by B. Barton Biddlearton | Score: 1600
"It had been six months since your last confession," Saint Peter said.
"Why so long?"
I squirmed and eyed the lever he rested his hand on, the one that would open the trapdoor on which I stood, the one that would plunge me down to you-know where. "You know, the job, the kids..." it all sounded so banal and lame. How was I to know the Unabomber would strike? (This was back in the days before he got caught.)
"Well, tell you what I'm a-gonna do," said Saint Peter. And a deal was struck.
Yeah, so that's how I got to drive in the taxi service between Earth, Heaven, and Hell. Where to?