Blake Brimstone sipped his Jack Daniel’s and stood tall before the thunderous crowd. He would speak the truth and forever free people from the ridiculous lottery of a reality gone wrong.

 “Hello, mutants. How are you? Now that you have something to hope for, you’re looking a lot better. And you’re going to feel even better when we get to the Afterlife.

“God, in His infinite wisdom, couldn’t quite figure out how to create human life properly. So here we are in this jack-in-the-box full of surprises.”

“Pollyannas say happiness is a choice, but who chooses to be a freak of nature?”

A man with five-foot legs, a two-foot torso, four arms, and one huge eye in the center of the forehead of his gigantic head, stood up in a pinstriped suit and asked with huge lips, “Who are you calling a freak of nature?”

Blake sprayed whiskey. “My God. Now I get it. God was drunk when he created the universe. What is your name, sir?”

The man pounded his chest with all four arms. “My name is Dr. Stork Stiltson, and I’m a psychiatrist.”

Blake nodded his head. “Psychiatrist, huh? Dr. Stork Stiltson, your DNA got whacked with a wacky stick. But don’t worry. We deviants need to stand together.

“Remember Friedrich Nietzsche who said what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. You’re not dead, so you must be strong.”

A young man stood on wobbling legs and spoke with slurred speech. “My name is Biff Bop Blop, and I feel strong.”

“That’s absurd,” Blake said. “You’re too drunk to feel strong.”

The youth flailed his arms. “I’m not drunk. I have cerebral palsy. I’ve fallen so often in my life that I can’t tell straight up from straight down. Kids have always made fun of me. I’ve tried not to let it bother me, but it does.”

“Of course, it bothers you,” Blake said. “Every day of your wretched life is a challenge. Everyone has challenges, but able-bodied challenges are nothing compared to your cerebral-palsied challenges. Life sucks for you, so are you ready for the Afterlife?”

Biff Bop Blop stood as straight as he could. “You bet I am.”

Blake nodded. “That’s the spirit. Afterlife, here we come.”

The young man struggled to keep standing. “I’m ready.”

Blake took a big swig. “So am I.”

“Prove it,” said a rotund man, spreading half-a-ton of blubber in one of the huge seats in the obese section.

“What’s your name, sir?” asked Blake.

The man interlaced his fingers on top of his enormous belly. “My name is Douglas Smuglas. I’m here on behalf of your best friend Shark Darkson, who’s determined to make sure you show the world you mean business.”

Blake stared at the black eyes peering out from the blob of flesh. “Yes, I mean business, and you can bet your ass on that.”

“Excellent,” said Douglas. “Now show us by dying in this electric chair.”

A team of men and women rolled out a ten-foot throne covered with red velvet. Two polished orbs at its top arched with electricity.

Blake looked at the electric chair, then at the crowd of faces staring back at him. The receiver hummed softly in his skull. Would they be watching him go to the Afterlife? Let them. For the first time that evening, he didn't feel alone.

"Shrink Shranshankus is right. Disabled people need to stick together."

 Blake stood tall. “I’ll do it, if it will free people from suffering.”

“It will,” said Douglas, “beginning with your own suffering.”

A man set a ladder in front of the electric throne. Blake climbed up and sat down. He guzzled the remainder of his bottle and waved to the crowd. “Goodbye, everyone. See you in the Afterlife.”

Dr. Stork Stiltson stood and pounded his chest again. He then vomited and wiped his fat lips.

“Wait. I have anhedonia and can’t experience pleasure of any kind. Life for me is like eating paper glue. I demand to go to the Afterlife right now.”

“I also demand to go to the Afterlife,” Douglas Smuglas said.

A man stood up with a shaking left arm. He grabbed it with his right arm, which made his whole body shake. “So, do I. My name is Shrink Shranshankus, and I was born with a deformed brain. I also represent Shark Darkson, who believes disabled people need to stick together. What’s wonderful about dying alone in an electric chair?”

Blake slammed his fist. “Shrink Shranshankus is right. Disabled people need to stick together. I’ll wait for the Grand Exodus on July Fourth.”

"We stick together!" everyone cheered, and the words seemed to burst from the auditorium and race across America toward July Fourth.