Oh, the times when I have longed for weaponry and had none at hand. Any afterlife suitably paradisiacal considering my earthly sacrifices would have been stocked fence-to-field as a full armory. Perhaps occasionally Gilbert Mottie, Jacques Brissot, and a complement of faceless aristocrats could have been summoned up from the black depths of hell in which they currently reside and permitted to run, screaming, round in little circles while I took potshots at them with a variety of exquisite pistols. Such were the dreams I dreamed of death, and never could I have imagined the true horror of my post-mortem state: still gazing out the dreary warped-glass window of my subterranean domain, casting a considering eye on the ever-changing generations of spiders.
I am considering organizing an arachnoid colony, and testing my political theories upon it. It seems potentially instructive in all ways.