Renato was dying. Again.
The sensation of leaving the body was something he knew well by now. It was a mix of floating in cotton candy and the regret of eating gas station sushi.
As his soul detached from the mortal shell of a mid-level public servant, the heart monitor flatlined. But instead of the melancholic beeeeep of death, it made a different sound.
It sounded like a supermarket scanner.
BEEP.
"Register 4 is open," Renato thought, feeling a momentary peace. "Finally. No more spreadsheets. No more bosses with coffee breath. No more credit score notifications."
But the Universe is not just cruel. The Universe is corporate.
Renato entered the Tunnel of Light.
But the light flickered.
It buzzed like a dying fluorescent tube in a DMV waiting room.
There were no angels. There were no harps.
There was only the sound of a 1994 Dot Matrix Printer.
SCREE-RAW-CLUNK-ZZZZZT.
From the existential void, a rectangle of brown paper materialized. It had perforated edges and a barcode that seemed to vibrate with pure malice.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: NEW INVOICE GENERATED]
CREDITOR: Cosmic Entropy & Collections Ltd.
DEBTOR: Renato (Social Security: VOID)
AMOUNT: Your Sanity + Compound Interest since the Big Bang.
DUE DATE: Yesterday.
"No..." Renato's soul stammered. "I canceled the gym membership! I sent the registered letter! I swore an affidavit!"
The invoice did not answer with words.
The black lines of the barcode stretched out like squid tentacles. They wrapped around Renato's astral neck.
A voice, sounding exactly like an automated customer service bot, echoed in his skull:
"Your request is being processed. Please hold the line for the next incarnation."
Life #2: Ancient Rome (50 A.D.)
Renato was now Renatus, a humble slave polishing the sandals of a corrupt Senator.
He thought he was safe.
There was no Wi-Fi. There were no PDF files.
But during a feast in honor of Bacchus, a Centurion entered the hall. He wasn't carrying a sword.
He was levitating a 300-pound marble slab.
The stone tablet floated in the air, defying gravity and logic. Chiseled into the rock, with laser-like precision, was a QR Code made of intricate geometric mosaics.
"By Jupiter's Spreadsheets!" Renatus screamed. "Is that the cancellation fee for the Public Oratory course I quit in my last life?!"
The marble slab rotated. It had motion sensors.
Renatus ran. The slab followed, smashing through Doric columns like a bulldozer.
[STATUS: DECEASED]
Cause of Death: Flattened by a Marble Invoice.
Debt Status: Transferred to next of kin (You).
Life #3: Feudal Japan
This is where things got visceral.
Renato was Kenji, a disgraced Ronin. He sought the void. He sat in the lotus position atop a mountain, closing his eyes.
"Your free trial of 'Inner Peace' has expired," the wind whispered.
Kenji opened his eyes.
The cherry blossom petals falling around him weren't pink.
They were yellow thermal receipt paper.
Thousands of them drifted down, covering the ground.
Tax on Unfulfilled Dreams: ¥ 5,000.
Fee for Existing: ¥ 10,000.
Panicking, Kenji decided to end it on his own terms. He drew his tanto dagger to commit Seppuku.
"Farewell, world of fees!"
He plunged the blade into his stomach.
But blood didn't come out.
Black ink did.
Gallons of thick, oily printer toner sprayed from his wound, staining the pristine white tatami mats. Kenji watched in horror as his own life fluids rearranged themselves on the floor to spell out a message:
[ERROR 404: HONOR NOT FOUND]
[INSUFFICIENT FUNDS FOR HONORABLE DEATH]
Kenji died choking on toner, transforming into a human rubber stamp that read "REJECTED."
Life #6: Neo-Tokyo (2099)
Renato was a Hacker.
"I will delete the debt from the Source Code of the Universe," he roared, jacked into the mainframe.
He found the file: ETERNAL_DEBT_FINAL_V7.EXE.
He clicked DELETE.
The computer laughed. It wasn't a human laugh. It was the sound of a cash register drawer slamming shut on fingers.
Suddenly, Renato's hands began to tingle.
He looked down.
His skin was turning gray and rubbery. His fingertips flattened.
His hands had mutated into giant notary stamps.
One hand said "COPY". The other said "VOID".
He looked out the window.
The neon sky turned dark. It started to rain.
Not water.
It rained invoices. Millions of tons of paper buried the futuristic city. Renato suffocated in his apartment, his lungs filling with fiscal data.
Life #7: The End of Time
The Universe was dead.
The stars had burned out.
Renato floated in the absolute void. Just a consciousness in the dark.
"It's over," he whispered. "No matter. No banks. No post office. Physics has been revoked. I won by attrition."
DING.
The sound of a service bell shattered the silence.
A tear opened in the fabric of reality.
God didn't step through.
A Giant Paperclip appeared.
It had googly eyes made of hellfire and eyebrows made of rusty wire. It floated in the nothingness, looking at Renato with passive-aggressive condescension.
"It looks like you are trying to end Existence," the Paperclip boomed. "Would you like some help renegotiating your payment plan?"
A scroll of infinite light unrolled across the dead cosmos.
[THE APOCALYPSE INVOICE]
Item 1: Space-Time Occupancy Fee.
Item 2: Penalty for Breathing too loudly (Life #5).
Item 3: That Gym Membership from 2024.
TOTAL: The Mass of a New Universe.
"How is this possible?!" Renato screamed. "Time doesn't exist anymore!"
The Giant Paperclip leaned in close.
"The Universe only expands because it is running away from Me, Renato. The Big Bang wasn't an explosion. It was tax evasion. I am the Auditor. And I always collect."
"I have no money!"
"We accept Soul Transfer. Sign here."
Renato, defeated, touched the glowing terminal.
[TRANSACTION APPROVED]
An explosion of energy occurred. A new Big Bang, funded by Renato's suffering.
Galaxies formed. Planets cooled.
On a small blue planet, in a gritty industrial city, a young man named Renato woke up screaming.
"Mercy..." he gasped, checking his hands. They were flesh, not rubber stamps. "I dreamt I was a samurai bleeding ink... I need to stop eating spicy food before bed."
He got up. The sun was shining.
He walked to the door to get the mail.
There was a brown envelope on the floor.
Renato froze.
He opened it.
[NOTICE OF RENEWAL]
Product: Life Premium™ (Infinite Loop Package).
Note: Due to high demand, your soul has been locked into a 12-month loyalty contract.
Renato stared at the paper.
The barcode winked at him.
And deep in the back of his mind, he heard the rusty laughter of a Paperclip.
"Oh no."
Renato grabbed a pen to sign the receipt.
The pen exploded in his hand.
Blue ink covered his fingers.
And it didn't stop flowing.