'OK, Mitt, now you’re dead you get to choose a planet to
run. Which one do you want?’
‘Alpha Centauri.’
‘Er, you can’t have that one.’
‘Why not?’
‘Big G keeps that to himself.’
‘Who’s Big G?’
‘Well, you know… God.’
‘God?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Is he American?’
‘Erm, not sure. Jewish, I think.’
‘Huh! Next best thing, I suppose. So what’s he got that I
haven’t?’
‘A halo.’
‘Dammit! I’ve got enough money to fill my house with jello
if I want to.’
‘No, Mitt. Not jello. A halo.’
‘What’s a halo?’
‘It’s a sort of white, shiny thing that hangs around the
head.’
‘White, eh? Well if it’s white, I want one. How much are
haloes?’
Scotch and isolation are taking their toll.
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