“My heartfelt prayers for the families of those so untimely—” A stroke from habitual gluttony ended Pete’s term in mid-sentence. His supplicant soul rose to the pearly gates.
The guardian archangel wielded his flaming sword: “No admittance.”
“What about all my prayers for the bereaved?”
“Pistol Pete, your empty bleating did nothing to protect innocents from guns. No admittance.”
“Let me see the boss.”
“As you always said about gun violence, ‘Nothing can be done.’ There’s a flight south in five minutes. Be on it.”