Stanley Watson looked out at the endless beauty that lay
before him: tremendous flowing rivers, luscious rolling hills, dazzling colourful
rainbows. He was clearly in heaven. Beautiful mythical creatures roamed the
grasslands, virtuous couples lay beneath the vibrant trees, and even Vincent
Van Gough wandered the fields with a happy fulfilled smile. A huge white foot
fell gently beside Stanley; he looked up at the enormous angelic figure. The
man’s long white beard looked fluffier than any cloud, his deep blue eyes
clearer than any ocean, and his wise deep voice more soothing than any Beatles
album.
“Welcome my son,” said the heavenly character, in a profound distinguished tone.
“That's fucking amazing,” said Stanley. “You have a Spanish accent.”
“Welcome my son,” said the heavenly character, in a profound distinguished tone.
“That's fucking amazing,” said Stanley. “You have a Spanish accent.”