The Eschatological Indemnity Plan
In twenty-seven hundred three—
a fiscally prophetic year—
At Globex Mutual
(Now Insuring What You Fear),
A memorandum arrived,
embossed in sable ink,
From Mr. Hiroshi,
on eternity's brink.
"Esteemed Ms. Tanaka,"
the parchment did implore,
"I wish to cover
that which breath covers no more.
For should my mortal tenancy
abruptly be revoked,
And I return translucent,
faintly overdosed with smoke—
What then of porcelain
in midnight agitation?
What of ancestral china
meeting levitation?
If, drifting, I disturb
a chandelier's repose,
Or phase through load-bearing walls
and startle toes—
Does liability persist
beyond the grave?
Must specters too
be fiscally brave?"
Ms. Tanaka—LL.M.,
Post-Life Risk Division—
Adjusted her tie
with actuarial precision.
She opened a binder
bound in ectoplasmic thread:
"Volume XII:
The Financially Undead."
"Our Spirit Safeguard™
Platinum Afterlife Plan
Protects against most hauntings,
insofar as we can.
Subsection A:
'Phantom Property Damage Basic,'
Covering rattled chains
and manifestations quasi-classic.
Subsection B:
'Ectoplasmic Seepage and Slime,'
With deductible adjusted
for Victorian grime.
Subsection D:
'Mild Poltergeist Kinetic Events,'
Excluding earthquakes,
plagues, and flying tents.
However—"
she paused, with corporate repose,
"We do exclude
deliberate terror of in-laws."
"Additionally," she added,
with bureaucratic cheer,
"We must discuss
the Catastrophic Afterlife Tier.
Should you, in death,
achieve Sudden Enlightenment—
Transcendence, omniscience,
mild resplendence—
And merge with all matter,
time, and thought,
Becoming The Universe—
or something close to it, as sought—
Our coverage is void.
For once you are Everything,
you technically insure yourself.
And our legal department refuses
to litigate against God
When God is you,
and you are filing the claim."
She flipped the page.
"Furthermore, in the event of Apocalypse—
Defined here as
'Global trumpet blast, skies torn,
Horsemen, reasonable locust presence'—
We classify that
as a 'Pre-Existing Condition.'"
Mr. Hiroshi nodded,
spectral brow intent.
"And emotional distress,
if walls are bent?
Should my drifting essence
dent a psyche,
Are therapy invoices
likely?"
"For that," she said,
flipping further on,
"We offer Rider Nine:
'Existential Dawn.'
But note—Clause 13,
small yet spry—
'Acts of God
(Except Yourself)' apply.
Also excluded:
Possession for profit,
malicious moaning,
Strategic closet inhabiting,
And all manifestations
sponsored by streaming platforms.
No poltergeist pranks
for personal branding.
No leveraging hauntings
for social media growth.
No influencer status
from spectral oath."
He hesitated.
"And if I am forgotten?"
She stopped.
The office lights flickered once.
"Forgotten?"
she repeated, softer now.
"For what is a ghost,"
he said,
"without recall?
If no one names me,
do I damage at all?
If memory fails,
if my outline thins—
Does liability
fade with sins?"
Ms. Tanaka closed the binder
slowly.
The air grew colder,
faintly holy.
"Ah," she said,
almost tenderly,
"We have no product
for non-entity.
If no one remembers,
you do not exist—
And Globex insures
only what can be missed."
A silence lingered,
actuarially vast.
Then she stamped the form:
PENDING—LIFE NOT YET PAST.
Mr. Hiroshi rose,
pulse intact.
"Then I shall remain,"
he signed, "in fact."
He left—
mortal for now,
porcelain safe
on every shelf.
Ms. Tanaka watched him go,
then adjusted her nameplate—
Which flickered faintly
through the desk.
She'd sold the first policy ever written—
to herself,
Back in 2142,
when she'd died
during a compliance seminar.
The company had continued
to employ her
for tax purposes.
Under her name,
barely legible:
Posthumous Client Services
since 2164.
And in the ledger,
under "Active Policies,"
his name
already glowed.
