A $120 bottle of whiskey was opened and poured into a glass, and along with the dark gold drink swirled two bugs. The insects’ departed souls were so steeped in alcohol that their spirits staggered toward the second entrance to heaven, a doorway meant for all nonhuman creatures, but then missed the mark. This happened repeatedly: an approach and then a miss, zigging nearer and then zagging away. Every couple of decades the souls totter to the very precipice of the awaiting afterlife, nearly enter, but then lurch away. Watching them has become somewhat of a sport among angelic supervisors who place friendly wagers on which eternally intoxicated soul will find its way through the gates first.

THE END