(no subject)
It was an overcast afternoon, and the horoscope in the Enquirer told me that for the rest of this month, someone would die; every, single, day.
“Some people may die several times,” it told me.
“Until June forth,” it said.
I shook my head. How could a paper know that? People actually read this shit? Where’s the remote? Is The Price is Right on? I looked in my pantry, and saw that I only had three more rectangles of Top Ramen.
The phone rang.
It was Pete Limpelli.
“Hey Pete,” I said.
“No,” I said, “Pete.”
“Pete, don’t.”
I heard the receiver fall to the floor. Pete had suffocated himself with a Beanie Baby. The Feds had been after Pete for a couple of months now. I sat down in my easy chair and turned on The Price is Right. Some stupid fat lady bid $36,000 on a new Echo.