After his death on March 19, Westboro Baptist Church founder and paragon of hate speech Fred Phelps found himself in a beautiful bedroom, laying on a fourposter with a chartreuse canopy over it, a luxuriously patterned quilt under his nude body. "At last," he thought, "my reward."
He awaited God, for, yes, we must all go naked before the Lord. But, instead, in walked a young Rock Hudson wearing a silk kimono, the bottom high enough to reveal bouncing testicles whenever he took a step towards the bed. Phelps was surprised by the Pajama Game-era superstar being there instead of his Savior, but he was also surprised at how peaceful he felt as Hudson approached the bed, took off the kimono, and got into the bed next to him.
"Monty's on his way," Hudson whispered to Phelps, and the self-proclaimed spokesman for a fag-hating deity knew Hudson meant Montgomery Clift. Phelps knew then that this must be paradise, and he felt an abiding satisfaction and peace as Hudson penetrated his anus with a rock-hard cock.
In that moment, being fucked by Rock Hudson while anticipating Montgomery Clift's imminent arrival, Phelps closed his eyes. He felt Hudson withdraw...no, wait, not withdraw...disappear? He opened his eyes to see that he was instead on a wooden platform, surrounded by his followers, all with their signs of condemnation, all pointed at him, informing him that God hated him, stoning him until he died again and awoke in the bed.
This would be his Hell: to have the moment of his greatest pleasure swept away and replaced with pure, punishing viciousness, over and over, for all eternity. Phelps had to admit that it was a damn fine example of damnation.