The ship smelt like piss and vomit. To Jack's right this girl wouldn't shut the fuck up about being on the wrong boat. He was drunk. So drunk, in fact, he hardly knew where he was. He knew only so much as he was on a cruise. What he couldn't produce was as to when he booked the trip, boarded the boat, and got smashed enough to wake up in a minor pile of puke. This, sadly, was not an uncommon occurrence for Jack. There was a whole month in 2001 of which Jack has exactly two memories: buying a case of Tennessee Whiskey and eating a can of cat food. He gazed up at the magnificent red smoke stacks. A plume of blackened steam poured out and for a second Jack swore it took the shape of a flower pushing up through the stratosphere. On Jack’s left stood a rather short man in a highly anachronistic black doublet. "Nice jacket buddy," blurted Jack. The man laughed, "I'm afraid I don't get out much these days. It would seem I'm a bit outdated in terms of wardrobe." "It would seem," said Jack less pugnacious than before. Again the man chuckled, but this time in an almost nervous frenzy, "Yes, it would seem so." Quickly he recovered from his fit of giggles and stared earnestly into Jack's eyes. "Jack," he said "I have some bad news." The man in the highly anachronistic black doublet hesitated. It was difficult for him spending eternity as a pyschopomp, one of the somber guardians destined to counsel wayward souls on their journeys to the afterlife. "Jack." He poked around for the right words. "I hate to be the one to tell you this. But the conversation we're having right now is kind of," how can you ever get used to such cruel occupation, "Well this conversation is occurring postmortem." "What the hell does that mean? Post-mortem?" croaked Jack. Oh dear. “Well it's a word inherited from Latin. The post portion, which I'm certain you're aware of, is a prefix attached to many words meaning after or succeeding. And the second part, mortem, is simply the accusative singular form of the Latin words mors or morta meaning bereavement.” "Damnit man just fucking tell me in English." The pyschopomp began to anxiously tick the index finger of his left hand against his temple. He jostled around in the pockets of his frayed black coat. From the depths of the lining he pulled out a handful of grapes. "Hungry?" he asked offering some to Jack. "I feel like I haven't eaten in days." "It's not much but it's all yours," replied the eternal escort. Jack quickly devoured the grapes and sat on a bench near the railing. "You're dead Jack," said the psychopomp passing a glass of water. Jack was unshaken. "I'm sorry. It's really not that bad." Jack drank the glass of water and stood up. He sighed. He also made the necessary cognitive connections to comprehend the meaning of the word postmortem. "Well which way are we headed? Up or Down?"