Night on top of the mountain of Purgatory.

tWBS: So, what’s gonna happen?

Senor: Beats me. After all, I’m not gonna be with you. All I can do is watch.

tWBS: Wait, seriously? You can’t come and watch? But which commenter’s going to escort me through all of Heaven?

Senor: Why would you want us to escort you through Heaven? You’ll be there already, and I don’t know, someone’ll probably give you the grand tour. Probably still not St. Peter, and he’s probably busy.

tWBS: Purification or absolution or whatever, I’m still mad at him.

Senor: I mean, yeah. I’m a little mad at him too for putting you through all this, but I sincerely hope you learned something. But, um, he still wouldn’t let you in because something with “having to say you believe in God” or something like that, right?

tWBS: Shit, you’re right. What if I can’t come in because I haven’t said those words?

Senor: I’ve got an idea. Sing along. Oh, Herr Mozarrrrt!

tWBS: That sounded lovely, of course, but what good did it do?

Senor: Well, he never said it had to be in English.

tWBS: Senor… what did you just do?

Senor: Well, the Credo says pretty much what St. Peter contractually mandated you to say. So… I guess it counts and he can’t use it against you if he wants to play hardball letting you in.

tWBS: I suppose you’re right. Thanks.

Senor: Hey, you have a moment where you might be able to loophole Heaven, you take it, because you’re probably not gonna get another opportunity. With that out of the way we should probably go to sleep, right? We can’t actually wander around, because (he tries to lift his leg to walk forward) Purgatory bylaws and all that. Still wack, I mean we’re at the top of the mountain and everything?

tWBS: Yeah, I know. Who knows what’s waiting tomorrow…

Senor: Good night, buddy.

Senor closes his eyes, but once tWBS is fast asleep opens them, gets up, and kneels by tWBS.

Senor: I’m still trying to find the right tune. I hope I can find it before you go.

In paradisum deducant te Angeli:
in tuo adventu suspiciant te Martyres,
et perducant te in civitatem sanctem Ierusalem.
Chorus Angelorum te suscipiat,
et cum Lazaro quondam paupere aeternam habeas requiem.

May the Angels lead thee into Paradise:
may the martyrs receive thee at thy coming,
and lead thee into the holy city of Jerusalem.
May the choir of Angels receive thee,
and with Lazarus, who once was poor, mayest thou have eternal rest.

Amen.

…There is a song I do know, though. That’s been written.

He does what he can to not sob… too loudly.

Senor: Good night, buddy. See you in the morning.

The next morning.

tWBS: Hey, Senor, wake up.

Senor: Muh?

tWBS: It’s morning. And nobody’s here yet.

Senor: That’s impossible, you’ve been absolved from sin, you’ve made the choice to ascend to Heaven… you have, right?

tWBS: Uh…

Senor: Dude!

tWBS: I mean, I think so. But look how peaceful it is here! I had a dream about a young girl who made me a flower crown. And I put it on! When would I ever wear a flower crown?

Senor: I mean you’re not wearing it now, but sounds like a wholesome AF dream.

I know you’ve enjoyed this journey, and I’ve enjoyed it too, finally getting the chance to chill with you, but… it’s time. You know it, I know it… there’s nothing else here.

tWBS: You’re right. But… what if nobody comes?

Senor: Have some faith. Just chill here, I’m gonna hit up that conveniently located coffee stand on the bank of that river. You want anything?

tWBS: Yeah. Small, black.

Senor: Not gonna say anything about that!

tWBS: Asshole!

Senor walks to the nearby coffee stand, The Riverbank.

Senor: Of course. Use the water from the Lethe which washes away all sin, and… yup, the so-called “Heavenly Coffee.”

A sign on the stand says “We proudly serve Chock Full O’ Nuts (The Real Kind)”

Senor: The real kind?

Barista: Do you really think they’d serve the true heavenly coffee on Earth?

Senor: Y’know, that’s a good point. Anyway, I’ll take a small black coffee, and a medium London fog…

He looks down for her nametag and realizes she is absolutely gorgeous. Think Alexa Bliss, but less likely to murder you, combined with a slight hipstery look.

He does get a glance of the nametag though… Beatrice. He gives a smirk, like he’s finally figured it all out.

Senor: …actually, make it a Dublin Fog. Unless you have Scottish Breakfast, in which case, Glasgow Fog? Edinburgh Fog? Does it have a name?

Beatrice: Edinburgh Fog is a type of dessert, so I would probably call it a Glasgow Fog. So, one medium Glasgow Fog and one small black coffee, coming up!

Senor: Uh, what do I owe—

Beatrice: Don’t worry about it. (She gives a wink.)

Senor waits for the drinks. He has an idea of what he must do.

Senor: Hey, Seamus, there’s a table. We can sit there instead of you waiting for your coffee on the ground like a schlep.

tWBS: All right.

Beatrice: Glasgow Fog for Senior!

tWBS: (still oblivious to the barista) Ha!

Beatrice: And a small black coffee for Seamus.

tWBS: Oh, yeah, tha— (he finally sees her) Oh my God.

Beatrice: Hmm, took you long enough.

The coffee stand suddenly becomes engulfed in a white light, and a booming thunder clap resonates.

tWBS: Dafu—

When it subsides, the coffee stand is gone. Beatrice the barista is wearing a fairly simple white dress, but it does have a veil, and she’s riding on a chariot carried by what looks like a griffin. tWBS at this point has dropped his coffee, on account of not having a moment to put it on the table, which unlike the rest of the shop is somehow still there. Which is nice because it’s holding Senor’s drink.

Beatrice: (Turns to tWBS) Come on, stop gaping like a child, what did you expect, St. Peter?

tWBS: That dick.

Beatrice: Exactly, you knew he wasn’t going to be the one rolling out the red carpet! That’s where I come in.

tWBS: But who are you?

Beatrice: My dear, you’ve got a long time to get to know me. But I promise it’ll be worth it in the end.

tWBS: I do like where this is going!

Beatrice: Guide, thou art relieved of thy duty. I thank thee for that noble service thou hast produced.

Senor: Thank you.

tWBS: Senor…

He looks crestfallen, knowing that this time, he is saying good-bye to everyone and everything. Beatrice begins to chide him for being weepy right before entering Heaven, but stops.

Beatrice: There’s no time or place here to weep, not here, where all are joyful. But I understand the gravity of the moment. Thus, any guilt, any grief you may still have, let it out while he’s still here.

tWBS: You’ve helped me as much as I helped you. And, yes, especially thanks to this. Thank you, my friend. For all of it. And thank Balls too, but tell him he’s an asshole for leaving.

Senor: I mean that goes without saying. I’ll still be on top of the mountain to watch this, because why wouldn’t I, and also I’m not entirely sure how to get down. But… this is farewell.

May the Lethe wash you of sin and pain, and may the Eunoe strengthen the good deeds to your name.

Take care of him, Beatrice. For all of us.

Take care, buddy. Be good.

Senor steps away from the pair, knowing that they will soon ascend. And with that, the last link to the world is gone, and tWBS belongs to the heavens.

Please join us next week for the epilogue, and the conclusion of our saga.