Jesse Helms in Heaven (A Fantasia):
Frankly, he was as surprised as anyone that he ended up in heaven. Jesse Helms had been sure that all the Christ-loving in the world wouldn't undo the harm that he knew he had done: his support for El Salvadoran death squad leader Roberto D'Aubuisson, about whom he had said, "All I know is that D'Aubuisson is a free enterprise man and deeply religious;" his support for the apartheid government of South Africa and antipathy to the African National Congress and Nelson Mandela; his support of Augusto Pinochet during and after the revelation of the horrific abuses of the dictator's regime. Yes, any of those actions, let alone his bigotry and hatred, should have meant that when his demented, crippled body finally gave out, his corrupt soul would have plunged immediately into the flames of hell for an eternity of being forced to give blow jobs to insatiable barbed-dick demons who'd plunge their spur-topped cocks so deeply into his mouth that they'd rip through the back of his head.
A man may say on earth that he is godly and wants to be embraced by Jesus, but in his heart, oh, in his heart, he knows what kind of man he really is. So, indeed, he thinks as he looks around at clouds and blue skies and halos and angels and peace, yes, yes, peace, what the fuck?
A darkie walks up to Helms, a polite-looking fellow, obedient even. "I'm sure you have questions," says the darkie. Yeah, Helms says, where's Jesus? When the darkie tells Helms that he is the son of God, Helms laughs. Niggers have such a charming sense of humor, always wanting to trick the white folk. "No, really. Look," says Jesus, and he holds up his hands to reveal the wounds. "Want me to make some water into wine or some such shit?"
Helms recoils. Surely, this must be his dementia at work. But then things start to come into focus more and more. He sees white folk walking around with darkies of all sort: porch monkeys, towelheads, wetbacks, all of 'em acting as if it's the most natural thing in the world. And then he notices how they're not just friends, but also lovers. People of different colors kissing and holding hands, happy about it. Still, even worse, are the homosexuals, smiling and waving at the heterosexuals, the straights waving back, seeming, in a word, blissful.
He turns to Jesus. "If you like this, wait for a minute," says the brown Savior. And, as if on cue, everyone is suddenly nude, bereft of robe and wings, and then one of the black and white couples starts miscegenating like there's no tomorrow, just mad balling with cherubs pushing up clouds to give them proper support for their position, a seemingly impossible entwining of legs and arms. Others join in: the gay male couples taking turns bending each other over, the lesbians strapping on dildos named "Saint Peter" and going to town, the straights discovering that they are more flexible in paradise than they ever were on earth. Eventually, the fucking couples, as far as the eye can see, begin to reach out to each other, weaving together into a huge crazy patchwork quilt of an orgy, all races and sexualities merging together, sucking and plunging and coming and going back for more, never tiring, never losing erections or wetness, never getting sore, never needing to stop unless they want to, for, after all, it is heaven. Over on the side, Michelangelo is painting a mural of it all.
An aghast Helms is not so sure anymore about where he is. "Is this hell?" he asks Jesus.
Jesus stares at Helms as if the dead Senator is the most pathetic creature ever created. "No," Jesus says, "In hell, none of this happens. Do you want to see?"
Helms starts to nod, and, before he even finishes his head motion, he finds himself on a stool in a stark white room. In front of him is a glass of water that refills whenever he drinks it. After a while, what might be days, what might be centuries, he realizes that this is it: complete and utter isolation, bathed in whiteness, for all eternity, no one to touch but himself, no one to see but his own reflection in the glass.
Christ appears to Helms, asks him if he wants to come back to heaven. Helms considers for a moment, his mind seared with the memory of the divine fuckfest, and tells his Lord, "No, this will do just fine."