Ryan remembered a bright flash, intense heat, and then, nothing until…
Ryan found himself in a white expanse. As the brightness from an indeterminate cause reached tolerable levels, he found himself in the hand of a man in a white suit.
He remembered Cy dangling him over a fierce inferno contained within an old, rusty metal drum barrel.
The white expanse came into focus and Ryan surveyed a multitude of greens and other vibrant colors. He found himself in an incredibly lush garden.
Scattered throughout the garden were what he, at first, mistook for works of art. The sculptures offered little variation. They were all finely chiseled representations of the male buttocks, hips, and crotch. It’s like someone distributed only those pieces and sections of mannequins as far as he could see into the garden.
Ryan heard a ticking noise.
What the hell is this place?
“It is certainly not hell, Mr Standish,” the welcome man sniffed and lifted a pocket watch, the source of the ticking, from a pocket.
Ryan experienced dizziness as the man concluded by twirling him around one of his long fingers. “We’ve recreated the most suitable paradise for you,” the man said. “Here, you will be able to enjoy your existence as a jockstrap for all of eternity.”
“Wait,” Ryan protested. “I’m not a jockstrap.”
The man checked a clipboard that popped magically into his hand, replacing the loudly ticking stopwatch. “According to my information, you are a jockstrap, Mr. Standish."
“Yes, I was,” Ryan replied. “I mean I was a jockstrap, but only because some dweeb changed me into one. My name is Ryan Standish…”
“Yes, I know,” the man said. “It says that right here.”
He showed Ryan the print-out with his jockstrap designation. The form looked official, like it might exist in triplicate somewhere in the dusty halls of some bureaucratic department.
"My records indicate you were doing a good job as one, too, all things considered, before your unfortunate immolation.”
"My what?" Ryan sounded bewildered.
"You were burned to a cinder, Mr. Standish," the man explained in a mild and pleasant voice.
The man approached one of the sculptures and stretched Ryan’s jockstrap body over the chiseled genitals. “Excellent,” he said, stepping back for a better look. “How do you like it, Mr. Standish?”
Ryan felt his straps twisted around the cold, unyielding buttocks of the sculpture. He wasn’t sure he liked the cold surface. It wasn’t at all like hugging a flesh-and-blood cock and balls.
“Well, you’re our first arrival,” the man explained. “I’m sure we will have a few improvements to make.”
“You mean I am the first jockstrap to make it to heaven?”
“Yes, but eternity is a long time. Perhaps, eventually, another jockstrap will join you,” he said. “Now, I must be off. More arrivals to process…”
“Hold on,” Ryan objected. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Do?” The man asked.
“Yes,” Ryan answered. “Shouldn’t someone, I don’t know, change me back to a human?”
The man scanned the clipboard. “Oh dear, no,” he said. “There’s no indication according to the record that you’ve ever been anything other than a jockstrap.”
“Check again,” Ryan ordered. “I’m Ryan Standish…”
A square box of black plastic beeped in the man’s hand. The man glanced at the box. “I am sorry, Mr. Standish, but I am needed elsewhere,” he said and walked outside of the gate surrounding Ryan’s garden with its display of limbless mannequin torsos.
The man closed the gate and left Ryan sprawled limply over the cold replica.