FUCK THE POLICE
911 EVERY DAY
A Dream on Ice
An old man was sitting and typing into a typewriter almost as ancient as he, with his fingers curled types and his teeth gnashing. The paper unfurled in front of him with dozens of notes and titles on the story he was just about to write, a story was going to change the world. He took a big sigh and decided on “Forever dark, in my Heart”, before changing his mind and typing out new ones.
Then the Angel of Death appeared behind him.
“What are you doing?” asked the Angel of Death.
“Christ, can’t you see I’m busy?” said the old man, undisturbed.
“Why must you be so impolite?”
The old man sighed, unpeeled his finger, turned around and said “I’m trying to make a title for my story.”
“Why not just start writing and come up with the title as you go along?”
The old man produced a copy of “How 2 write” from his coat pocket, opened it to page forty-two, pointed at paragraph three, line two, and read:
“How should we start our story? Why from the core, of course. You must have a title before you have any hope completing something as immense and complicated as a work of fiction. Like a seed, the title will grow into the plant that is your masterpiece.”
He shoved the book back into his pocket and started typing again.
“I see.” Said The Angel of Death, “And why do you need to write a story again?”
“To give meaning to my life.”
“What kind of meaning?”
The old man didn’t answer.
“Do you know who I am?”
“You’re the Angel of Death.”
“Well, do you believe in me?”
“You take people to heaven or hell, or some other place, can’t exactly remember”
“Heaven… was a bit of a joke. We didn’t exactly expect anyone to take us seriously.”
“Oh really?”
“No, I’m serious. When you die, there’s nothing else. You are kaput, dead, lights out, and a string of other clichéd metaphors like the ones writers put into stories every single time they write about these sorts of situations.”
“Well I’ve got an idea.”
“What’s that?”
“Let’s go down to star bucks!”
The old man grabbed his typewriter and rushed out of his apartment, leaving the Angel of Death in a state of confusion.
Death got to the door only to see the old man had already run down the stairs, so he teleported to him again, only to find him running down the stairs. Death ran after him panting, and asked:
“What are you doing!”
“I’m trying to be seen writing!”
And he hurried on further down the stairs, oblivious to Death’s attempts to stop him.
So it came to pass that they arrived outside on the street with midday traffic whirring past, and the old man ran out in the middle. Death stared with his mouth agape.
“Holy crap!”
Right before the old man was hit by a bus. His body crumpled and catapulted twenty feet. Death zapped to where the old man was, noted that his frame was now lifeless, and bent down to touch him.
“What the heck! Ow!”
The old man returned to life and felt every one of his broken bones.
Death said “Sorry bout that.”
And touched him again to heal him.
But the old man didn’t skip a beat. He picked up his unharmed typewriter and hurried into the nearby Starbucks.
Death then stopped to note how pointless this entire plot point had been.
In the Starbucks, the man had already sat down and was busy at his typewriter.
“What the hell are we doing here?”
“I’m here every day from two to six. The writing guide said to try to write four hours a day, even if you spend the entire time staring at a blank page. And that’s exactly what I’ve been doing for the past sixty years.”
“That’s all very good and well, but must you do it in public?”
”You betcha! Chicks dig dudes that write in public.”
The old man proceeded to wink at the girl sitting at the cash register, at which point she brandished a Glock and pointed it straight at his head.
“Look you sick, sick, old pervert, if you ever do that again I am going to blast your god damn head off!”
The old man laughed obnoxiously. He produced a cigarette, and in one long, cool motion lit and puffed it in the greenery of the star bucks. The cashier pointed to the no smoking sign, her eyes bloodshot, looking like they were going to burst out of her head. The old man laughed again, and the cashier pulled the hammer on the gun back.
He shook his head, looked at Death and said “Women. They sure are silly.”
“Of course. You do know why I’m here?”
“Of course. You are a literal personification of death, come here to kill me.”
“Yes.”
“Would you like to play chess for my life?”
“No. It is my aim to kill you as soon as possible.”
“Well you can’t kill me before I’ve finished my story!"
"Why not?"
"Because that would make this story pointless!"
“Good point. What is your story about?”
“It’s about love and life. It is a series of stanzas, seemingly disconnected, but each symbolically united, and having a profound and meaningful statement at the end of each.”
“Ah. They’re better when you call them stanzas.”
The old man nodded in agreement.
“Alright, I will give you until sundown tomorrow to finish your story, and then you’re going to die.”
“That will be more than enough time. You are a good man, Death.”
They shook hands and parted ways.
So the old man sat there yet again for several hours, staring at a blank page. He thought furiously, and came up with a general plan. The Starbucks closed and he headed over to his apartment. He immediately fell asleep, and woke up sundown the next day with death staring at him.
“Where is your story?”
“I was almost done, and then I took a nap.”
“Well I’m still killing you.”
Death touched the old man and he fell over, dead.
So the old man found himself in a tunnel with a light at the end. He emerged from the tunnel, which turned out to be a vagina, and thought, “Darn, the Hindus were right.”
An old man was sitting and typing into a typewriter almost as ancient as he, with his fingers curled types and his teeth gnashing. The paper unfurled in front of him with dozens of notes and titles on the story he was just about to write, a story was going to change the world. He took a big sigh and decided on “Forever dark, in my Heart”, before changing his mind and typing out new ones.
Then the Angel of Death appeared behind him.
“What are you doing?” asked the Angel of Death.
“Christ, can’t you see I’m busy?” said the old man, undisturbed.
“Why must you be so impolite?”
The old man sighed, unpeeled his finger, turned around and said “I’m trying to make a title for my story.”
“Why not just start writing and come up with the title as you go along?”
The old man produced a copy of “How 2 write” from his coat pocket, opened it to page forty-two, pointed at paragraph three, line two, and read:
“How should we start our story? Why from the core, of course. You must have a title before you have any hope completing something as immense and complicated as a work of fiction. Like a seed, the title will grow into the plant that is your masterpiece.”
He shoved the book back into his pocket and started typing again.
“I see.” Said The Angel of Death, “And why do you need to write a story again?”
“To give meaning to my life.”
“What kind of meaning?”
The old man didn’t answer.
“Do you know who I am?”
“You’re the Angel of Death.”
“Well, do you believe in me?”
“You take people to heaven or hell, or some other place, can’t exactly remember”
“Heaven… was a bit of a joke. We didn’t exactly expect anyone to take us seriously.”
“Oh really?”
“No, I’m serious. When you die, there’s nothing else. You are kaput, dead, lights out, and a string of other clichéd metaphors like the ones writers put into stories every single time they write about these sorts of situations.”
“Well I’ve got an idea.”
“What’s that?”
“Let’s go down to star bucks!”
The old man grabbed his typewriter and rushed out of his apartment, leaving the Angel of Death in a state of confusion.
Death got to the door only to see the old man had already run down the stairs, so he teleported to him again, only to find him running down the stairs. Death ran after him panting, and asked:
“What are you doing!”
“I’m trying to be seen writing!”
And he hurried on further down the stairs, oblivious to Death’s attempts to stop him.
So it came to pass that they arrived outside on the street with midday traffic whirring past, and the old man ran out in the middle. Death stared with his mouth agape.
“Holy crap!”
Right before the old man was hit by a bus. His body crumpled and catapulted twenty feet. Death zapped to where the old man was, noted that his frame was now lifeless, and bent down to touch him.
“What the heck! Ow!”
The old man returned to life and felt every one of his broken bones.
Death said “Sorry bout that.”
And touched him again to heal him.
But the old man didn’t skip a beat. He picked up his unharmed typewriter and hurried into the nearby Starbucks.
Death then stopped to note how pointless this entire plot point had been.
In the Starbucks, the man had already sat down and was busy at his typewriter.
“What the hell are we doing here?”
“I’m here every day from two to six. The writing guide said to try to write four hours a day, even if you spend the entire time staring at a blank page. And that’s exactly what I’ve been doing for the past sixty years.”
“That’s all very good and well, but must you do it in public?”
”You betcha! Chicks dig dudes that write in public.”
The old man proceeded to wink at the girl sitting at the cash register, at which point she brandished a Glock and pointed it straight at his head.
“Look you sick, sick, old pervert, if you ever do that again I am going to blast your god damn head off!”
The old man laughed obnoxiously. He produced a cigarette, and in one long, cool motion lit and puffed it in the greenery of the star bucks. The cashier pointed to the no smoking sign, her eyes bloodshot, looking like they were going to burst out of her head. The old man laughed again, and the cashier pulled the hammer on the gun back.
He shook his head, looked at Death and said “Women. They sure are silly.”
“Of course. You do know why I’m here?”
“Of course. You are a literal personification of death, come here to kill me.”
“Yes.”
“Would you like to play chess for my life?”
“No. It is my aim to kill you as soon as possible.”
“Well you can’t kill me before I’ve finished my story!"
"Why not?"
"Because that would make this story pointless!"
“Good point. What is your story about?”
“It’s about love and life. It is a series of stanzas, seemingly disconnected, but each symbolically united, and having a profound and meaningful statement at the end of each.”
“Ah. They’re better when you call them stanzas.”
The old man nodded in agreement.
“Alright, I will give you until sundown tomorrow to finish your story, and then you’re going to die.”
“That will be more than enough time. You are a good man, Death.”
They shook hands and parted ways.
So the old man sat there yet again for several hours, staring at a blank page. He thought furiously, and came up with a general plan. The Starbucks closed and he headed over to his apartment. He immediately fell asleep, and woke up sundown the next day with death staring at him.
“Where is your story?”
“I was almost done, and then I took a nap.”
“Well I’m still killing you.”
Death touched the old man and he fell over, dead.
So the old man found himself in a tunnel with a light at the end. He emerged from the tunnel, which turned out to be a vagina, and thought, “Darn, the Hindus were right.”
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