As I noted before, the world of the dead is a transitory place, meant to help the dead find the afterlife they belong to. The place one goes to enlist to an afterlife provider is called the Golden Promenade.
The festival of light. The bazaar of godhood. I could describe the Golden Promenade with these and many other names, but I still wouldn’t be able to give it justice.
In most religions, the divinity wears the color of gold. It fitted, then, for the neons to be golden, the hue of the falling stars, looming above the crowd. The billboards blotted out the sky. Down below, the stands of different religions vied for our attention. There were gods who were smiling, gods who were frowning, gods drinking Lemon Zapp, and mascots in oversized gods’ costumes.
‘Free buddhas, free buddhas for all nirvana-seekers!’
‘Hold the thunder, mortals.’
‘Are thou ready to step into the light?’
No. I wasn’t ready.
The Promenade is dominated by C.H.I.B.—Christianity, Hinduism, Islam, and Buddhism. However, many other off-brand beliefs, be it mythological Valhalla or a nihilistic Void: Vacation from a Mortal Coil can also be found here. There are hells, too, which promote themselves as havens for those unwanted anywhere else, promising anarchy, hot temperatures, and spicy food. The wealth of one afterlife is measured in the number of its believers. Hence, hells and off-brand providers are doing poorly, while C.H.I.B. can afford ads reaching the city’s skyline.
It was fun for me to write the Promenade, especially about all the kitsch involved. Here’s the part about Christian Heaven:
The spectacle of salvation was taking place in the main hall, while the wings of the church were delegated to customer service (it wasn’t really a church; more like a Disneyland approximation of one). The dead shuffled among the plastic models of the saints, muttering amen and reading the Bible-passages posted on the walls. The air smelled of old piss (some patrons must’ve been so religiously exalted they couldn’t help themselves—I didn’t blame them). The electric candles and the windows painted to resemble stained glass did their best to sanctify the space. However, I couldn’t shake off the suspicion that this venue wasn’t run by priests.
I had to be careful not to sound too critical of any given religion, so I used the Southpark approach to try to be a little critical about every one of them. As Yorde finds out, not everything is the same as written in the holy scriptures.
See you in hell! (they have tacos)