[highstakeslowmorals]

gabriel  had  seen  a  lot  of  things  since  arriving  in  the  good  place.

a  bottomless  frozen  yogurt  supply?  sure.  an  entire  neighborhood  of  people  having  existential  breakdowns  in  real  time?  hilarious.  but  drunk  karaoke  on  a  whim?  that  was  new.

he  was  nursing  a  drink  (that  he  absolutely  did  not  pay  for)  when  the  poor  bastard  started  belting  out  a  song  in  what  could  technically  be  classified  as  singing.  generously.

gabriel  watched  with  mild  amusement,  sipping  his  drink as  clark  lost  his  mind  over  the  karaoke  machine  like  a  kid  discovering  santa  was  real.  but  then—

“wait,  why  the  fork  can’t  i  say  fork?”

ah.  now  that  got  his  attention.

gabriel’s  eyebrows  lifted  slightly,  a  slow  smirk  creeping  onto  his  face.  oh,  this  was  good.

“oh,  yeah,”  he  drawled,  setting  his  drink  down  and  leaning  back  in  his  chair.  “that’s  a  fun  little  feature  they  got  here.  can’t  curse.  no  f-bombs,  no  s-bombs,  not  even  a  good  old-fashioned  ‘hell’  if  you  say  it  with too  much  enthusiasm.”  he  gestured  vaguely.  “whole  place  is  sanitized  like  a  daytime  sitcom.”

his  smirk  widened  as  he  eyed  the  mic  clark  was  shoving  toward  him.

“but,  uh—”  he  clicked  his  tongue,  eyeing  the  karaoke  machine  like  it  might  physically  assault  him.  “as  much  as  i  respect  the,  uh…  energy  you’re  bringing  to  this,  i  don’t  sing.”

a  beat.  then,  because  he  couldn’t  help  himself—

“but  i’ll  absolutely  judge  your  performance.”

[clarkjpg]

"that makes sense. when i was a kid, our teachers used to tell us that if we cussed, god would cry, and that's where rain came from." clark paused thoughtfully. "the god here is probably different from what we were taught, but still... that might be why the rain got really bad sometimes. i used to cuss a lot."

he laughed. "no, you've gotta sing. you know, back home, our uncles would always sing skyline pigeon by elton john, for some reason, whenever we did karaoke. you remind me so much of my uncle, chris." taking a moment to pause, he said, "i'm not sure what it is. your facial features aren't really the same. you're way taller than him. your voice is different. your hair color is maybe a little bit lighter than his." another pause, then a eureka moment. "wait, no, i know why! i'm pretty sure it's the age! you seem like you're the same age as him."

[highstakeslowmorals]

gabriel  blinked.  once.  twice.

he  had  been  fully  prepared  to  tune  out  whatever  theological  nonsense  was  about  to  come  out  of  clark’s  mouth,  but  then—

“the  god  here  is  probably  different  from  what  we  were taught,  but  still…  that  might  be  why  the  rain  got  really  bad  sometimes.  i  used  to  cuss  a  lot.”

gabriel  stared  at  him,  tilting  his  head  slightly  like  he  was  waiting  for  a  punchline  that  never  came.

then,  after  a  long,  slow  sip  of  his  drink—dead  serious—

“so  what  you’re  telling  me…  is  that  you  think  god—whoever’s  in  charge  of  this  place—just,  what?  cries  every  time  you  say  ‘fuck’?”  he  clicked  his  tongue,  shaking  his  head.  “damn.  real  sensitive  guy.”

but  clark  wasn’t  done.

no,  clark  had  now  shifted  to  deeply  analyzing  gabriel’s  entire  existence,  trying  to  piece  together  why  he  reminded  him  of  some  uncle  named  chris. gabriel  watched  the  mental  gymnastics  unfold  in  real-time,  expression  a  mix  of  mild  horror  and  sheer  amusement.

first,  it  wasn’t  the  face.

then,  it  wasn’t  the  voice.

then,  it  wasn’t  the  height.

and  then—the  eureka  moment.

“wait,  no,  i  know  why!  i’m  pretty  sure  it’s  the  age!  you seem  like  you’re  the  same  age  as  him.”

gabriel  let  out  a  short,  disbelieving  laugh,  shaking  his  head.

“man,  you  just  went  through  every  possible  reason  except  the  right  one—maybe  i  just  remind  you  of  him because  i’m  also  a  guy  standing  in  front  of  you  saying  words.”

a  beat.

then,  with  a  lazy  smirk,  he  leaned  in  slightly,  just  to  mess  with  him.

“or,  you  know.  maybe  i  am  your  uncle  chris.  ever  think  about  that?”

[highstakeslowmorals]

who:  open  starter  (@gpstarters)

where:  neighborhood  cafe

gabriel  had  never  been  a  man  burdened  by  deep  philosophical  questions.

he  didn’t  waste  time  wondering  if  he  deserved  to  be  here,  didn’t  sit  around  contemplating  the  cosmic  significance  of  his  existence.  that  was  a  waste  of  a  perfectly  good  eternity.

so  while  everyone  else  seemed  deeply  concerned  with  why  they  were  here,  gabriel  had  skipped  straight  to  acceptance—and  more  importantly,  opportunity.

at  the  moment,  he  was  loitering  outside  one  of  the  quaint  little  cafés,  sipping  on  a  drink  he’d  absolutely  not  paid  for  (who  was  gonna  stop  him?)  and  watching  people  freak  out  over  their  new  reality  like  it  was  a  spectator  sport.

“i  gotta  say,”  he  mused  aloud,  lifting  his  cup  slightly,  speaking  to  no  one  in  particular  but  loud  enough  that  someone  would  eventually  take  the  bait,  “for  a  place  that’s  supposed  to  be,  y’know—perfect—the  coffee’s  kinda  ass.”

he  took  another  sip  anyway,  grimaced,  and  then  let  out  a  deep,  exaggerated  sigh,  shaking  his  head  like  he  was  deeply  disappointed  in  the  divine  beverage  selection.

“i  mean,  really?  eternity,  and  this  is  what  we’re  working  with?  no  cuban  coffee?  no  espresso  that  makes  you  question  your  own  mortality?  just  this—”  he  swirled  the  liquid  around,  unimpressed,  “beige  sadness  in  a  cup?”

he  leaned  back  against  the  wall,  eyes  scanning  the  street,  looking  for  someone  who  looked  bored  enough,  curious  enough,  or  just  dumb  enough  to  engage  with  him.

“tell  me,  do  they  let  us  file  complaints  up  here,  or  is  this  more  of  a  ‘take  it  up  with  management  when  you  see  them’  kind  of  deal?”

[wwoeo]

"their coffee flavored frozen yoghurt tastes more like coffee than their actual coffee." akihiko agreed with a small amused smirk. "maybe if we catch michael to complain, he can do something about it. he's always so eager to please, that angel." he pointed out an observation he had made. "or maybe ask janet to get you the ingredients." aki shrugged. it seemed to him that, at least in his case, people had to work even harder in heaven than they did on earth. it made no sense at all.

[highstakeslowmorals]

gabriel  let  out  a  low,  unimpressed  hum,  swirling  the  sad  excuse  for  coffee  in  his  cup  as  he  listened  to  akihiko’s  observation.

“see,  that’s  the  real  crime  here.”  he  sighed,  tipping  his head  back  slightly.  “how  does  a  place  that  literally  bends  reality  to  make  frozen  yogurt  out  of  thin  air  still  manage  to  botch  the  coffee?”

he  flicked  a  glance  toward  akihiko,  amused  at  the  idea  of  filing  a  formal  complaint.

“yeah,  sure,  we  could  catch  michael,  let  him  know  our  deep  moral  grievances  about  the  bean  water  situation.”  he  smirked,  lifting  his  cup  slightly.  “or—and hear  me  out—we  could  take  full  advantage  of  janet’s  unlimited  wish  fulfillment  powers  and  just…  request  a  damn  espresso  machine.”

he  paused,  eyes  narrowing  slightly  in  mock  consideration.

“hell,  i  might  just  go  big  and  ask  for  a  whole  coffee  shop.  charge  these  poor  bastards  for  decent  caffeine.  make  it  an  exclusive  thing,  real  high-end.  ‘rojas  reserve’  or  something.”  he  grinned.  “afterlife’s  first  business  mogul.  think  about  it.”

he  took  another  tentative  sip  of  his  coffee,  grimaced  all  over  again,  and  then—dead  serious— “or,  you  know.  we  burn  this  place  down  and  start  over.”

[highstakeslowmorals]

who:  open  starter  (@gpstarters)

where:  neighborhood  cafe

gabriel  had  never  been  a  man  burdened  by  deep  philosophical  questions.

he  didn’t  waste  time  wondering  if  he  deserved  to  be  here,  didn’t  sit  around  contemplating  the  cosmic  significance  of  his  existence.  that  was  a  waste  of  a  perfectly  good  eternity.

so  while  everyone  else  seemed  deeply  concerned  with  why  they  were  here,  gabriel  had  skipped  straight  to  acceptance—and  more  importantly,  opportunity.

at  the  moment,  he  was  loitering  outside  one  of  the  quaint  little  cafés,  sipping  on  a  drink  he’d  absolutely  not  paid  for  (who  was  gonna  stop  him?)  and  watching  people  freak  out  over  their  new  reality  like  it  was  a  spectator  sport.

“i  gotta  say,”  he  mused  aloud,  lifting  his  cup  slightly,  speaking  to  no  one  in  particular  but  loud  enough  that  someone  would  eventually  take  the  bait,  “for  a  place  that’s  supposed  to  be,  y’know—perfect—the  coffee’s  kinda  ass.”

he  took  another  sip  anyway,  grimaced,  and  then  let  out  a  deep,  exaggerated  sigh,  shaking  his  head  like  he  was  deeply  disappointed  in  the  divine  beverage  selection.

“i  mean,  really?  eternity,  and  this  is  what  we’re  working  with?  no  cuban  coffee?  no  espresso  that  makes  you  question  your  own  mortality?  just  this—”  he  swirled  the  liquid  around,  unimpressed,  “beige  sadness  in  a  cup?”

he  leaned  back  against  the  wall,  eyes  scanning  the  street,  looking  for  someone  who  looked  bored  enough,  curious  enough,  or  just  dumb  enough  to  engage  with  him.

“tell  me,  do  they  let  us  file  complaints  up  here,  or  is  this  more  of  a  ‘take  it  up  with  management  when  you  see  them’  kind  of  deal?”

[dearmcria]

maria was disconcerted. she never gave much thought to things like afterlife, concept of heaven and hell and all this bullshit... but if she had believed it, then she certainly never considered getting into the good place. maybe purgatory, sure. (was there even a purgatory? an okay-ish place?). maybe even the bad place downstairs. maybe sunday school did do her some good after all.

she looked at the man beside her, one arched eyebrow. "it's all very... quaint." she couldn't quite hide the distaste in her voice. maria spent her whole life trying to get away from quaintness. now she was living in a place straight out of her mother's wet dreams. ew. "but that's what the good place is supposed to be, i guess. like those expensive vegan places where the coffee is 12 pounds and gross."

"and who do you think management is? non-denominational-god? saint peter in a suit and tie?"

[highstakeslowmorals]

when  the  blonde  beside  him arched an  eyebrow  and  called  it  exactly  what  it  was,  he  let  out  a  low,  amused  hum,  tipping  his  head  slightly  in  her  direction.

“yeah,  real  cozy,  huh?”  he  mused,  taking  a  slow  sip  of his  mediocre  coffee.  “like  a  retirement  home  designed  by  someone  who  thinks  personality  is  a  liability.”

he  gave  her  a  once-over,  grinning  slightly  at  the  barely-hidden  distaste  in  her  expression.

“not  your  scene,  huh?”

not  that  he  could  blame  her.  if  he’d  had  any  say  in  the  afterlife  aesthetic,  it  sure  as  hell  wouldn’t  look  like  this.

then  she  asked  about  management.

that  made  him  chuckle,  dark  eyes  glinting  with  something  sharper,  more  amused.

“management?”  he  repeated,  rolling  the  word  around  like  he  was  tasting  it.  “oh,  i  dunno.  something  tells  me  whoever’s  running  this  place  isn’t  exactly  taking  calls.”

he  lifted  a  hand,  gesturing  vaguely  to  the  eerily  perfect surroundings.

“but  if  i  had  to  guess?”  he  clicked  his  tongue.  “saint  peter  in  a  suit  feels  a  little  too—i  dunno—efficient.  nah,  this  place  feels  more  like  it’s  being  run  by  a  customer  service  rep  on  their  last  nerve.”

he  smirked.  “or  maybe  it’s  just  janet.  all-knowing,  all-powerful,  and  definitely  not  getting  paid  enough  for  this  bullshit.”

[highstakeslowmorals]

who:  open  starter  (@gpstarters)

where:  neighborhood  cafe

gabriel  had  never  been  a  man  burdened  by  deep  philosophical  questions.

he  didn’t  waste  time  wondering  if  he  deserved  to  be  here,  didn’t  sit  around  contemplating  the  cosmic  significance  of  his  existence.  that  was  a  waste  of  a  perfectly  good  eternity.

so  while  everyone  else  seemed  deeply  concerned  with  why  they  were  here,  gabriel  had  skipped  straight  to  acceptance—and  more  importantly,  opportunity.

at  the  moment,  he  was  loitering  outside  one  of  the  quaint  little  cafés,  sipping  on  a  drink  he’d  absolutely  not  paid  for  (who  was  gonna  stop  him?)  and  watching  people  freak  out  over  their  new  reality  like  it  was  a  spectator  sport.

“i  gotta  say,”  he  mused  aloud,  lifting  his  cup  slightly,  speaking  to  no  one  in  particular  but  loud  enough  that  someone  would  eventually  take  the  bait,  “for  a  place  that’s  supposed  to  be,  y’know—perfect—the  coffee’s  kinda  ass.”

he  took  another  sip  anyway,  grimaced,  and  then  let  out  a  deep,  exaggerated  sigh,  shaking  his  head  like  he  was  deeply  disappointed  in  the  divine  beverage  selection.

“i  mean,  really?  eternity,  and  this  is  what  we’re  working  with?  no  cuban  coffee?  no  espresso  that  makes  you  question  your  own  mortality?  just  this—”  he  swirled  the  liquid  around,  unimpressed,  “beige  sadness  in  a  cup?”

he  leaned  back  against  the  wall,  eyes  scanning  the  street,  looking  for  someone  who  looked  bored  enough,  curious  enough,  or  just  dumb  enough  to  engage  with  him.

“tell  me,  do  they  let  us  file  complaints  up  here,  or  is  this  more  of  a  ‘take  it  up  with  management  when  you  see  them’  kind  of  deal?”

[elimp4]

"my coffee is perfectly lovely," said eli. a part of them wondered if the quality of the coffee was based on the rankings. ever since they laid eyes on their house, they hadn't been able to get the rankings out of their mind. eli was ranked higher than this guy, right? surely they had to be. the man didn't seem very pleasant.

you know who was pleasant? eli. in their sweetest voice, they cooed, "well, i can help you raise this concern to management." they weren't actually sure who the "management" in question was, but certainly management would give eli the time of the day.

[highstakeslowmorals]

gabriel  had  met  a  lot  of  people  in  his  life  (and  afterlife),  and  he  could  always  tell  when  someone  was  being  nice  for  the  sake  of  it.

this  one?  yeah.  they  had  an  agenda.

he  took  another  slow  sip  of  his  bland,  offensively  mediocre  coffee,  blinking  at  them  over  the  rim  of  the  cup.

“oh,  yeah?”  he  said,  tone  light,  almost  amused.  “you  got  a  direct  line  to  management?  impressive.”

he  swirled  the  coffee  in  his  cup,  pretending  to  consider their  offer.

“see,  i  appreciate  the  enthusiasm,  really,  but  i  feel  like  management  and  i  aren’t  exactly  on  great  terms.”  he  shrugged,  grinning  like  that  was  somehow  a  personal  achievement.  “something  tells  me  i  might  not be  their  favorite  resident.”

his  gaze  flicked  over  them,  catching  the  almost-too-sweet  expression.

“but  hey—you  seem  confident.  you  must  be  pretty  high  up  on  the  rankings,  huh?”  he  tilted  his  head  slightly.  “how’s  it  feel  to  be  one  of  the  good  ones?”

[futilclovcrs]

who: open ( @gpstarters )

where: town square

-- Kai checked his pocket for the hundredth time for his vape that still wasn't there. He figured being in the self-proclaimed Good Place would mean he'd never have to ask, "where's my vape?" ever again, but he was trying to accept that maybe the good thing to do was to finally attempt to quit. The other option was to just ask Janet for a new one everytime, but that was an unexpected feature of afterlife that he couldn't seem to get comfortable with. "To Janet or not to Janet, that is the question." He mused to whoever was close enough to hear. "It just feels weird to always be asking her for things. A little reductive to the feminist movement, don't you think?"

[highstakeslowmorals]

gabriel  wasn’t  eavesdropping,  exactly—that  would  imply  effort.  he  was  just  standing  close  enough  to  catch  kai’s philosophical  crisis  about  janet  and  the  ethics  of  unlimited  afterlife  wish  fulfillment.

he  took  a  slow  sip  from  his  drink  (still  free,  still  unearned,  still  fantastic)  before  finally  turning  his  head  toward  kai,  expression  somewhere  between  amused  and  intrigued.

“listen,  man,”  he  said,  grinning  as  he  leaned  against  a  lamppost,  “you’re  out  here  having  a  moral  dilemma  over  whether  it’s  progressive  to  ask  janet  for  stuff,  meanwhile,  i’ve  requested  a  yacht,  three  different  types  of  espresso  machines,  and  a  very  specific  1962  cuban  cigar  i  never  got  the  chance  to  steal  in  my  past  life.”  he  shrugged.  “so  if  this  is  a  test  of  character,  i  already  failed.”

he  tilted  his  head  slightly,  eyes  flicking  to  kai’s  hands  as  if  expecting  to  see  something  there.

“wait—what  are  you  even  asking  for?”  a  pause.  realization.  “oh.  vape  withdrawal.  tragic.”

he  sighed  dramatically,  then,  completely  deadpan—

“look,  man,  you  gotta  make  a  call.  either  you  fully  commit  to  the  reformed, healthier version of yourself…  or  you  embrace  the  joys  of  exploiting an  all-powerful  entity  for  infinite  nicotine.”  he  lifted  a  hand,  gesturing  vaguely.  “either  way,  i  fully  support  you.  but  personally?  i  say  take  the  win.  ask  janet  for  the  vape. feminism  is  about  choices,  after  all.”

[hadleyzhou-deactivated20250405]

who: hadley & open @gpstarters

where: a welcome party

"figured you needed this because you look a little lost," hadley approaches someone away from the action of the party, nearly thrusting the champagne flute into their hand with an overly saccharine smile. it was an easy ice breaker of sorts, without seeming like she was prying too much into her neighbors' past life. "this is quite something, isn't it?"

[highstakeslowmorals]

gabriel  had  successfully  been  minding  his  business,  which,  in  a  place  like  this,  meant  staying  just  far  enough  from  the  action  to  enjoy  the  chaos  without  being  dragged  into  it.

until,  of  course,  a  champagne  flute  was  suddenly  shoved  into  his  hand.

he  blinked,  glancing  between  the  drink  and  the  person  who  had  delivered  it  with  all  the  confidence  of  a  bartender  trying  to  upsell  him  on  bottle  service.

“huh.”  he  turned  the  glass  slightly,  inspecting  it  like  it  might  be  booby-trapped.  “y’know,  i’d  say  it’s  rude  to  assume  i’m  lost,  but…”  he  took  in  his  own  stance—leaning  against  a  wall,  clearly  evaluating  the  situation  like  a  man  deciding  whether  or  not  to  steal  the  silverware.  “…yeah,  fair.”

with  zero  hesitation,  he  took  a  sip.

his  eyebrows  raised  slightly.

“not  bad,”  he  admitted,  swirling  the  liquid  like  he  had  any  business  pretending  to  be  a  wine  critic.  “i  mean,  i’d  prefer  something  with  a  little  more…  kick,  but  hey—i’ll  take  free  alcohol  when  it’s  offered.  principle  of  the  matter.”

his  gaze  flicked  back  to  her,  grinning  slightly  at  the  saccharine  smile  she  was  giving  him.

“and  yeah,  this?”  he  gestured  vaguely  to  the  perfectly  curated  party  scene  around  them.  “this  is  definitely  something.  like  a  rich  guy’s  idea  of  a  ‘fun  casual  gathering,’  except  no  one  here  is  pretending  to  enjoy  themselves  for  networking  reasons.”

a  beat.  then,  with  a  smirk—

“so,  what’s  your  deal?  professional  drink  distributor?  neighborhood  welcome  committee?  or  just  doing  the  lord’s  work,  making  sure  no  one  dies  of  sobriety?”

[clarkjpg]

open to anyone (town square, beach, or gardens) 🍒 @gpstarters

clark is drunkenly singing — well, singing is a pretty generous term for it on the karaoke machine he asked from janet. "fork, this is so cool! i asked her to give me a karaoke machine and it just popped out of nowhere!" he says. "wait, why the fork can't i say fork?" ah. inability to say fuck aside, it's cool. offering his mic to the other person, he asks, "do you wanna sing too?"

[highstakeslowmorals]

gabriel  had  seen  a  lot  of  things  since  arriving  in  the  good  place.

a  bottomless  frozen  yogurt  supply?  sure.  an  entire  neighborhood  of  people  having  existential  breakdowns  in  real  time?  hilarious.  but  drunk  karaoke  on  a  whim?  that  was  new.

he  was  nursing  a  drink  (that  he  absolutely  did  not  pay  for)  when  the  poor  bastard  started  belting  out  a  song  in  what  could  technically  be  classified  as  singing.  generously.

gabriel  watched  with  mild  amusement,  sipping  his  drink as  clark  lost  his  mind  over  the  karaoke  machine  like  a  kid  discovering  santa  was  real.  but  then—

“wait,  why  the  fork  can’t  i  say  fork?”

ah.  now  that  got  his  attention.

gabriel’s  eyebrows  lifted  slightly,  a  slow  smirk  creeping  onto  his  face.  oh,  this  was  good.

“oh,  yeah,”  he  drawled,  setting  his  drink  down  and  leaning  back  in  his  chair.  “that’s  a  fun  little  feature  they  got  here.  can’t  curse.  no  f-bombs,  no  s-bombs,  not  even  a  good  old-fashioned  ‘hell’  if  you  say  it  with too  much  enthusiasm.”  he  gestured  vaguely.  “whole  place  is  sanitized  like  a  daytime  sitcom.”

his  smirk  widened  as  he  eyed  the  mic  clark  was  shoving  toward  him.

“but,  uh—”  he  clicked  his  tongue,  eyeing  the  karaoke  machine  like  it  might  physically  assault  him.  “as  much  as  i  respect  the,  uh…  energy  you’re  bringing  to  this,  i  don’t  sing.”

a  beat.  then,  because  he  couldn’t  help  himself—

“but  i’ll  absolutely  judge  your  performance.”

[highstakeslowmorals]

who:  open  starter  (@gpstarters)

where:  neighborhood  cafe

gabriel  had  never  been  a  man  burdened  by  deep  philosophical  questions.

he  didn’t  waste  time  wondering  if  he  deserved  to  be  here,  didn’t  sit  around  contemplating  the  cosmic  significance  of  his  existence.  that  was  a  waste  of  a  perfectly  good  eternity.

so  while  everyone  else  seemed  deeply  concerned  with  why  they  were  here,  gabriel  had  skipped  straight  to  acceptance—and  more  importantly,  opportunity.

at  the  moment,  he  was  loitering  outside  one  of  the  quaint  little  cafés,  sipping  on  a  drink  he’d  absolutely  not  paid  for  (who  was  gonna  stop  him?)  and  watching  people  freak  out  over  their  new  reality  like  it  was  a  spectator  sport.

“i  gotta  say,”  he  mused  aloud,  lifting  his  cup  slightly,  speaking  to  no  one  in  particular  but  loud  enough  that  someone  would  eventually  take  the  bait,  “for  a  place  that’s  supposed  to  be,  y’know—perfect—the  coffee’s  kinda  ass.”

he  took  another  sip  anyway,  grimaced,  and  then  let  out  a  deep,  exaggerated  sigh,  shaking  his  head  like  he  was  deeply  disappointed  in  the  divine  beverage  selection.

“i  mean,  really?  eternity,  and  this  is  what  we’re  working  with?  no  cuban  coffee?  no  espresso  that  makes  you  question  your  own  mortality?  just  this—”  he  swirled  the  liquid  around,  unimpressed,  “beige  sadness  in  a  cup?”

he  leaned  back  against  the  wall,  eyes  scanning  the  street,  looking  for  someone  who  looked  bored  enough,  curious  enough,  or  just  dumb  enough  to  engage  with  him.

“tell  me,  do  they  let  us  file  complaints  up  here,  or  is  this  more  of  a  ‘take  it  up  with  management  when  you  see  them’  kind  of  deal?”

[highstakeslowmorals]

basics

•  full  name:  gabriel alejandro miguel rojas

•  age  at  time  of  death:  45

•  birthday:  may  2

•  zodiac  sign:  taurus  (stubborn,  charming,  indulgent—checks  out)

•  height:  5’11”  (though  he  always  rounds  up  to  6’0”)

•  birthplace:  santiago,  chile  →  raised  in  los  angeles,  usa

•  occupation  (before  death):  con  artist,  professional  bullshitter,  self-proclaimed  “entrepreneur”

•  languages:  fluent  in  spanish  and  english  (can  curse  people  out  in  both  with  equal  finesse)

•  current  residence:  a  perfectly  curated  afterlife  suburb  filled  with  things  he  hates—ikea  furniture  that  refuses  to  assemble  properly,  and  an  unholy  amount  of  unsweetened  almond  milk.

early  life

gabriel  rojas  was  born  in  santiago,  chile,  but  by  the  time  he  was  five,  his  family  had  packed  up  and  moved to  los  angeles,  california  in  search  of  a  better  life.  unfortunately,  “better  life”  in  his  neighborhood  meant  knowing  how  to  talk  fast,  move  faster,  and  never  leave  an  opportunity  on  the  table.

from  a  young  age,  gabriel  had  a  knack  for  getting  what  he  wanted—whether  it  was  convincing  his  teachers  he’d  already  turned  in  his  homework  (he  had  not),  sweet-talking  the  corner  store  owner  into  giving  him  free  snacks,  or  organizing  a  very  lucrative  elementary  school  candy-smuggling  operation.  while  other  kids  played  sports,  gabriel  honed  his  real  talent:  getting  people  to  believe  whatever  he  told  them.

he  didn’t  have  the  patience  for  school  (or  the  attention span),  but  he  had  charm,  hustle,  and  absolutely  no  shame,  which  turned  out  to  be  way  more  valuable.

life  as  a  professional  menace

gabriel  wasn’t  just  a  con  artist—he  was  an  artist  of  the con.

•  he  could  sell  anything  to  anyone,  whether  they  needed  it  or  not.

•  he  once  convinced  a  ceo  that  he  was  royalty  from  an  obscure  european  microstate,  securing  a  first-class  trip  to  monaco  before  disappearing  just  in  time  to  avoid  being  outed.

•  he  ran  an  underground  poker  ring,  where  the  only  real  gamble  was  whether  or  not  anyone  would  leave  with  their  wallets  intact.

•  he  never  had  a  “real”  job,  yet  somehow  always  had  money,  always  had  a  place  to  stay,  and  always  had  a  new  “business  venture”  on  the  horizon.

his  biggest  scam?  selling  a  fake  island  to  a  tech  billionaire—complete  with  doctored  land  deeds,  staged  drone  footage,  and  a  full  powerpoint  presentation  (because  nothing  sells  a  scam  like  a  good  powerpoint).  he  disappeared  before  the  lawsuits  hit,  but  karma  clearly  had  his  number  because  not  long  after,  he  met  his  ridiculous,  tequila-fueled  demise.

cause  of  death

gabriel  had  cheated  a  lot  of  things  in  life—but  apparently,  physics  wasn’t  one  of  them.

•  a  hot  tub,  a  bottle  of  mezcal,  and  a  bet  that  went  too  far  sealed  his  fate.

•  the  details  are  fuzzy  (and  honestly,  kind  of  embarrassing),  but  at  some  point,  an  attempt  to  do  a  backflip  into  the  tub  ended  with  him  hitting  the  deck  instead.

•  his  last  words?  “watch  this.”  (spoiler:  they  should  not have  watched  that.)

and  just  like  that,  he  woke  up  in  the  afterlife,  still  wet,  still  mildly  hungover,  and  still  convinced  this  was  some  kind  of  mistake.

fun  facts

•  favorite  drink  (in  life):  a  good  old-fashioned  whiskey…  but  would  happily  drink  a  $4  bottom-shelf  tequila  if  it  was  free.

•  favorite  pastime:  talking  his  way  out  of  things  he  absolutely  shouldn’t  be  able  to  talk  his  way  out  of.

•  most  impressive  con?  scamming  his  way  into  an  a-list  hollywood  party  by  pretending  to  be  a  foreign  film  director.

•  biggest  fear?  being  forced  to  work  a  real  9-to-5  job  (which,  ironically,  might  be  his  version  of  hell).

•  has  never:  paid  full  price  for  anything  in  his  life.

•  personal  philosophy?  “it’s  not  lying  if  they  want  to  believe  it.”

•  still  thinks  he  can:  con  his  way  into  another  afterlife.