217 Babel Street | Apartment 19
Oh don't give me your decaying bananas and your werewolf act. You don't fool me.
The corpse spoke without moving its lips. Heston screamed and ran to the window. He looked for the moon, to see if it was full, but there was no moon.
"But I am a werewoooolf," he howled at the moonless sky.
How dare you? You're just trying to pretend you're immortal because you're scared of dying. You know what? You're dying now.
"No. I'm not like you. I'm living."
Dying is what living is, you fool. It's happening, the corpse hissed. It might be a heart attack, road accident, cancer. It might be road rage, house fire, terrorist attack , AIDS or MRSA. It might be a skiing accident, plane crash, train crash or falling street sign. Maybe you'll fall into a pothole and no one will notice and you'll suffocate. Or you might, like me, be unlucky enough to be minding your own business one sunny day and someone comes along and murders you. Like me, you'll die.
"No, not me," Heston cried. "Ooowww."
You know what gets on my nerves about the living? It's not the smugness. No, I could handle that. It's the fact that you think death is all surprising and unfair. You're so bloody disingenuous. That’s what pisses me off.
Heston crouched on the floor, sobbing.
"I'll chop you up and throw you out with the rubbish."
Do what you want but you'll never be rid of me.