One glorious sunny day, one of of the 1%, despite paying billions to stay alive, died. There was the customary phony wailing and gnashing of teeth as greedy relatives and fake friends gathered in hopes of filching some monetary treasure . Mr. One Percent, minus his bloated corporeal body, got to hear how the self serving parasites in his life really felt about him. They whispered among themselves of how the old bastard spent their inheritance on eye candy E.D. drugs and hostile takeovers. Suddenly, as the mounting sarcasm reached a crescendo Mr. One percent felt his mist form catapult skyward. Faster and faster he sped through the heavens. He came to a stop in front of a large golden gate with an ancient bearded man standing at an immense podium. A stern St. Peter flipped a few pages of a huge book running his finger down a list comparing whatever you do for the least of these and whatever you do for yourself and frowned. He then pointed to a fiery hole that just opened up and nodded at Mr. One Percent.
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