When Bobby Brown died, he went to Hell.
No waiting in line for Bobby.
A bodyguard at the gates with a clipboard, unclipping a velvet rope gate and saying “This way, sir.”
A line of gorgeous women waited for him. With baseball bats.
Bobby staggered along the line, suffering blow after blow, feeling bones crack, skin split, muscles tear, and blood flow and spurt and ooze.
And at the end of the line, Whitney watched. And waited.
At first, she enjoyed the spectacle. She knew Bobby was suffering.
But she wanted her chance at revenge.
Waiting. Waiting.
And suffering, too.