The Life and Adventures of Randy Mesmer

PLASTIC AND THE AFTERLIFE

Randy Mesmer died expecting the boy-next-door and the rest of the coveted neighbors. Husband, father, son, big brother. Those sins. Their corresponding punishments. Instead muscled arms and hairy asses just protruded here and there beneath a heap of plastic bottles and coffee cups, beer cans, junk cars, and burger wrappers, in a cloud of monoxide and chlorofluorocarbons.

The angels trailed plastic bags from all night pharmacies. One angel—now grounded due to acid rain-- explained that lust had lost rank in the new list of sins against the body.

“The twenty-first century has transgressions all its own,” explained the angel. ”And they have a helluva lot to do with trash.”

Carnal lust, fearsome as the Bengal tiger, is now likewise direly endangered, and hunts forlorn in scabby patches of jungle. “We can’t get them to mate,” moaned the angel. “It’s something in the water.”

Between heavy metals and depleted uranium casings—nostalgia for adultery now sweeps the heavens. “We don’t worry about wet dreams. We worry about hormone disruptors.”

“Retribution was simple when you just killed a man,” said the angel. “Then maybe his grandchildren killed yours. Now that toxins poison 100 generations down--frankly it’s hard to know what to shoot.”