You died on set with the new girl

Just to clarify, the new girl didn't die. Only you did. And just to clarify, she didn't kill you, OK? And just because being dead drops your IQ points by like three-quarters, doesn't give you the right to ignore this shit and go dumbass haunting her for the rest of her already ruined life.

* * *

Jadey from Wardrobe: ...girl's got no respect for herself, can see it already. And you know that's the biggest mistake a lady can make getting into this industry. That it's ok to not take care of yourself.

Spags: Looks a number to me.

Jadey: Yes, she still bothers to wear make up if that's what you mean, but darling have you taken a look at her ankles?

Spags: What about em

Jadey: Besides them being the filthiest? You think I want to be working with a girl who can't even be fussed to watch out for the dirt under her ankles? These are the things darling, these are the things.

Spags: The fuck ankles Jadey? I'nt the fuckin thirtees.

Jadey: Exactly this isn't the thirties darling. You think a girl could afford a wad of dove in this century. Not that priced Cali shit, just dove is what I'm saying.

Spags: Well maybe they'd been decent enough to spot the lady a hotel for the night, she'd have em clean for certain.

Jadey: You think they're all money? And would it make a difference.

Spags: Well don't know about you but I tell you I'm in a hotel I run that bath all full as it can go and hot as it can go too. Sometimes I even run the shower the same time down atop a me.

* * *

Spags the DoP had a thing for her from the start. It was something in her form, something undefinable. He was fond of the term je ne sais quoi, though he would never say it aloud. Only inwardly. And he would glow, inwardly. You...well you thought she was just another hussy with a lifetime supply of stylish footwear that has the added benefit of treating any number of STDs. All while you walk.

You'd been hawking Yodokrohm Health Sandals for three months. Or at least, you were a well defined key player in the hawking process. That was you in the ads. Some might call you an icon. Yourself and maybe your agent. It certainly didn't dampen your ego. Remember that drunk fuck you demanded call you Reverend Yodocream and she even said it loud enough to your satisfaction, absorbed into the walls of your soundproofed condo, but you still gave her one in the throat? Oh, like no one was going to find out about that?

Spags had you wired man. After he thought you were fucking the new girl, like a week in, he did up the whole thing: under the bulbs, under the mattress, dark corners of the ceiling. Devices protruding near-invisible from the spines of books you would never read (a nice camera-mic combo aimed from within the O's of The Brothers Karamazov). Once it became apparent that you were not having relations with the new girl, and that your taste in women seemed to polar between masculine prostitutes and sleepy high school girls, Spags found himself both relieved and sorely disappointed. With his vicarious fantasy paled, Spags was left with no choice but to actually ask the girl out.

* * *

A few days later, when Spags had actually built up the courage and found that delicate balance between being drunk and remaining articulate, he approaches the new girl on set.

Spags: (Shuffling steps)

New Girl: (Fanning herself with the treatment you handed her moments earlier; a softcore porn production where she would play a lesbian school teacher forced to assume the identity of a man in order to seduce a homosexual principal, who killed her brother in a reckless motorcycle accident. In the final scene it is revealed that the principal is also a woman posing as a man, and that the real man the school teacher is tracking down has traveled back in time to advise his younger self to get a sex change so that when he's older he can murder both the principal and the school teacher after first being part of a really hot threesome.)

Spags: (Continued shuffling. Increased looming. Gaffer verging on annoyance.)

_Insert your small talk with the new girl._

New Girl: (Eying you with incomprehensible disdain.)

You: (Stepping down from the stage, putting one hand on the shoulder of Spags for balance, slipping right off, falling into a mess of cables. Gaffer definitely annoyed, though refrains from making it know verbally.)

_Insert what you said to Spags about his profuse sweating loud enough for everyone to hear_

Spags: (Realising that he is now the focus of all eyes.)

New Girl: (Throwing Spags a brief glance. Not entirely bothered one way or the other, though certainly void of any yearning approval. Glancing back at the treatment, she momentarily considers the process of having you killed professionally.)

* * *

Bad weather had forced shooting to be delayed for a week. In that time Spags was nowhere to be seen. Then, in the last hours before wrap-up he was back on set. No one really noticed. He was hiding in the background, setting up something. Setting out to destroy you.

His apparent humiliation a week earlier in front of the new girl had sent Spags into a bad state. He'd taken this time to edit a compilation of your most heinous sex acts caught in the hollowed covers of Dostoevsky. Thing was, the notion of somebody broadcasting your aptitude in rough love making, really wasn't such a bad notion to you. If only he hadn't beamed that shit right into your shit eating shoe salesman grin.

The projector light threw you into a daze of three or four seconds. Long enough to step backwards into the new girl, who was not really by this stage, that new, modeling alongside you some type of croquet get up. With your foot caught in a wicket you took a nasty dive backwards, and spent the last moments of your life knowing the wetness of your own blood, whilst staring up at a screen where a pale obese woman with jiggling thighs is begging you to pull a size ten sandal out of her ass.

You died the first human casualty of Doggy 9/11

So the lesser terrorist nations don't always pay top dollar for their Intelligence.

So far they had deduced that North Americans living below the poverty line were crazy about receiving vitamins and nutrients in the form of carved meaty chunks canned in slime, which could only be purchased at low-end pet food stores, and possibly White Castle. Once the tainted dog dinners had infiltrated the relevant demographics, they would wipe out the majority of Negro slaves operating the defense shield treadmills and America would be vulnerable to an attack of unfathomable magnitude.

* * *

You were blind drunk in the dark of Saturday morning, and there was something fucked going on with your shoulder blades. On the way to the hospital, you and your carry buddy "Ankhs" made a disaster of an attempt to hail a taxi.

Turns out White Castle had harnessed the powers of TARDIS, since the moment you finally got a cab you were lined up for something delicious; your hieroglyphic pal nowhere in sight. Your scapulas were making a different kind of crunching sound with each painful breath, and you found yourself wondering how fresh the lettuce on the burgers might be. Oh but look: next to the cash register, those colours, and that smiling French Bulldog framed in a yellow cardboard star it's black gums bared as glossy tropical slugs in pointy white boots for every sluppy dendroid foot. That sign, For Animal Consumption Only, reeling you in. That night were you an animal. Ankhs rematerialised at the last moment to heed a warning, that you weren't ready for that shit, that you should listen to the thirteen year old behind the counter and go with the wedges in antacid sauce. You were all Fucks To That, and then basically vomited in the cash register, after they didn't provide you with so much as a sundae spoon and you began to climb. When you unblacked-out on the floor, you found yourself already peeling away the lid.

The next fourteen minutes were spent trapped in some kind of failed Weighing of the Heart middledark, with momentary bursts of Theo the ambulance guy telling you he Really Needs The Company Right Now. Get fucked Theo, other people have their problems too. How many fucking information desks do you have to go to to get a Roesetta Stone in English? The only thing keeping you stretched out in the nightmare between the Fields of Yalu and having your genitals accosted by the Hounds of Hell (not in the good peanut butter way), was that life-affirming jerk-off zapping you every twenty-eight seconds. But then he got you a good one right between the shoulder blades and you felt the best you had all night. This was shortly followed by a retraction from all voreaphilic trips involving Anubis' main bitches as you resurfaced watching your own vomit drip from Theo's face.

Unfortunately the ambulance driver had also been reeled in by his affinity for smiling French Bulldogs, and his seizure sent you all hurtling into a tree in the hospital parking lot. Best Place To Have An Accident. But not even the goofy looking male nurse hovering above you through the cloudy She of life and death had enough electricity to bring you back a second time.

You died with Soulseek running in the background and you didn't even have the decency to toggle away.

Of course people kept on leeching your files. Remember the guy you formed an unlikely friendship with after he downloaded Crosby vs. Cosby: Drunk Stage Banter Mashup from you but it turned out to be brutal Chechen slave porn? But he totally dug it anyway?

He just wanted to catch up. He'd had a bit too much to drink, or maybe not enough, and he had some things to get off his chest. That little bird in the corner of your screen, flashing and flashing. The Fuck Were You? He was reaching out to you man, moments after he'd just punched his poor mother in the face for telling him to how to look for a job; that maybe he needs to set his standards a little lower. You were his Internet go-to guy. His fucking pylon. Way to go and be dead and make him feel like a miserable jackass with his text just sitting there without so much as a LOL in response. Real considerate.

* * *

At first you just slumped back in your comfy office chair, the one you found outside your dad's apartment building last Spring, with all vegetation sprouting from the padded armrests. Problem with that chair, as you know, was it had a tendency to sudden fits of wonkiness. Fubs, that forty-pound diabetic train wreck of a cat your ex girlfriend ditched you with, didn't take long to make his mark around the swivel with Oh God--even by body waste standards that stuff was rank. When he was done he kind of fell into it, bumping the chair and throwing you into a mouthful of keyboard.

You had a posthumous flashback to Ethan Hawke in the film Gattaca, delicately tending to his workspace with one of those little things dentists like to piss your mouth off with. Ethan had it perfect; pristine. There were always going to be regrets after death. Why for the love of God couldn't you at least kept things on the fringe of sanitary.

That brown stuff was on everything. On the keys, between the keys; the texture of earwax sprinkled with little flakes of food and fingerskin. Your tongue was touching that shit, just in case you wanted to know, and recent research shows that those germs are dirtier than a Puerto Rican's asshole stuffed with Scottish cuisine left chillin on the beach. Maybe it was OK for you, being dead and all, but your mother had to kiss that cheek at the funeral. Those jowls that had been pressed up against filthy bits of plastic for three days. Every time you jerked off and didn't wash your damn hands. That's what your mother was kissing.

* * *

When they found you, your corpse was competing with the smell of decomposing cat. Your hideous brother moved in days later, took most of your stuff, and used your Soulseek account to steal your Internet Girlfriend. Yes, the really hot one from Serbia that loved a bunch of your favourite bands, but not so many as to make chatting about music a bore. Dude, why didn't you just close that shit down, you weren't even downloading anything. There were always going to be regrets after death.

That Christmas she caught a plane over and your brother got to make love to her sweaty fat guy style. She was the first girl to tell him not to wear a t-shirt when they did it, despite his saggy rolls. They met your parents for Boxing Day where he told them a story about a Google Image Search he found when he first moved in for Gene Wilder Money Shots that you had left open right there like he was proud of it. Your parents took the news initially in silence, your father later commenting that it cleared things up a lot.