As we all know, nothing gets you to hell faster than the ol' suicide route. Nevertheless, even self-killers like Ned get their day in court. For Nedward Smith, it seemed that his ever worsening fortune was not about to relent. Upon receiving his nearly instantaneous judgment, he appealed twice only to be shot down directly by the judge himself. You see, there's a wrinkly in the courts of afterlife that allows for the suicider's infinite deferment of his eternal form to the one who's actions directly caused the suicide. 99.9% of the time, the suicide victim is himself the very cause of his horrible imposition. 100% of the time the suicider earnestly believes the fault of his non-livingness lies elsewhere. So it was in this case.
At first, Ned appealed to the appalling manor in which his wife treated him. Spousal dis-allegiance never flies in court. It was swiftly rescinded. Next he petitioned the court that it was the indwelling of a demon that did it -- the dreadful celebration of all things macabre alighting the pestering specter within him. This, like every other demonic appeal was refuted on the grounds that there is a direct appeal offered in life to any suffering soul tormented with spirits unseen -- a higher name by which all are vanquished.
Knowing that the road to salvation was fitfully and irresolvably tailing forever away from him, Ned threw up a Hail Mary (this phrase, of course, merely being used as an idiom; Ned did not offer prayer to Saint Mary, nor did she respond). He claimed that the responsibility for his forsaken mortal shell lies chiefly with a one, Mr. blank Washington (blank because no one actually knows his first name, though my suspicion is that it's 'Jimmy'). It was Mr. Washington who stole away the last of Ned Smith's loans, thus landing Ned bottom-up with his debts, which in turn got his pinkies busted, which added to his wife ousting him from their marriage covenant. This, at long last, caught the attention of the honorable court.
Nedward Smith was heretofore summoned to allocate his eternal form in order for it to be held until the hour that Mr. whoknowswhat Washington would vacate his Earthly copy. Ned then, being left eternally without bodily form, does what most mass-less entities do, float around miserably looking for someone to listen to him.
So it was that sixteen years later, Mr. darngoneit Washington's liver gave out and there was none found to replace it. You can find him to this day walking the halls of hell asking every comer-and-goer (there's quite a bit of commerce down there after all) if he can make a trade for a pair of of unbroke little fingers. When they reply, "No," as everyone in hell always does, he follows up by asking if they've seen a body lying around, one with a dysfunctional liver that goes by the name Mr. Washington. The response in hell is always the same:
"No."
