"I'm on acid," Parry said. "And I swore I'd never do acid again after the 70s."

"Whatever," the giant caterpillar with the face of Richard Pryor said, taking another hit from his bong. Caterpillar Pryor passed the bong to the white rabbit wearing a disco jacket, who promptly hit that glass pipe and blew a wave of smoke into Parry's face. The rabbit promptly checked its watch and checked out, then passed the bong to Michael Jackson. All three were careful to avoid the tabletop of Doritos, Funions, Cheetos, and cold pizza that covered every inch of the tablecloth.

Parry refused to believe he was where he thought he was. Because if he was where he thought he was, he was royally fucked. The entrance to the Nether, who or what waited for a being, changed based on who died and where, but some things never changed. 

He was 90% sure that the beach of silver sand that stretched on into eternity was normal, as were the golden waves lapping at it in the darkness of night, from an ocean that also stretched onto the horizon. One occasionally had a fog bank rolling in around oneself as well, when one investigated the surroundings too closely. He was on The fucking Shore. The Shore was bad news. Maybe he was just in a coma. He'd escorted a few beings to The Shore back in the day. Caesar showed up to a banquet full of bitches eating honey cakes and drinking wine in an orgy of food. And he'd escorted one guy here for just a few seconds back in the 80s. A cutie pie who'd contracted HIV and didn't have anybody to stand at his bed- Parry walked him in real quick, before any of his colleagues noticed he was on the Shore, and found a display that would make the San Fran Pride Parade stop and go "Okay. No. Just, no."

But the tea party table with giant Caterpillar Pryor, a white rabbit in a disco coat, and Michael Jackson in his glitter jacket and white gloves passing a bong between each other- that was from his own fucked up brain.

"So... I'm dead?"

Caterpillar Pryor took the bong from Jackson in one of his twenty-some arms. "You took two bullets to the liver, one to the right lung, and another grazed your heart. And [i]then[/i] you got turned into a buffet for a clan of vampires before leaving a pint of blood on their carpet." Pryor lit the bong with a snap of his/its fingers, took a long puff, and set the pipe down. "So yeah. You're boned."

Michael Jackson reached for the pipe again with a white gloved hand. "On the plus side, you found a way out of the city before the mummy went nuclear."

Parry had to nod while he considered this. He was out of the city, true. No more Nemsemet to worry about. He could relax, chill for eternity, and have a gay old time. He was a Celestial, which meant he got VIP tickets to eternity by default, right?

Right?

"Not necessarily," said the black-robed, hooded figure with six wings that sat at the head of the table. It extended one glowing hand and took a bag of Funions from the munchy buffet the three hallucinations had set up.

Parry's heart stopped (which, when he thought about it, wasn't really possible because his heart hadn't been beating in the real world for a few seconds at least [or maybe minutes; time was fucked up on The Shore]) as he drank in the sight of Cymriel ripping open a bag of Funions, flaming sword sheathed on one hip, eyes glowing like faint blue stars beneath his hood while he munched on the salty and probably foul tasting snack food. And if Parry was a betting Celestial, he would say that his body peed a little in terror from seeing Cymriel sitting on his Shore.

Right.

Time to settle old accounts.

Parry held one hand out to his left, said "Hit me," to whoever had the bong now (the Rabbit) and took an enormous hit from the hallucinated drug paraphernalia. Thankfully he did feel a buzz kick in when he blew out the smoke, so that was at least working on The Shore. Armed with said bong and a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos the giant caterpillar gave him, Parry put one foot in front of the other, trudging through the sand as Cymriel pulled a chair out for him.

"So," the Seraphic Celestial said between bites. "How was life while you were AWOL? Because I sure as shit hated doing all your work plus mine while you partied it up with the mortals." 

Parry sat down, putting the bag and bong in front of him, and held both hands up in a gesture of surrender as he said "Look Cym-"

"Cymriel," the being snapped. "You should at least do me the courtesy of using my full name when addressing the being you left to do all of your work for six-hundred-fucking years."

"I was [i]gonna[/i] use your full name!" [i]Stuck up asshole, always playing by the books. Probably gonna draft me back into the Cherubix and make me do all the shit assignments. [/i]

"Parry. We're on the gods-damned Shore. Nothing you say or think is private here. Mind yourself [i]or I won't send you back[/i]."