You walk through the walk through the big, shiny, swinging doors of Hell. It looks like the average 4 star hotel, but has a very sinister aura to it. There I am, the receptionist, sitting comfortably at the front desk and staring at you with my unnerving, horrifically soulless eyes. I have been working this shift for 700 years, and it's almost as if the entirety of my life has just been checking in new customers to live in the great beyond. The line is long, people dying every 7 seconds takes its toll on my mental health. On my desk, it says "Hello, my name is Rick."

"Name, birth date, cause of death, and time of death please."

My voice is cold and sharp tongued, almost as if I'm threatening your life a second time. I sit there, patiently waiting for you to spit out your information so I can type it into my old centuries old desktop.