"And have you ever had a homosexual relationship—not that there’s anything wrong with that," said the Gate Keeper, winking.

"Well . . . there was Vinnie.  But I thought Vinnie was a broad.  She—I mean, he was one of those transformers."

"Transsexuals?"

"Yeah, that.  Real cute.  Big tits.  The whole shebang."

"Okay.  Have you ever done anything decent in your life?"

"Oh, that’s easy," said Sal, getting annoyed.  "No. Never."

The Gate Keeper wrote that down.

"You know," said Sal, getting up.  "This is a bunch of bullshit! I thought once I died and went to Heaven, I’d be done filling out fucking forms!"

"Heaven?" said the Gate Keeper, laughing.  "What ever gave you that idea? This is Hell!  After all, you were driving a stolen car when you drove off that bridge!"