Back on Al Sirat

“This…Is Dr. Whispurrs with a submission for Alaraf late night ASMR Stories,”
He swerved deliberately between multiple microphones, layering a low, bass rumbling purr beneath his words.

“Today we read this story from another brother called ‘Back on Al Sirat’, the bridge where people are judged pre-emptively two at a time in the express lane for the apocalypse.

There are literally three different versions of Pierre Robert getting absolutely elevated by one of the scale readers out of professional courtesy as a part time music Daeva while the other guy thought Googoosh is the pinnacle of classic rock modernity.

And even if he were anywhere near Philadelphia, which he rarely is, he would not listen without Googoosh being on rotation. I am from Deutschland, dear listeners.”

Dr. Whispurrs dramatically pawsed.

“Anyway. So, for the third time Pierre Robert is brought to the literary bridge Al Sirat.”


—

He arrived this time delivered by a brother skilled in NeuMetal, wearing a dramatic cloak he kept from a prior music video. He worked on campus. The scythe, unfortunately, had been kept by props, so he borrowed one from officer Reichhörnchen.

“My sister’s boss got promoted, so they needed a guy with the right uniform who befriended you to be your escort. This is a family business, you see. Perhaps chosen family in some cases, but the function remains essential and necessary for continued function of the multiverse.”

They approached the mid-continent weighing station.

“Good citizen, you seem familiar more than the usual amount.”

“You interviewed me at least twice per tour, and Russia had me grow a beard for my new album. Man, I am so slammed schedule-wise under this hooded cloak I still have on my day-glow tour tuxedo from my gig in Estonia.”

“It is at the tip of my tongue. I just know it,” Pierre replied thoughtfully.

“At this time I am a Servant of my Lord.”

“OOMPH! I remember now,” Pierre exclaimed.
“So it seems I am going to attend the Grateful Dead show that never ends.”

“Indeed,” the cloaked man replied.
“But first, the weighing station.”

They continued forward.

“No worries. They have three failed drafts of practice before this version of reality. Welcome to North Dakota. You cannot see it, but it remains miles below you. I was delayed due to scheduling conflicts and the first attempt to retrieve you the first agent did not know you, there was no chemistry.”

Pierre slowed slightly.

“…This time?”

“Yes. This time.”

The reaper adjusted his grip on the borrowed scythe.

“You are not the issue. You always pass. The system confirms it each iteration. The problem is the pairing condition.”

“The other guy?”

“Yes.”

They reached the threshold.

“You are weighed against a peer. Comparative evaluation. Who is best in deeds. You pass consistently. The other subject does not stabilize.”

Pierre nodded once.

“That sounds difficult.”
“I will not be the reason it fails again.”

“It is not difficult,” the reaper replied. “It is repetitive.”

“Second time?”

“We do not talk about it. But that aspect of us all had to report on war crimes.”


—

They stepped onto the platform.

“Say thank you when you get to the scales. Do not say much.”

Pierre looked at him.

“I can do that.”


—

The reaper lowered his voice.

“The other subject builds relationships, then removes signal. After that, he edits what remains. Cold War era. BBC adjacent.”

He paused.

“Manipulated programming algorithms across the world. Enabled covert two-way surveillance via radio. Then experimented on the targets himself.

Befriends activist radio operators. Develops proximity.  identifies structural weaknesses… Then, he  withdraws support entirely.   Nasty Piece of work, Retracting licenses. Introducing tailored negative reinforcement patterns into the signal. Music, timing, repetition, doctored cuts with trauma enforcement frequencies.

Drives targets toward collapse that reads as self-attributed.”

The reaper shifted the scythe again.

“He refuses to admit he is dead.”

“Mihr threw him off the bridge twice,” he added. “So we had to replace Mihr.”

Pierre inhaled slowly.

“OH MY GOODNESS, TICK-TOCK TAVISSTOCK IS REAL?”

“Sadly.”

The reaper gestured ahead.

“We also prepared a clock routine. Puttin on the Ritz. It helps destabilize him before evaluation.”

Pierre blinked.

“That seems… theatrical.”

“It is effective.”


—

They arrived.

“Down with the Empire,” said a quite tall, clearly Central Asian man standing next to the scale.

His scythe was magnificently sharp. He had made it himself with steel and broken glass. The added weight made it visibly heavier than standard issue.

Pierre stepped forward.

“Thank you.”

The scale reader did not hesitate.

“Pierre goes straight to Heaven. We are not writing the rest of what happens next to TickTock Tavistock. Khalas.”


—

The older Mohammad Golriz fan next to him looked like he had a headache.

“My sincerest apologies, Pir Robert. May God sincerely bless you the rest of your journey.”

“And the Dead was Grateful.”


—

Dr. Whispurrs closed a large blue book and purred again, low and with reverence.

“That was just part one, but since you are not asleep yet, here is the second part. I promise not to play ‘Piroozi Khojasteh Bad,’ unless you really want it. That is… but you might summon Palace Katzen.”

Dr. Whispurrs began brushing the microphone with his cat brush, producing deliberate, scritching textures.

“Now,” he purred into the microphone,
“Part Deux. Pierre Robear vs. Dj Kashmihr.”

He paused.

“The next part is louder. I will not apologize.”


—

“ABSOLUTELY. NOT. GOOD CITIZEN,” affirmed beloved WMMR DJ Pierre Robear.

“I AM ABSOLUTELY, NOT EVER GOING TO AGREE TO BE A GRIM REAPER.”

Mihr screamed back with visible strain.

“WHAT DID YOU THINK THE GREAT GIG IN THE SKY WITH A BUNCH OF DUDES DRESSED LIKE THE GRIM REAPER AT THE ROSE PARADE? ASTAGHFIRULLAH BOSS.”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH.”


—

Dr. Whispurrs closed the book a second time.

“Pierre had clearly not finished crossing bridge Al Sirat fully to Oakland,” he stated.

“But he was doing a really fantastic job.”

“The Alaraf Accidentally Parsi community has full assurance he will pass the rest of the gates with ease to the Great Gig in the sky.”


—

Then he turned off his microphones, curled up in a pile of soft things that sounded absolutely fantastic on camera, and promptly fell asleep.


—

🐱