The Happy-End

In a couple of months, I hope to move officially to DEATH ROW. Will I be asked from above if I have some preference I will say that I would like to join the bandwagon on the 26th of March, 2018, and nail thus, the 80 years time milepost and turning point of sorts! Being a gambler numbers mean a lot to me especially those concomitantly positive and negative. Do not the years signify both addition and deduction? That is only if you are naïve solely a matter of deduction! Somebody or something is gnawing from your infinitely small expanse, every moment, a huge chunk!
Even if I do not want to be particularly nasty or highly impolite I am compelled to say – please do not think of you as different. We are all of us on death row including the unborn and the unbaptized… The only thing that differentiates us is statistics. Older people are dying first; at least nowadays…Hundred of years ago infants were heading the row, and during the wars, young male adults are shining. In peacetime like now women, minorities, overdose consumers, gang fighters and good believers’ activists provide a nice slice too. But there is no need to push; the mill grinds its grains unalterably.

I feel that it is time to get concrete, because as strange as it may appear people did somersaults all over the world and time to avoid considering the issue, the concept, the occurrence, and the inevitability. Some it invented an oversexed paradise (72 virgins by the customer? that is really a rare commodity), others were graciously floating above the ground in the company of hallowed martyrs, a fine intellectual group indulged in a subtle fusion with a major deity (God so and so) or with the World Spirit, a large mass, a giant lump are ferociously eager for another RUN and the rest float in a state of hopeful, unarticulated, stupor. Few cynical anarchists or devout politically corrects will leave their bodies to science or to agriculture, after having signed some fat life insurance. That is called life insurance…

I wouldn’t mind enrolling in any of the companies nor in all of them shouldn’t I have before the nose, eyes, and mind (?) a disturbing sequence of ugly mugs. They belong to American convicted killers who patiently expect, some for dozen years, you can imagine the torment, some kind of execution. O.J. Simpson isn’t among them. He was not convicted and he is beautiful. He had wonderful lawyers, and a great jury and he displayed a fine innocent game. I admired him. But I, I am among them. You will probably recognize me easily. Sure, I was too much of a coward to be a criminal in spite of having some hot reasons.

So, why me? And, why there? What do I have in common with all these psychopaths? Am I  an epigone of Vernon H. patronizing

all kinds of humanitarian causes especially when they have to do with offenders? I never cared for anything else than victims. But it is with the sentenced offenders that I share the most precious ore – that of being AWARE of being on Death Row. There is nevertheless a huge difference. They, the unnamed, are forced to get through that kind of, let’s call it, treatment while from an early age, I accepted and absolutely recognized DEATH as the major life determinant and SIGNIFIER. Under the shadow of demise and the inevitability of departure which were reducing the life expanse to a miserable joke, I decided to STAY happy and have fun. I knew sadness and adversity here and there but with my strong nature, the thirst for amusement, infantile carelessness, and especially, the lack of memory I beat them down. Then I swore to get out of it, LIFE of cause, if possible and in time, without cackling, whimpering, crawling, drooling, forgetting my name, forgiving my enemies, losing my urine, ruining my stand, displaying drains and catheters, ending homeless or wearing a bitter grin.

So, for the moment I am in a mediocre to medium condition so to say (and that if I abstain to remark a sequence of squeaks and crackles and even cracks and thumps) but I fancy getting better. Hope is more addictive than crack. Then I plan to move soon again into some giant meditation sessions; some major trips around the world, including Paraguay (does anybody go there?); continue drifting into a wide set of foreign languages notwithstanding having troubles with my own native idiom; and go, after that, I was mentally gunning myself for eons, full speed into an ultimate pangyrical artistic expression

That last, not because I have something particular to say. Does anybody have one? We are in a time of formal experimentation, and play, homo ludens, and exercise benefit both,  humans and apes. Also, I intend to continue the permanent refurbishing of my living space. I should persist in filling cracks, tiles fitting, wall painting, furniture dusting, and installation updating. I hate pigsties of both young and old.

Concomitantly I should get ready for the FINAL STRIKE (sorry, it is not a very sensitive term in the context) by acquiring a bottle or two of a great brut Champaign– Mumm, Heidsieck, Veuve Clicquot, the top and an exclusive cigar, of hundred bucks apiece. I didn’t smoke for a decade, but I fancy getting one from that famous Caribbean place. Their heroic political message, Che superstar, (together with peerless athletic achievements) excited and thrilled good people around the world still today. Thanks to them we can sneer those filthy rich, Asian fat-asses who irresponsibly flood the world with objects which people buy without really need them, like the Sam Sung What? And what occurs nowadays? The socialist bastion of Jose Marti and Fidel C. is invaded by hordes of sex tourists in search of discount Marxist intercourse much under Thailand’s prices! And we all

know who is guilty of that! Follow my lips: President Obama and the white geriatric Cuban establishment are those who opened wide the gates to luxury and capitalist debauchery. Should Fidel C. open his eyes and see this trade of female flesh he may have a stroke!

It is sad and heartbreaking, but what could I do and what do I care? Thinking twice I don’t. To pay the annual subscription to the TERMINATORS should be my only concern. Also, the yearly contribution will be deducted from the final account. Like for the old Dacian people, my fictional ancestors, my farewell should be cool and funny and bring me into nothingness with style. It could be preceded by a gross Laurel and Hardy movie. After, some Baroque music for accompaniment would be fine; nothing better than a couple of Bach’s fugues. As the most optimistic of the pessimists let’s hope that the PRINCIPAL will support me thoroughly and not throw on me a Schumacher… I think that Pascal thought of that already…Tomorrow will be another day.