“It’s a quiet January afternoon in O’Hooligan’s Irish pub in Heaven. There’s a rambunctious character sitting at a table surrounded by cronies doling out free pints to him. He’s singing and yelling and generally holding court.
Quietly, a small, wizened old geezer wearing a leather biker jacket and a faded Iggy Pop T-shirt walks into the pub and ambles over to the table. The place falls silent.
‘Oh, flip.’ (He’s been waiting for this. Fixes best smile and turns around, expecting the worst.) ‘Yes, God?'”
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