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.