Level's End
Short story
A crowd had gathered by the gates. News of the famed footballer Rubinho Caprese’s death had spread like the smoothest butter on a curling sheet - one hushed stroke just seemed to go on and on into icy eternity. There was a palpable excitement in the air. He was dead. The man, the legend. Praise be!
He would be here soon.
His smile entered heaven seconds before the rest of him. It shone like a trillion moons, glistening against the idyllic world gated next to him. The assembled masses whooped and cheered with great anticipation, unafraid to display their pride despite it being really frowned upon in the Ts and Cs of eternal residence. God would forgive them of course, that was His thing. But for a brief second, God’s love played second fiddle to this man who they saw as His finest creations.
Status was supposed to mean nothing in the afterlife. Here, these were just souls now, blesséd sure by having made the cut, but no more blesséd than any other, having all shed their scruples on entrance to paradise. Equals on paper, their souls had all balanced for moral purity against the universe within which they had toiled and suffered. The great artists were esteemed no more highly than those who toiled anonymously all their days for little reward - filing admin, cleaning toilets or whatever it was they did - if they could not harm a fly.
Caprese stepped towards the gates, ready for his judgement. There was a touch of jealousy in the air; very rare these days when St Peter was overshadowed by a potential new apostle. But my god the man could score a goal - and he wasn’t shy of a pass as well. Heaven knows he could even tackle. Plus he was handsome to boot, and reportedly kind. Surely, he was a shoo-in.
“Let’s see how you did,” a great booming voice in the sky pierced through the general hubbub and focused the minds on what they were about to witness. No chit-chat or explanation from the gatekeeper of ceremonies tonight - he treated this as every other, though few would begrudge him his slightly newer, and more crisply ironed thawb. Tonight was a numbers game, and every new statistic revealed itself from on high, greeted like a fireworks display with support enclaves dotted around the crowd.
Rubinho Caprese appeared in the sky in a large, impact font.
Cheers from all quarters, unabashed by the impropriety of such a response. Life up there had the taste of the monastery about it. A glorious monastery, don’t get me wrong, the kind you’d want to spend all your days in forevermore. Every whim was met even before whimming; conversation flowed eternally, with ideas of the highest calibre brimming from every cranny. But every day - which never ended by the way, one could sleep at any moment, close your eyes and be blissfully rested for as long as you’d desire - the same souls met one another and praised their joys in the same humble way. But someone of the quality and skill of the great Caprese, double World Cup winner and multi golden-bootist in various club competitions, really did turn some heads. He was the natural heir to Maradona’s great legacy; combining the feet of Pele, the poise of Best, the vision of Cruyff, the power of Ronaldo, the genius of Messi, the obsession of the other Ronaldo and the soul of Sol Campbell. All this, wrapped up in a neat bow and kissed by a very attractive woman. God’s gift to football would not be an understatement.
Goals Scored: 773
There was a great eruption of joy from the crowd, the bureaucratic arm of the Gods with some shameless fan service. Not everyone arrived at the gates and had their goal scoring record displayed for all and sundry. He was playing to the firmament and they loved it. A short highlights reel of some of the best goals Caprese had scored appeared beneath the figure; from his most famous overhead kick in a tense World Cup semi-final, to delightful training match goals and even a free kick he took at school where the ball curled almost impossibly around a wall and inside the post. This was the goal, the one that nabbed him his first semi-professional contract - scouts happened to be in attendance for their own sons playing in the opposition - and after scoring this he was fast-tracked to a European academy where he started to make a name for himself.
St Peter calmed the assembled masses down to bring them back down to heaven. There couldn’t be seen to be any impropriety about this process - no favours, only facts.
Age the clouds thundered peacefully.
Not much had been shared about his death, except the rumblings of a few die hards who had been watching him late one night on Life-cam™. Times had changed from those first days of yore. Back then, when God first opened up His kingdom to the faithful, He realised the dead still wanted updates. And so everyone would crowd round a pool of mercury which reflected back on the viewer the moments of human history that they wanted to share in. As civilisations fell and new communities rose to prominence, there was a lot of disagreement - perfectly amicable you understand, but disagreement nonetheless - over what exactly they should all watch. Before any schisms appeared, God himself intervened, and iterated on the concept as he often did - His ideas and creations often evolved like that. He spoke the words ‘Life-cam™’ and Life-cam™ was born, and the angels sang His praises. With the creation of Life-cam™, officially logged into the record books as day 2,190,041, each could now choose to watch whoever they wanted. Whether they sat alone and stared into a puddle, or joined by friends sharing a hangover-less wine around a silver pond, the footage displayed could be dedicated to a single soul of their choosing and even re-positioned for the best possible view.
For great events, God carved out entire lakes to sustain the assembled crowds, all of which could see what took place in Crystal IK - a resolution so pure that it featured just shy of an infinite pixels. Of course, given so many South Americans had landed on these clouds - the religion of the region tipping the scales in their favour - the International Soccer Tournaments were a great cultural event in the skies as they were on earth, and the conversations overflowed with praise for Rubinho’s skills. In so doing, God was pleased. For Rubinho’s skills were the work of Rubinho’s feet, and those feet God had moulded himself from a sort of soft grey clay condensed from wisps of cloud. Well done God.
Needless to say, some select few sat alone to watch not only his great skills on the pitch, but off of it too. Though he was gifted a wand of a left foot, he was also blessed with a massive member, and he was just as capable of waggling that around too. And once again, God was pleased. For Rubinho’s gifts had been chosen by God himself in all His complexity. No one liked to dwell on how long God spent personally crafting the genitals of His creations. But He had all the time in the world, and He was nothing if not thorough.
The numbers spun up and rested finally on 39.
There was a slight gasp at this reveal, as many had expected the years had run away from them, and that this man was far older than would be expected. Rubinho himself looked a little sheepish at this reveal, suggesting he may have embellished his age at some point to appear younger than he was to gain advantage in the extremely competitive academy system. A harmless lie which bore fruit for a tremendous player in the modern game.
Not everyone was surprised at how young he was. Those who followed his after-hour exploits on Life-cam™ had, quite unintentionally, tuned in to see the man asphyxiate by his own hand. Few had believed them, despite the act of lying being a phantasmic impossibility in heaven. But this was to be expected as they were the faithful - it had been faith which had led them here, and faith based on evidence was hardly faith at all. Therefore to take anything on evidence is to pre-suppose power and authority over God, and few would stick their neck out to claim that. Besides - Caprese was really good at football, so they had little choice but to be in awe and expect that he hadn’t killed himself trying a particularly fruity hand shandy into non-existence. Instead, they chose to believe he had died heroically, or simply by the confluence of factors beyond his control, no doubt touching upon the humble life of a beggar who he had valorised in a final act.
No matter, here he was, his heart awaiting the greatest test of all, and age was no metric by which a soul should be measured, merely a context for the numbers to come - surely his essence would surpass the requirements set out in stone?
Chickens Consumed
This third statistic was not, to most minds, an obvious pillar of eternal salvation, but revealed it was. The numbers flicked up like the dial of an old mileometer, while feathers flittered out playfully.
11,112
The last 2 turned from a 1 just at the final moment, having slowed to a crawl. This misdirection led the assembled crowd to veer from unbridled elation to an emphatic groan of disappointment. The sheer volume of chickens was unbecoming in what was an almost entirely vegan society, though some licence was available for sportsmen who required a considerable protein intake. However, missing out on a palindromic number (which would warrant an instant approval) was seen as an entertaining betrayal. If only that greedy Caprese had eaten one less chicken in his life…
A heckler some 500 meters from the front called out “Just one wafer thin chicken, monsieur”, which tickled the apostles greatly. The reference was lost completely to most of the enlightened that heard it.
Bodycount
The words lingered in the air. It was an ill-defined concept, God would be the first to admit, but the general consensus was hand jobs and up. This had been decided by an esteemed committee who at some point in the last several millennia just wanted to get in the weeds and define the boundaries. When they requested the meeting, God smiled. That bloody fruit. Eve had been such a fool, but then again, He had made her a fool. He knew she would fall for the snake - because, and he would be the first to admit this, He had made the snake. And He knew she would struggle with the test, because He had made the test.
He actually felt a bit bad about it - one moment she was trying a cheeky kumquat for the first time and the next she was devastated to realise she was completely butt naked and flaps to the wind. Thankfully they’d been made with smoking hot bodies, otherwise the shock would have been more severe. The worst part for her had been the farting - in an instant, after one lapse of judgement, she was suddenly aware of her bodily functions; before it just sort of happened and neither her nor Adam were really aware of it all. The first few times it had really taken her by surprise, and she had to run off and hide in a bush to fart in that in case something else was coming out. They laughed about it since then of course; it wasn’t like He hadn’t left a gnarly guff or two in her company - it was one of His favourite things to do. He had invented them after all. Day 19, though he didn’t tell anyone to write it down. He had farted, and it was good.
The numbers rose exponentially, and the audience gasped. One thousand, ten thousand - up and up it went, mouths agape - nearly hitting a million! But then it started to fall again - the sense of relief was palpable. They liked to have fun up here, especially with the numbers. A few of the sage devotees to the Caprese Life-Cam™ nodded appreciatively - they had a number in mind.
402
The number was greeted with spontaneous laughter. This hurt Caprese. He thought his his obscenely high seduction rate would impress, especially these dweebs. Of course, in these parts, it was virginity and purity which bore the most bounteous fruit. Many up here were virginal still, and although on paper they were only here as part of a package offered to martyrs, the vibes were far more chill. Sex still existed, but it was a more wholesome activity than on earth. As such, many renounced their sexuality in preference of more godly pursuits like lyre-playing and biscuit eating. This meant that many of the previously gifted virgins remained as such without any of the attached strings they were expecting - and had essentially snuck into paradise on a technicality. God knew of course, it was this way by design. Virgins are much less likely to ruffle feathers and with most removing their gonads within a few weeks of arriving - dangly protrusions that just get in the way of a nice cycle through the clouds - their allure kept the marketing department happy.
Men Kissed (except Dads): 1
This was like a penalty missed; the assembled crowds clenched their teeth and sharply in-took their breath, some holding their heads in the hands, many more turned around as they could not bear to watch. One guy was dressed as a knight from the crusades, but it wasn’t fancy dress - and he too was visibly disappointed, even only through the small chink of a gap in his helmet.
“No, please, you don’t understand”, Caprese begun but his protestations were drowned out by the crowd. This wasn’t a homophobic space these days, but this sort of thing raised eyebrows if deemed frivolous or outside of an edifying intent. Not because of anything crude you understand - the issue was more to do with paperwork.
“Hush”, the great booming voice called out again “the numbers will reveal themselves”.
Dedicating your life to another is the purest form of love, they reasoned, and the one thing God could not cater for (or so he claimed) was who one loved. He could of course, He was God, He could do what he liked, but He chose to performatively draw a line at love. Maybe He’d dabbled once or twice to keep things ticking along smoothly, casually injecting the universe with a touch of fate here or there, but who’s counting? Peter was, obviously, but He wouldn’t give the game away. But in the sphere of same sex kissing, engaging in the act for no other reason than lust was looked down upon, regardless of the um, ‘configuration’ involved (with the caveat that some of it was quite a bit icky and gross for the kinds of souls assembled - they were more into salvation than salavation). Simply put - few endorsed the pursuit of the seedy entanglement of tongues. The next stat would clear things up.
Men kissed in a wholesome way (including Dads) 2
There it was. Great celebration. Obviously he had kissed his dad, not only as a young man but on his death bed, though it ended up being more of a death couch. Seeing his lifeless body had brought him to tears, and he had nothing left in him but to place a kiss on the cold thick skin that still wrinkled in a frown.
The other man had been on the pitch. In celebrating their country’s first international success ever, the emotions had overcome them. He had kissed a defender called Rafael Blot, moments before the referee had blown his whistle for full time, had slid from 20 yards to stop a ball dribbling into the goal. Without his incredible acrobatics, the game would have been gone. He had kissed him in the moment after lifting the cup so far above his head he thought his arms would take off. The footage of the kiss played out beneath the stat, and the crowd cheered.
Caprese was quite shocked by this reveal however - he and Blot had also kissed quite passionately in the hot tub afterwards, including a bit of a fiddle together below the bubbles. Clearly this had counted as wholesome too - perhaps the feelings he had had were more than just in the heat of the moment, and had been suppressed… even from him. It was quite a revelation. To be standing here of all places, before St Peter himself at the gates of heaven, and realise that, actually, you might have been a bit gayer than you thought. And then not be punished for it? Humbling doesn’t cover it.
Poor saved
This was the big one. There were many characteristics which united the assembled faithful - but if you had to pin down what it was that defined these souls, it was dedication. To others; to kindness; to bringing joy to the lives of those around them; to enriching life in situations which otherwise seemed fruitless, destined to end without celebration. They brought meaning, and opportunity, hope and possibility to the needy, to those that needed something, anything, to keep them going. There were some amongst their number who had dedicated little to these pursuits, but their contributions lay elsewhere. For the great unwashed (there were plenty of bathing facilities available but without pain, irritation or smell many chose to ignore this aspect of their lives to dedicate instead to the pursuit of loving each other and loving God) their fisrt class ticket in was selflessness and charity.
11
This felt low, devastatingly so. Especially considering how many chickens he’d had the temerity to digest in under 40 years. However, many held their breath awaiting the next measure for clarity. The excited crowd were silenced.
Expected Poor Saved
Ah, this chestnut. xPS. The stat. Though the direct people saved measure separates the wheat from the chaff, it’s a showy measure missing a crucial aspect of kindness - the possibilities placed before the man. Since God developed it in the Middle Ages, xPS™ measured the number of poor who could be saved by an individual based on their circumstance; that is, given the reach and relative wealth and fortune of the soul being measured, how many souls could they have been expected to save if they had made the effort. The old measure was unfairly weighted towards the wealthy who could, in their last acts on earth, throw a few bob out the window and provide enough support to keep a family from destitution at least for the year. This metric accounted for the fact that they could have been doing this the whole time. It had its flaws, and ultimately relied on God to work quite diligently to produce a clean, quantifiable measure that was a realistic portrayal of what could have been achieved as Free Will produced quite a broad spectrum of available options. After all, everyone could dedicate their lives just to giving support to the poor, breaking their own necks to the point of their own destitution - but it’s unreasonable to keep the bar that high.
52,443,000
A nice round number, which encouraged a clap or two of appreciation - but no one could escape that that the figure was quite disappointingly large. Caprese had underperformed his xPS by 52,442,989. A poor conversion rate whatever way you look at it. A lot of the crowd started to file out despondently. They thought it was all over.
Men Killed
Not a good sign. This didn’t even show up unless someone had been killed. Yes, it was the occasional traffic accident, devastating for those involved but on paper tantamount to a rounding error. But even so, all the enthusiasm had sapped from the assembled flock and Caprese knew it; the crowd really started to file out with some velocity. Rubinho started to cuss under his breath and air his regrets. All he had wanted to do in life was bed women and score goals - and he was all out of balls. Why hadn’t he done more off the pitch. His coaches had always told him his off-the-ball work needed improvement, but never had that resonated more than now. Being dead sucked, and that feeling wasn’t going anywhere fast.
1
It was his father again. It had been a complex relationship. One riddled with dissatisfaction. His father had driven him to train, to repeat again and again the same drills and patterns in his footwork, to strive for perfection with every touch of the ball. But in delivering him to the dizzy heights of success in sport, he had also driven something else - a wedge between them. His dad had never hit him, but he was a hamfisted paragraph of legal definitions away something worse, and even so had bruised Caprese’s sense of self even if he had not bruised his skin. One day the pain of a childhood lost to this torture boiled up, and he had placed a pillow over his head while he had passed out on the sofa in a drunken stupor.
God knew. And he would forgive him. His father was not there to see this victory.
Bank Balance: $1,234
This left a mysterious taste in the mouths of those still watching. He had been on six figures a week for years. How had he blown so much money in such a short lifespan? The final measure appeared above them, and even the pleasant run of consecutive digits left a bad taste in the mouth.
Rank: F
The clouds beneath him dissipated. He fell through them, and disintegrating into darkness.
He lay on the floor for what felt like a thousand years. Cold and alone in a darkened room, without so much as the light of a charging phone for company.
“What do you think, my Son?” God or whoever this was that was speaking to him, did so candidly. It was only them together in a quiet, empty room.
He burst into tears. He had loved football. He had loved women. He had hated what he had become and even more he had hated those that had driven him there. It was a mess. Adored across the globe, but loathed by the only person who mattered - himself.
“I cannot let you in. You have been given so many opportunities to improve the lives of those around you, but you did not take them”
“I am sorry. Please send me back so I can try again”
“It’s too late for that” God reassured him, “but all is not lost”
He waved His hand, and in front of them another stat appeared.
Impact
“You may have missed the chance to save millions of people, but you touched lives.” A quick highlights package played of the time he sent signing shirts, talking to kids in training bibs, and offering advice on the pitch to those around him. The image pulled back, to show him on pitch but seen through screens, as people around the world watch on from afar.
“There were many who saw you who you never met, whose lives were changed for the better. Take Emanuelle here.”
A photo of a young boy in a favela sat inches away from a flatscreen TV pinching electricity from a pylon like thousands of others like him.
“This boy never thought he would amount to anything, but when he saw his country not only competing with but toppling the giants of world football - you gave him hope which he took to heart; that confidence blossomed into the courage to apply for a career in healthcare he did not feel worthy for.”
Another photo slid into view
“This lady was brought to the edge when she lost her mother - but your gave the world joy with your goal celebrations, and . She nearly died by her own hand, but instead you got her to dance. She got through those dark days, and eventually became a mother to her own family.”
The video again cut to his charity work.
“You see Mateo here? He grew up to coach a football team in his village. Before he met you, he was failing in his school and would barely have the commitment or focus to listen to a teacher; after he met you, he worked hard and grew up to be a lawyer. He got lucky and was able to build a water sanitisation unit in his village”
“And he wasn’t alone - those 11 souls you saved, all grew up to play their part, maybe not leaders in their industries, but exceeding their circumstances. Because of their work, they were able to improve the lives of many who weren’t even born when you died.”
More images passed through God’s deck.
“Look at this one here - he actually invented a sort of butter that didn’t need cow’s milk but instead distilled purified carbon emissions into a delicious spread which actively lowered cholesterol”
“Were you responsible for saving him? Perhaps. Did you save the thousands who benefited from his work? Maybe. It’s completely incalculable. Even I cannot know who” God lied.
“You had every opportunity in life to do more. You had the world at your feet, and you used your time for folly”
“I am sorry. It was all so much. I didn’t know what I could do. I was ashamed of what I had become”
“And those riches. You squirrelled all that money away into anonymous accounts away, even heaven’s own accountants couldn’t find them”
“I thought that was what I was working towards, and I listened to those around me who said that’s what you did - I came from nothing”
“Someone who knew a life with so little could surely have appreciated the value of so much. And after all that, you left it all behind, keeping only the debt of regret. Of all the writings made in my name - money is not the path to salvation.”
Caprese opened his mouth to protest but he was cut short.
“Don’t make me bring out my needle. We don’t do that any more. I’ve lost too many camels from people desperately trying to make it work.”
Rubinho hung his head sadly.
“…but…
God loved a but. Almost as much as he loved a front butt.
“…I will forgive you”
The stat updated before them. Impact: loads
God loved a last minute forgiveness. He walked Caprese solemnly to a side door. One without a gate glorious with diamonds and pearls, but a small white door with a hastily printed sign on it that said “staff only”, the ‘only’ underlined with a thick hand-drawn marker. He opened it slightly, squeaking the hinge. Inside, there were children, waiting on a pitch, their smiles as wide as the moon. “These are some orphans. God knows where they’ve come from”. He winked.
“These are children who have died before their time, still waiting for their parents to come meet them - or whose parents may never make the cut. You will see out your days training many more like them, providing them with a passion for the game and a reason to keep going, filling their days with the joy you once had for my beautiful game. If you want to of course”
Caprese beamed, and gratefully walked towards the light. God was happy with this karmic resolution, one of His more rounded solutions when a soul had gone astray. He loved to forgive and could never forget.
God slapped him lovingly on the bum, and pushed him through the door.
