"You suppose he's really dead?" Shelf wondered.
Claim shrugged. "Probably, 'cause he didn't like the postmodern shit that passes for story Backstage. He says he's dead he prob'ly really did do in his Avatar. Pity."
"Yeah. Means we can't collect on the contract out on him. Not to mention gettin' a little nooky first." "Sheesh, Shelf, ain'cha been readin' the episodes? He'd done with bein' Duchess Rachel an' all that. Got restored, capiche?"
"Oh yeah, guess he did. Think that's what sent him around the bend, or over the edge, as the case may be?"
"I dunno. Who gives a shit? Point is, the guy's dead. Still, I s'pose we better make sure. Got your parachute?"
"Cripes, Claim, does it look like I gotta fuckin' parachute?!? How 'bout you?"
"Naw. Guess we'll have to resort to some postmodern shit..." Claim's voice took a louder, more theatrical tone. "Hey. I bet Duke woulda had some in these here packing boxes."
"Sure," said Shelf, echoing the tone. "Just the very thing any well stocked Author'd wanna have on hand."
"Pry open a box, Shelf," Claim instructed.
Shelf just happened to have a crowbar. Really, it's not postmodern shit or anything. A crowbar can come in real handy in closing a contract. Or closing out a life in general, for that matter...
He pried open the box. There were two parachutes, in pristine condition. The two Men in Gray put them on.
"Yoicks," said Shelf.
"Tally-fuckin'-ho," Claim agreed.
They jumped out into the mists...
Wed Apr 25 07:07:36 2001
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