Blake Brimstone staggered into Big Boss Inn and sat at the bar.

A big, bald, burly bartender strode over with folded arms. “Sorry, buddy, but you’re too drunk for me to serve.”

“I’ve got cerebral palsy.”

The bartender’s face dropped. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll have a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.”

The man returned with a wincing grin, poured a large glass, and set the opened bottle in front of him.

“I’m so sorry. I had no idea you were handicapped.”

Blake took a swig.

“I understand. I’m a brain surgeon.”

The burly man froze. He turned to the crowded bar and pointed at Blake.

“Hey, everybody — this man is a brain surgeon!”

Blake gulped down the glass and faced the crowd.

“Hello, everyone. Yes, it’s true. I’m Dr. Blake Brimstone, the world’s greatest brain surgeon. No one on earth is better at neurosurgery than me. In fact, I need to be in surgery at Blind Man’s Bluff Memorial in ten minutes, but I have cerebral palsy and can’t drive. Will someone drive me?”

Hands shot up — then dropped when a grey‑bearded man stood with raised palms.

“My name is Roach Rhino, and I’ll drive you,” he said, scanning the silent bar, “if it will save lives.”

“It will,” said Dr. Brimstone, grabbing his bottle. “Beginning with my own.” He looked at the bartender. “How much do I owe you?”

The bartender smiled. “No charge. I just served the world’s greatest brain surgeon. I’ll be bragging forever.”

Dr. Brimstone walked out with Roach Rhino.

“Where’s your car?” asked Dr. Brimstone.

The monk faced him. “Do you recognize me, Blake?”

Blake tried to focus. “Hard to say. You keep spinning.”

Roach Rhino smiled. “I’m your marriage counselor.”

Blake wiped his mouth. “Marriage counselor? I’m married?”

“Would you like to see your wife and daughter?”

Blake gasped. “Absolutely not. I want no part of big responsibilities.”

“They’re handicapped too. Everyone is one way or another.”

Blake slumped.

“Oh, God. Fine. I’ll meet them. But I’m not admitting anything.”

“Follow me.”

Blake turned down an alley paved with red bricks. It wound through town and uphill into a lush forest full of birds chirping merry tunes as they passed.

Finally, they reached a village with crystal castles, purple domes, glass‑framed houses, wooden shacks, fractured‑fractal homes, and other impossible structures.

“Here’s your afterlife, Blake. And it already exists on earth.”

“Do any of them need brain surgery?”

They walked for miles down the red‑brick road until they reached a blue ranch house.

Roach knocked. A black‑haired, green‑eyed woman answered the door.

Blake couldn’t take his eyes off the brass‑rod curtain hanger across her shoulders holding a red‑velvet curtain.

Blake gasped. “That gown is gorgeous.”

The woman frowned. “Oh my God, Blake, that’s so generic. I hate it when people call me gorgeous — much less my curtains.”

Blake bowed. “I’m sorry. I meant no disrespect.”

“Oh, please, Blake, it’s me. You’re the father of my seven‑year‑old daughter.”

A little blond girl glided up in a hoverchair.

Blake gawked at her.

“My God, you’ve got cerebral palsy? But that’s okay. I never let that condition stop me from becoming the world’s greatest brain surgeon.”

“I have spina bifida,” she said, “and I never let it stop me from anything either. Follow me.”

She led them into an expansive living room filled with paintings and sculptures of cats — sleeping, leaping, stretching, twisting — an entire universe of felines.

“You’re an artistic genius,” said Blake.

“Of course. Aren’t you glad I’m your daughter?”

Diana shivered and barked, “Biffy bop!”

She touched the ends of her curtain rod. “My name’s Diana, and I have Tourette’s syndrome.”

Blake’s eyes bulged. “How long have I been living in this crazy house?”

“Sit down,” said Diana.

As he did, she placed a metal dome over his head.

“Think about love,” said Roach. “Only love makes life worthwhile.”

Blake imploded into a new state of being.