Six months ago, God met with his financial advisor, who chastised Him for all His poor investments throughout the millennia: plagues, mass floods, feeding people to lions, Enron. God asked if there was any maneuvering He could do to avoid filing for Chapter 11. His financial advisor pressed his hands together and replied: “pray.”

So, this is what it’s like to breathe in hell.

I was diving into a jar of kombucha, when they came walking in. I noticed nothing about their physical appearance whatsoever.

“I need your help,” they said. “Folks tell me you’re the best.”

“Sure, I’ve benefited from certain privileges on account of my race and gender,” I replied. “What can I do for you?”

Mishaps with preserved brains are not uncommon. What most people probably don’t know is how often pickled grey matter can interfere with romantic plans. My name is Willoby Walling and I am currently hiding in a steel cabinet. As I am wearing my second-best shoes, you can be assured that hiding in a cabinet, steel or otherwise, was not part of my plan when I awoke this morning.

The name of my horse was Rusty. At least that what he said it was when we first met, so I went along with it. I knew little of his early days as a colt, but the years we spent together were some of the best of my life and, I have to believe, his.