St. Peter bowed his white haired head over the huge tome before him, laboriously scrawling names in intricate manuscripts as souls flocked through his pearly gates.

A sharp ding noise made him look up from his ageless work.

A woman was causing the noise; she looked quite sullen and displeased, and was clutching a white purse in her bony cages of hands.

“Manager! Manager!” she cried out, banging on the bell that was protruding gracefully from the cloudy lobby desk.

Infernal thing, St. Peter thought, looking at the bell. He floated down to the counter, adjusting his half moon spectacles.

“Are you the manager?” the woman asked. Not waiting for an answer, she plowed on. “First of all, the colors of the flowers in the fields are horribly wrong! Your angels are completely insubordinate…”

She rambled on, and after a good five minutes of complaining, St. Peter started checking if there was a misplacement concerning the woman.

When he had double checked, St. Peter sighed.

There’s always one.