PEARLYGATES@%*!25ŽoUch
‘Wrong password, my son.’
‘By much?’
‘Much or little - a wrong password’s a wrong password.’
‘I understand that in your line of work you must deal in absolutes, but can’t you give me a clue where I went wrong? By how many characters am I out?’
‘It’s beyond my paygrade to answer that. Let’s just say you weren’t even close.’
‘Do I get another go?’
‘You get two more goes.’
‘And then?’
His face clouds over. He is a kind man doomed to carry a heavy golden key and break the hearts of innumerate applicants, but he is no chatbot. He looks away. I think I detect a tear forming in the corner of his stony eye. But I notice his finger droop in the direction of the netherworld. The road to Hell is paved with mislaid passwords. . .
A consolatory thought occurs to me. Could it be that Hell is the only destination for which no papers, no usernames and no passwords are required?
But how cruel an irony in that case, if release from digital tyranny, from officiousness, from pedantry and from paperwork, comes at the cost of burning for all eternity. . .
I am always reluctant to lower the paywall. But imagine, reader, that you are me and I am St Peter. I am only doing my job. The days of free entry into anything are numbered. To get into Paradise we either need to be well connected or remember our password. The other way is to pay a small subscription…