A Christmas Cloning

With a whimsical "ding", the reanimation bed finished its task, and out popped a freshly-baked clone of Charles Dickens.

"Where am I?" I asked, confused at the strange surroundings. Last I remembered, I had… I had died. Was this heaven? Or hell? A strange-looking man in white robes loomed over me at the foot of the long, strange bed.

"Hello, Mr. Dickens. I'll bet that you have many questions, but we'll get to those in time. For now, please rest a moment while I get my supervisor."

For waking up post-death in a strange new world, I was surprisingly calm. Perhaps this was heaven, then?

As I lay there, I took in the room. A strange box sat on a desk in one corner and a row of the strange coats were hung in the other, under a large rectangle box mounted to the wall. Directly next to the bed I was in were several other beds shaped like coffins - or perhaps they were coffins, laid flat with the lids off. In a few minutes the angel returned with a different man in a white coat, this time with a pronounced limp. Could angels get injured? It was a sobering thought.

"He's properly awake, Mr. Doherty," the assistant-angel said. "This wasn't supposed to work so fast. I'd be cautious. He may be missing memories."

Mr. Doherty scoffed at that. "Kid, you've only been working here for… what, three months? Lay off a bit, especially to your superiors."

The assistant's cheeks flushed red in embarrassment. "Sorry, Mr. Doherty, I thought you told us-"

Mr. Doherty pointedly grinned at the assistant, then he laughed. The assistant awkwardly joined in a few heartbeats later, obviously rattled.

"No, but seriously. It's a bit of a pain in the ass for you to be so-"

"Good Gravy!" I croaked from the bed. Since when were angels so foul-mouthed? A sense of terror gripped me. What had those beds contained? Oh, god. Oh, god almighty. I wasn't in heaven. Far from it. I was in hell, and this was the devil. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no-

Mr. Doherty cursed again. "Ah, shit. Shut it down. You were right. He's not ripe. Put him back, Mccafferty."

Mccafferty rushed over to the aged writer's bedside, and injected him with a syringe of cyanide.

"Wait, no, just the- Damn." Mccafferty looked up. "What?"

"No, no. You were fine. I was hoping we could inject him with sleeping drugs 'stead of killing him. The suits wanted him ready for the Christmas Parade next month."

Mccafferty frowned. "That's against protocol. Aren't these stiffs supposed to be given something like a year in advance to acclimate to modern society?"

"Well, life doesn't always work out that way, kiddo."

"God bless us, everyone." Mccafferty grumbled.