James wasn't expecting to die.

At least not today. But here he was, standing in front of the biggest, most ornate set of gates he had ever seen. Tall, gleaming, and impossibly bright — like the entrance to the Vatican, if the Vatican had a VIP section.

His head spun. He barely remembered what had happened before this. He had been... where? At work? In his car? His last memory was frustratingly fuzzy, like a dream slipping away before he could grab hold of it.

James squinted at the massive golden doors. Was that... a Methodist polishing the gate? Yep, that was definitely a Methodist.

Before he could process what was happening, a voice beside him said, "Yeah, yeah, I know. It's a lot to take in. Let's skip the dramatic pause — you're dead. Welcome to Catholic Heaven!"

James turned to see a man leaning against a podium, arms crossed, looking entirely too casual for someone standing at what appeared to be the afterlife's front desk. He wore a slightly wrinkled robe, sandals, and the unmistakable expression of someone who had explained this process a thousand times before.

"Wait, I'm where?" James asked, still processing.

"Catholic Heaven," the man repeated, gesturing at a gold-plated sign that read, Now Entering Catholic Heaven — Est. AD 33 — Kneelers Provided, Guilt Mandatory.

"You made it, Jimmy. Congrats."

"It's James."

"Sure, let's go with that," the man replied, flipping through a massive binder. "All right, standard orientation — blah, blah. Don't ask why the Baptists are on janitorial duty, don't question why the Episcopalians have the best food but still get kicked out at closing, and under no circumstances should you mention Vatican II to the old-timers. Trust me. We're still processing the last incident."

James blinked. "Who are you?"

The man extended a hand. "Michael. Call me Mike."

James shook it hesitantly. "Wait a minute. Are you the Michael? As in the Archangel Michael? Right hand of God? Slayer of demons?"

Mike smirked. "Yeah, yeah, that's me. Listen, before you get all impressed, I mostly handle intake these days. Turns out slaying demons was a part-time gig, and HR put me here."

James was still skeptical. He'd spent his whole life trying to earn his way into heaven, but something about this felt... wrong. For one thing, there seemed to be an unspoken seating arrangement happening, with certain groups eyeing newcomers who dared to sit in their spot. James could have sworn he saw a Lutheran giving a Methodist a subtle but stern look over a pew.

And the Methodists looked way too happy about their polishing duties.

"So, what now?" James asked.

"Now," Mike said, tossing him a thick, entirely Latin welcome packet, "you get to see how things work up here. And let me tell you, Jimmy — you are gonna love the bureaucracy."

James groaned. If heaven had paperwork, he was already in trouble.

"First stop, registration desk," Mike continued, gesturing toward a long line of souls clutching clipboards. "Don't worry, Jimmy. We should be through orientation by next eternity," he said jokingly.

As James reluctantly followed, he glanced around, taking in his surroundings. Over in the distance, a group of nuns was running what appeared to be a Heavenly Compliance Office, handing out rosaries like they were government forms. A few yards away, a choir of angels was rehearsing hymns — somehow, the altos couldn't hit the right note.

Farther down the golden-paved pathway, James spotted a long row of confession booths, each with a Now Serving number above the door. A digital screen flickered between numbers at an agonizingly slow pace.

"Great," James muttered. "Heaven still has a waiting line for confession."

A large banner hung over a row of confession booths, impossible to miss: Mandatory Theological Disputes: Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Nearby, a group of monks were arguing loudly over doctrine while gesturing wildly at a parchment filled with Latin text.

Mike nodded toward them. "That's an ongoing debate."

"They're still debating?"

"They've been at it since 1123. Honestly, at this point, I think they just like arguing."

James ran a hand down his face. "All right, you know what? I need some clarity. What exactly am I supposed to do here?"

Mike smirked. "Step one: survive orientation."

James massaged his temples. "And after that?"

Mike handed him a clipboard. "Step two: good luck."

Before James could protest, a sudden, loud throat-clearing sound echoed through the air.

Every hair on his neck stood up. James's blood ran cold.

That sound.

He knew that sound. The sound of ultimate authority. The sound of judgment. Somewhere in the distance, he swore he heard Sister Patty clearing her throat.

His entire Catholic upbringing came crashing back in an instant.

James turned slowly, heart pounding, already knowing what was behind him.

And sure enough —

Sister Patty was watching him out of the corner of her eye.

James swallowed.

He had a feeling heaven wasn't going to be quite what he expected.