When I speak with Arturo, I have the terrible power to either kill or spare various famous people. Frank Sinatra? Dead. John Lennon? Dead. Marlon Brando? Dead. Ringo Starr? Alive.
Alive?
Yes. And looking great.
Arturo wipes the sweat from his brow as I press my finger tips together and prepare to obliterate his next line-up. Stevie Wonder? Alive. The members of the Eagles? I take a sip from my canteen as he shifts nervously in his seat. I don’t know for sure and smile at the sadistic joy of either killing or sparing them—me, the possessor of up-to-date VIP obituaries, with the aging celebrities clamoring before me, a gladiator-game for hair-bands, pop-stars, lounge singers and actors—we who are about to die salute you!
They’re alive, I say.
All of them, says Arturo, hopefully.
I give each of them a penetrating stare through the cross-hairs of my mind’s eye, but am moved to mercy.
For now.
What?
Yes, all of them.
NOTE
In my confusion I once accidentally killed Paul McCartney. It happened because Arturo was trying to ask me IF he was dead, and I exclaimed “Paul McCartney is dead!?” This left me with the awkward task of bringing him back to life, but Arturo was skeptical. “Why haven’t I heard any of his music in years?” he said. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Paul is living on a farm,” I said. I stopped short of explaining how he was happier there, now that he was able to run around freely over all those sprawling acres.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
You should really touch on Michael Jackson. (s) death.
ReplyDeleteI would come up with exciting stories about thier deaths, like the 5th beatle came back for vengence and killed Mcartney with yoko onos prostetic leg. Or Stevie Wonder decided that his true passion in life was to be a pilot and the braile runway was a dismal failure.
I lack the requisite Spanish for that kind of yarn. Also, the details of Michael Jackson's death are widely known and he adorns many a Diablo Rojo in Panama City.
ReplyDelete