The Death Hole

Once upon a time, a man jumped off a cliff and landed in a bar. Shaking his head, he grabbed a drink and headed for the Barren Wastes of Inevitable Death. An acrid wind blew hot, biting sand in his face, and he spat and coughed and raspberried with his lips.

“Damn sand.” He crunched.

Wandering for days, the man sipped at the last drops of water from his canteen, which, to keep cool, he had hid behind his conspiracy machine.

“Damn water.” he rasped, and noticed death stalking him.

He fixed his jaw and glanced quickly at the shade.

“What a bastard.” He muttered.

“Hey, I heard that!”


“So I’m death, and I heard you. I’ve got sweet hearing, especially since rock n’ roll died. God, that music was loud.”

“What do you know about God, or rock n’ roll? Long live the both of them, you Phil Specter!”

“Ha! ‘live’ isn’t in my vocabulary, you Frankenstein-looking dick chisel! You need to moisturize.”

“It’s a ‘dick rasp’, thank you very much, and what’s more Frankenstein was a great song…fart breath.”

“Alright, that does it; you’re going to die and I’m putting you in hell with Sodom and Gomorrah!”

“Oh yeah? Well try this on for size, you tattered old sheet!” The man whipped out his conspiracy machine. “What do you think this is?”

“Sabotage? A mutiny? Completely irrelevant?”

“Nope, it’s a plot device!”

Death fell down a hole and then off a cliff, and the man lived happily ever after.