Ways of Dying
by Walter Campbell
Their bet was pretty standard guy stuff, really. Both contestants would come up with the worst possible way to die, and the loser would buy the winner a burrito.
Jeff had won their previous, more cheerful bet on the best possible way to die. Phil’s answer — smothered under ten gorgeous, large-breasted women — was no doubt a great way to die, but it had lacked the creativity of dying from a heart attack during the final throes of passion with the nation’s hottest woman after saving her from a gang of bikers in a three-hour fist fight in the middle of Times Square.
“That, my friends,” Jeff announced to his empty apartment, “is how you get a free plate a nachos.” As he chopped onions for a stir-fry, Jeff knew the burrito would be his, too.
To find a truly wonderful death, you need to be imaginative, but for a terrible death, you need only to look at the many horrific examples the real world provides. Start with cancer, AIDS, malaria, rabies, cystic fibrosis, bacterial infections, Ebola, diabetes, high blood pressure, obesity, hypothermia, dehydration, and starvation, then add hurricanes, tornados, earthquakes, volcanoes, blizzards, and tsunamis, followed by venomous snakes and frogs, large snakes, spiders, tigers, bears, lions, mountain lions, wolves, piranhas, jellyfish, alligators, crocodiles, hippos, and sharks, and round the whole thing out with gangs, serial killers, mass murders, terrorists, hit men, drunk drivers, and bad drivers. And by no means is that a comprehensive list.
“But to win this, I’ll need to combine elements,” Jeff thought aloud. “You’re diagnosed with terminal cancer, so, to live your last days to their fullest, you start running with a street gang. While on a leisurely weekend hike, a rival gang ambushes you, and although you escape, you’re bleeding, which draws the bears in closer. You outfox the bears, but endure days of starvation, dehydration, and slow blood loss. Just when you’re about to die, you see the ocean. You dive in and gulp down water, but the salt in it dehydrates you further and burns your wounds, then, bam! fifteen jellyfish sting you. Stunned, you sink to the bottom of the ocean, and right before you drown, you’re devoured by a shark.” Jeff raises his hands high in the air and yells, “The burrito is mine!”
When Jeff brings his hands back down to finish the onions, his knife slips and slides into his wrist, slicing all the way to the bone. He screams, pulls the knife out, and in his anger, he chucks the knife aside, but before it leaves his hand, it slices across his thigh. Holding back more screams, Jeff steps towards the bathroom, but the blood from his leg and wrist has carpeted the floor, and he slips, flying backwards and landing on his head with a thud. In addition, the knife he chucked has wedged itself between the fridge and the counter, sticking slightly up and to the side, and just before his head lands on kitchen tile, the knife’s blade finds home deep in Jeff’s lower back. The fall knocks him out momentarily, but when he wakes up he can feel the crack on his head.
With his non-injured hand, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his cell phone, and types the following text message to Phil.
“Slice wrist making dinner, slice thigh throwing knife, slip on blood, crack head on fall, pierce back on fallen knife. Bleed to death.”
A minute later his phone buzzes. He opens the message from Jason, and right before dying he reads: “Dude, I totally have you beat. The burrito is so mine.”
Walter Campbell lives and works in Philadelphia, went to college in New England, and grew up in Los Angeles, but he'll write anywhere that has a coffee machine nearby. He enjoys long walks on the beach, candlelit dinners, fine wine, and gorgeous sunsets, and he despises romantic clichés.
“But to win this, I’ll need to combine elements,” Jeff thought aloud. “You’re diagnosed with terminal cancer, so, to live your last days to their fullest, you start running with a street gang. While on a leisurely weekend hike, a rival gang ambushes you, and although you escape, you’re bleeding, which draws the bears in closer. You outfox the bears, but endure days of starvation, dehydration, and slow blood loss. Just when you’re about to die, you see the ocean. You dive in and gulp down water, but the salt in it dehydrates you further and burns your wounds, then, bam! fifteen jellyfish sting you. Stunned, you sink to the bottom of the ocean, and right before you drown, you’re devoured by a shark.” Jeff raises his hands high in the air and yells, “The burrito is mine!”
When Jeff brings his hands back down to finish the onions, his knife slips and slides into his wrist, slicing all the way to the bone. He screams, pulls the knife out, and in his anger, he chucks the knife aside, but before it leaves his hand, it slices across his thigh. Holding back more screams, Jeff steps towards the bathroom, but the blood from his leg and wrist has carpeted the floor, and he slips, flying backwards and landing on his head with a thud. In addition, the knife he chucked has wedged itself between the fridge and the counter, sticking slightly up and to the side, and just before his head lands on kitchen tile, the knife’s blade finds home deep in Jeff’s lower back. The fall knocks him out momentarily, but when he wakes up he can feel the crack on his head.
With his non-injured hand, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his cell phone, and types the following text message to Phil.
“Slice wrist making dinner, slice thigh throwing knife, slip on blood, crack head on fall, pierce back on fallen knife. Bleed to death.”
A minute later his phone buzzes. He opens the message from Jason, and right before dying he reads: “Dude, I totally have you beat. The burrito is so mine.”
Walter Campbell lives and works in Philadelphia, went to college in New England, and grew up in Los Angeles, but he'll write anywhere that has a coffee machine nearby. He enjoys long walks on the beach, candlelit dinners, fine wine, and gorgeous sunsets, and he despises romantic clichés.
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