S.A.M.L.A.R.B Spectral Aquisitons of Material Lands And Resources Bureau

> Moonwalk through the door in celebration.

>Before you leave, as one last act of petulant defiance, piddle in the corner of the room.

>Flip off the TV while it's off to display your dominance.

So many contradicting thoughts buzz aimlessly in your mind! You know you have to follow through the door in order to get some explanation as to where you are...aside from your current explanation of you being dead. Granted that does explain quite a lot but it still seems a bit simplistic. You try to focus on one idea, on one thought, but find yourself unable. You can't take it any more. You move to the TV and punch a hole through the screen, not finding any other way to turn it off due to it's entirely smooth outer surface. You then whip out your John Thomas and begin awkwardly moonwalking towards the door, leaving a golden trail over the beige floor as you do, arms raised aloft throwing the horns in some desperate plea to make you seem less like a man who has suddenly gone extremely senile extremely early. You keep moving backwards, arms held high, until you eventually moonwalk yourself out of the door. You spin with a flourish...and see an entire floor of an office building staring at you...and your John Thomas. The shame. Oh god the shame. If you could kill yourself again, you would. You long for the soft embrace of the snot pillow rather than this undying realm of embarrassment and madness that you've been dropped into. All across the office floor men and women sit behind desks, as beige as the room you were just in, staring disinterestedly at you, staring at the freak. Then, with no warning, they all turn back to their work. Oh god, you're not even enough of an attraction to warrant more than a moment's consideration. You were praying they wouldn't look at you any-more, but now that they aren't you just feel worse. You return your John Thomas to your trousers and seek out the nearest television.

You find it and stand in front of it, wondering if the TV man was going to re-appear. Oddly enough, he does, you are almost comforted to see his insincere grin covering another screen.

“Did you r-r-r-really have to break-k-k-k the other televisi-o-o-n Mr Larbawi-i-tz? I'm no-no-not even going to ask about that little display-ay-a-ay just now, the newly dead are prone to such weirdness...Anyway, your Orientation. This is the GBH!” The image on his screen is replaced by a scrolling image of what appears to be an Office Complex suspended in a soup...a soup made of stars and screaming faces. How do you know they are screaming? You can hear it. You lock that image away in your Nightmare chest to torture yourself with the next time you are trying to sleep. Letters appear over the image reading GHOST BUREAUCRATIC HUB.

“The Ghost Bureaucratic Hub, the centre of all after-lifeless activity.” The TV man's grinning mug reappears on the screen. “When we die, we end up here, by and large. When I say We I mean anything with a soul. Man, woman, particularly intelligent dogs have been known to appear, and an endless array of less mentionable things from across the endless multiverses all end up here in the GBH for categorisation and work assignment. As I've told you already, you have died Mr Larbawtiz but death is not the end, in fact death is the beginning of a constant and soul crushing infinite existence which you can never leave regardless of how much you pray for it. Oblivion was a myth told to you by your parents to keep you awake at night Mr Larbawtiz!” He laughs...you are concerned as to why. “After your orientation you will be handed over to one of the GBH workers to see which department you'll end up in, be that Management, Janitorial staff, Administration, Corrections, Human Resources, Accoun-” He doesn't so much glitch...as much as he entirely crashes. The screen dies suddenly after emitting a horrible screeching sound and a terrible image flashes on the screen for a fraction of a second. You didn't see it, but you know it was there. Then the TV man returns talking as if nothing had happened. “- or our Field Operatives in the S.A.M.L.A.R.B division. Do you have any questions so far, Mr Larbawitz?”

The TV man is grinning at you, waiting for a response. You're standing in a huge office complex just as beige as the last room. Endless sad-faced dead men and women sit hard at a deeply depressing form of work, tapping mindlessly at keyboards each of them trying to work around the grotesque remains of the ways in which most of them died. You notice that the majority of them seem to have committed suicide, if the number of slit wrists, throats, and nooses around necks are any indication. What do you do?

Inventory:

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Accountancy VHS tape with "Mango" style Cat picture.
Shard of glass embedded in head.
Blood (Hands)
A sense of smug self-righteousness

Nightmare Chest:

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An Office Complex in a sea of screaming faces and stars