Day 3: The Worst Acid Trip Ever

I drifted in and out of sleep for something like a day and a half. Every few hours or so, a doctor (or a guy who looked like a doctor, anyway) would interrupt my dreams and bring me some wannabe drugs, present them to me through the bars of my prison cell, and, with a sympathetic smile, assure me I would be ok soon. And while the drugs did help to kill the pain ringing in my skull, they did nothing to kill the real pain - the fear and loathing burning deep in my guts.

During my time cruising the CK in search of evil, before the Mormons brought me back to life as a twenty-one year old in the year 2009, when my existence still made some sense, I ran into Achilles (yes, the Achilles) at a party. We spent two days avoiding Jesus and his angelic entourage of douche bags, snorting coke off the back ends of prostitutes, talking philosophy, and hunting Wild Celestial Boar. We talked about how we'd both take being regular, working class stiffs on Earth, over being a celebrity in the CK. Heaven isn't all it's cracked up to be. Life on Earth is far more interesting. Kolob is goddamned boring. Unless you spent a good portion of your life imprisoned. Those who had suffered imprisonment, for any period of time, seemed perfectly content with the CK. I was beginning to understand why.

The doctor came to the bars again wearing the same shit-eating grin, with the same plastic dixie cup, containing the same weak-ass drugs, as he did just a few hours before that. "How are you doing this evening, Hunter?"

"What the fuck am I doing here, doc? This is, like, an acid trip gone all wrong, man. Did someone give me some bad drugs or something? Are you really Gabriel in disguise, you douche bag, here to punish me for all the drinking and whoring I've been doing? Am I still in the CK? Am I in hell? I promise I won't drink or whore on the Sabbath anymore, if that's what you're worried about. Just get me the fuck outta here, man."

The doctor looked pleased and offended by my schizophrenic rant. "You're your old self again, I see," he said, trying to hand me my drugs.

I grabbed his arm and pulled him close, to where he could see the madness in my eyes, like an avalanche of sorrow powerful enough to consume him and make him insane with rage, become like Isaac, and attempt to murder his firstborn son, and he started flailing wildly and screaming for help.

"What's wrong with you?" He yelled, demanding an explanation.

"I need a cigarette," I spat in his face. "Bring me a cigarette."

Day 1: LDS Doesn't Cure Migraine Headaches

Why I was picked as President Monson's patient zero, I'll never know for sure. I guess it had something to do with the life of drunken debauchery I was leading in the after-life. If I wasn't chasing booze with women, I was planning practical jokes to play on Jesus, usually involving a fake rubber penis I got on the black market from a demon friend. (While it might seem counter-intuitive, there is in fact a whole host of hellish imposters in the Celestial Kingdom, from whom you can acquire all kinds of evil shit to kill the boredom of piety). I suppose President Monson received word from Jesus, who was sick of finding himself accidentally grabbing, fondling, or sucking a rubber dick, that it was time to get Hunter the fuck outta there.

Since the Cold War, the Mormons have been secretly running a high tech cloning program from their church office building in Salt Lake City, and therefore had the means of transporting my soul from the CK, back to an exact replica of my twenty-one year old body, in the year 2009. Imagine my surprise waking up in a dimly lit room, surrounded by a bunch of squares in boring-ass suits, explaining to me that I was the first successful clone produced by the LDS church.

I was confused at first. "LDS church?" I asked.

"Mormons," one of the squares explained to me.

"The fuckers who don't drink?"

"That's us."

I was infuriated to discover, now that I had been given more life, in a youthful body, which I planned on abusing with the usual sex, drugs, and rock and roll, that I was in the worst place possible for sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Salt Lake Fucking City. "Are you kidding?" I asked. "You brought me back to life in Salt Lake City, Utah. What am I going to do in Utah that's worth a damn?" I would have got up and left if it wasn't for a splitting headache, brought on like a brick shithouse by Satan himself, that made it impossible to walk. The squares explained to me that I needed some recovery time, which was something that made sense to me at least. I spent most of my first life recovering from this or that. But this time I didn't have the leftover smell of a woman, or the insane memories of a night spent consuming chemicals made in laboratories staffed by dwarf lepers, to keep me company as I lay there, in agony. I could feel the fear and loathing in me, dangerously close to its boiling point. These religious nutjobs thought of me as a science project. A rat with wings to be paraded around like a dove. Jesus Christ, what was I doing here?