Disclaimer: I do not own any parts of the Harry Potter books or movies, nor the characters within; they are the sole property of J.K. Rowling and Warner Bro., and I thank them both for a job well done.
Drugged-up and Dragged-down
By: A Summers
Two grayish structures appeared before the man's eyes. They stood side-by-side, the height of infinite, the width of all the stars in the universe aligned, and in between the two a single passageway.
A loud voice ushered from no visible means and said, "State your name."
"Mervin T. Creswell Junior," the man answered when he realized the voice was talking to him.
"Mervin T. Creswell Junior, state your claim," the voice said.
Mervin moved a few steps away. "My claim?" he asked bewildered.
"Yes, your claim to enter beyond."
"Beyond. . .err. . .okay. . .not sure I have a claim. . .no one told me anything about—"
"You would not be standing at the gateway to eternity if there were no claim to enter," the voice interrupted.
"Okay, but how do I make a claim," he said, thinking it not unreasonable to ask.
"The claim to enter beyond lies upon millions of pages that are the sum of your life. Begin with birth, and end with death."
"Okay. . .birth and death. . .let me see. . .I was born, November 2nd, 1958. . .my birthday was one day away when I died. . .I was going to turn twenty-three."
"Date of birth noted," the voice said. "Go on."
"I'm not fully sure why I died, but while I was waiting for…whatever this is. . .I asked the people with me what happened after the lights went out."
"What do you mean, after the lights went out?"
Mervin pointed to his forehead. "I don't know if you can see this mark," he said, thinking here was his prove, " but it's a number branded on my forehead. . .it's the number nine. There were twelve of us that died, one after another. We didn't actually introduce ourselves because we had numbers on our heads. When numbers ten, eleven, and twelve arrived they filled us in on what happened at the end. Numbers one and two were too freaked-out about the whole dying thing to tell us how it all started, and numbers four and five were too busy sobbing to say anything, so it took some time to hear all the final details. Number three did say we all had to wait until the killing stopped."
A strange noise came from beneath, equal to the sound water makes hitting a hot surface, and Mervin looked around.
"So, you were robbed of life?" the voice asked.
"Oh yeah, for sure," answered Mervin, nodding in a renewed vigor because the voice sounded somewhat amused.
"How were you robbed?"
"I was murdered, not quite like the others, but number ten told me Pettigrew ended my life. I haven't heard the name before then because the other guy was calling him Wormtail.
"Pettigrew, yes, first name Peter," the voice said in a ghastly tone "He has been noted. Go on."
"Okay, it happened like this. . .Pettigrew was being attacked by this totally insane guy."
"And what was his name?"
"Black," he said, surprised at how easy the name rolled off his tongue. "Number ten said his name was Black. . . I didn't catch his name. All I can tell you is, he's completely out of his skull. . .like on some serious drugs."
"Black, first name Sirius, noted also. Continue."
"Exactly, a serious mescaline deduced, crazed lunatic, screaming bloody murder at the top of his lungs. . . .'You betrayed them! You betrayed your own friends! You gave up James and Lily! I'm going to kill you, Wormtail! I'm going to kill you as he killed them!' His screams got my attention, so I ran to see what all the confusion was about. When I turned the corner, I saw these two guys, like my age, and jets of red and green lights coming from the tips of drumsticks. Number six was the first person I actually seen die, but I couldn't understand how the FUCK it happened. . .sorry, don't mean to say fuck."
"Say whatever you like," the voice said, its amused tone returned. "Go on."
"Thanks. . .like I said. . .shit was happening that didn't make any sense. Both guys were pointing their drumsticks, and shit was thrown into buildings. People were falling to the ground like snap, crackle, and pop. So, I was like DUDE, SERIOULY! Numbers seven and eight, two senior citizens, didn't stand a chance their bodies crumpled to the pavement like rag dolls probably from heart attacks because these jets of light were no joke. I'm telling you, the other guy, this Black, was one snort away from a fried brain. And the little guy, Pettigrew, didn't care who got in the way, so he's running in circles like some trapped rat. Then I yelled, 'DUDE, CALM THE FUCK DOWN, IT'S NOT THAT SERIOUS!' Don't ask why I did it. I guess the bag of pot I smoked made me feel heroic. I'm not a shame to say it, but I've popped a little mescaline in my time. I don't touch the stuff now except on the 4th July, which makes for the best firework show. Believe me, I know how the trip can be for a first-timer."
An echo of laughter rattled the foundation, and Mervin felt the urge to run.
"And then, after you called for Black to cease the attack, what happened?"
"Well, as anyone should know, you don't wander the streets of the United Kingdom ripped on drugs, so my next thought was to run, especially when I heard sirens, but I was in shock, or something, because I couldn't move a muscle, and the only drug I know that'll do that to you is heroin. I haven't done needles since I was sixteen. But, I'm telling you, Black is a dude that needs to absorb what Nancy Reagan is telling the nation. . .'Just say no'."
"As you were standing there, unable to move, did you begin to comprehend what you were witnessing?"
"Hell no. . .I hadn't fully grasp the situation. . .not at first. I thought it was all the pot and pills I had used. I did pee my pants, if that counts."
"At any time, did you know you were witnessing magical beings?"
"Fuck! I knew there was something supernatural about them. It took this cop, number twelve, to explain his theory on beings from another planet. Close Encounters of the Druggie Kind. So, were they psycho aliens from another galaxy?"
"No."
"I knew cops were fucking clueless. . .well, that's pretty much the nuts and bolts of it."
"You have not said how you died, Mervin T. Creswell Junior."
"Oh yea, I was hit by a car."
"But, you stated Pettigrew caused your demise."
"He's responsible. . .that's what number ten told me."
"In what way?"
"The scenario number ten pieced together made a little sense why I couldn't move. See, when I told the really pissed-off dude, Black, to calm down he pointed his drumstick at me and called me a 'Stupid Fly'. Number ten said he yelled 'Stupefy', but I say different because I've been wasted on mescaline before, and you see all kinds of stupid shit. . . flies, bats, and cats in every color of the rainbow, but the point is I couldn't move."
"And, therefore, your demise was not caused by Pettigrew, but by Black instead."
"Number ten said, when the cops came, the cops being eleven and twelve, Pettigrew caused the their cop car to fly through the air and landed on me. This is the part where the shit hits the fan, Pettigrew blew-up the entire street."
"I see, and so noted. Is there anything else you wish to add?"
"Yeah, more like a question. I didn't live in England. I'm from the United States, and no one knew I was traveling because I had heard, through my connections, I could get a kilo of some really good—never mind that part isn't important now—what I wanted to know is how will they notify my family about my death?"
"No need to be concerned. There is a note here stating your family's memories have been modified, and they will have no recollection you ever existed. You may enter now."
"Wow. . .modified. . .that's wicked!"
"One last thing, will I have my own cloud?
"Why do you want a cloud?"
"I was thinking a cloud of my own would be totally awesome, especially since I have this radial tattoo of a nine on my forehead. You know like the lyrics 'I'm doing fine up here on Cloud Nine'. . .I'm in Heaven, right?"
"Not exactly, however, at first, you will smoke a great deal."
The End.
A/N:
I have to confess. I got this idea from one of my reviewers, asking if I'll write a short story about the incident that landed Sirius Black in Azkaban, and thought it was a brilliant idea.
As we all know, Pettigrew killed twelve people that day in broad daylight, then faked his death, and went into hiding as Scabblers. So, I thought what if one of the twelve bystanders (dead, of course) told the story to someone in charge of his journey onto the afterlife? I tried spiking it with my warped sense humor, and this is the finished product. Thanks you for reading, I hope you had a laugh. Humor should be served on chipped plates and with lots of grins