Graham Sutcliffe viewed the corpse with a curled lip. The man was never handsome to begin with and the removal of half his face by a cut-throat razor hadn't made an improvement. The clothes were top-notch though – Savile Row suit and Carnaby Street shoes – and he was rather pleased they had transferred to his after-life.
"So what happens now?" he said.
"What?" The small man in the shabby grey suit looked up from his notebook. "Oh. Whatever you think should happen, I suppose. It's not my department."
"Well what normally happens?" Graham took out a gold cigarette case and lit a cheroot. "I don't like to be dead but there must be something better now, surely?"
The little man shrugged and reached to remove the physical cigarette case from the body. careful to avoid getting any blood on his hands. "I can't rightly say," he said. "There's Heaven, if you believe in it. Or Hell. Or the Paradise of Seven Hundred Virgins."
"Ah! Excellent!" Graham lit his ethereal cigarette with an ethereal lighter. "That sounds just the place."
"Fair enough." He pulled a sheaf of tickets from a pocket and handed one to Graham. "Show that to the angel outside and he'll take you."
"Top hole." Graham gave him a mock-salute as he left.
"It beats me," said the small man returning to his notebook, "why anyone would choose a place where seven hundred spotty 18 to 35 year olds spend all eternity playing computer games and watching Star Trek."