Now…stick with me, if you will, I do intend to go somewhere with this. Many’s the time I’ve been asked, and indeed have asked myself, why I do what I do. Why do I battle the dreadly forces of the hein? Why place myself in such mortal peril on a nigh daily basis. Why risk my own death so often for so little reward?
Normally I cite duty (please hold your childish jokes until I’m out of the room), but when I see such a shameful death as this, duty falls to number two (again, save your sniggers until I’m out of earshot) You see, I have a strong sense of my own mortality, and I’d rather die in battle than in such an embarrassing manner as this man. Think of it. This man lived. He experienced…life. Surely no person’s life is a total waste, surely at some point in his life, this man touched the lives of others. All the memories, both good and bad, all the experiences, both good and bad, all the…forgive me for returning to the word…life…all the life snuffed out of him…whilst defecating in public. Yes, it is funny, but it is also rather sad.
And so, by doing battle with the evil nasties of this and other worlds, my death will most likely not be cause of ridicule, but of respect and perhaps celebration.
I say most likely, of course. It’s still possible I’ll die bunglingly. I wouldn’t be the first man or woman of adventure to die so.
There was Madam Collette Fachaud, who drunkenly passed out slumped on a chaise lounge, where she smothered herself in her own grandiose bosom.
There was Sir Christopher Fairbaron, who took a bet that he could eat 500 leprechaun testicles in one sitting without dying. How so many leprechaun testicles were collected is still a mystery, but suffice it to say that Sir Christopher lost the bet.
There was Mr. Allister Packard, who died whilst making a plaster casting of his engorged member for his lady love. In order to remain engorged long enough for the plaster to dry, he performed the Nopatik ritual of the blood spire. It takes a fair amount of dexterity, and normally Allister would be more than capable of performing it safely. That day, however, must have been an off day. He was found, dead of course, his head in a dried pail of plaster of Paris. To his credit, he was still erect. As far as I know, the woman the casting was intended for still has it upon her mantel.
These people were heroic. In their own lives, they saved countless others. And yet now, the best that can be said for them is that at least they did not die whilst making short between cars on the New York underground.