"What Would Willie Do?"

I awoke Monday morning to a pressure on my gut, rock-hard and unbudging. It occurred to me that I might be part dog, dying under the influence of last night's chocolate torte. My mouth was dry with the taste of morning, bacterial refuse from the evening's party. It was my snoring, no doubt. There are a thousand snoring remedies, all of them supposedly invented and prescribed by some right priggish fellow with the title of 'Dr.' Dr. Brown. Dr. Mundt. Dr. Evans. Dr. Shovethisupyourassandyourimpotencewillbecured.

Well, I regret disappointing the Good Dandy Doctors, but their remedies would do no good for a dead man, and that I was. My will had since gone unwritten; I was 35 and not expecting a fast-approaching death (o, how stupid I could be). I had no wife, so that was out. My sister was dead. And like fun I was leaving anything to my greasy, rotund, cackling disaster of a brother.

Mirrors would fog up and china would crack and shatter from years of collecting moisture. Only a distant archaeologist, far in the future and composed of oily cogs, would uncover my home... most likely with me in it. I would be a worm-picked skeleton, considerably thinner and a tittle more attractive than I was while breathing. I would also most likely still have a moustache (because that is, pardon my modernisms, how I roll). But a name? No. Nobody gives a little tin crap about Willie Wilde. While my stinking, slimy, howling case of fratricide-gone-wrong was commemorated in marble within the halls of Westminster Abbey, I would be an anonymous pile of calcium with facial hair.

Just as my depression was mounting its climax, as my utter self-loathing and bleak outlook were humping away to their drunken, bucking orgasm, I belched. The pressure was gone. I wasn't going to die.

"Well, fuck," I thought, "I was rather looking forward to getting the hell out of here."