Seventy two hours ago I managed The Windsor Moth Key Shop in Van Nuys, CA. Now I stood overlooking the Alabaster Coasts of Normandy preparing for the funeral of a man who will not exist for two thousand years.
"Avez-vous terminé? Are you done?" asked Adrienne.
An updraft caught my stream and sprinkled a little urine onto my slacks. I winced not at the spill but at the urinary tract infection I had acquired somewhere between southern California and Ancient France. As the sea's greens and blues blended at the great curvature of the distant horizon, I toyed with my penis.
"Adrienne," I said, "You've already taken my kids, my wife. My bladder's on life support. Just give me a minute."
Cool air filled my lungs and I winced once more, but this time at the handgun Adrienne poked gingerly into the base of my skull. Zipping up I watched the waters crawl the sandy coastline as post-urination sting burned brightly in my crotch. I sighed, a little: "You're my least favorite sister."
"That's why I'm saving your life."
And then she fired.
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