Lights Out!

If you want to know what it's like to be dead; ask Adam. Adam has been here the longest. Adam has been here practically forever. So ask Adam--but don't expect an answer that you'll understand. Adam is batshit crazy. I mean, I am not judging. It isn't his fault. You wouldn't expect him to be sane if you knew the truth; what really happens when we die.

I want to tell you a story, but before I do, I should really introduce myself. I mean, you'll get to know me well enough, but I am big on manners. That and talking a lot, especially about nothing. My wife used to ride me for going on and on forever about any subject that anyone brought up. She was pretty patient about it--most of the time--even if I repeated a story several times over. My problem is I remember everything, so it is hard to keep track of it all. Sounds like a contradiction I know. You'll just have to trust me.

But I digress. I was giving an introduction, not my life story. So here it is. I am Dave. Now, before you move on, just let that sink in. Re-read that if you have to because, really, that says it all. I am Dave. Dave. Have you ever had someone tell you, "I've never met a Dave (or Harry or Bill) that I didn't like"? Well, that generic, nondescript, likable, but entirely forgettable person in question is me. A Dave. So there you go.

Now, back to Adam. How do I know Adam? Because I am dead, just like him. He died a very long time ago and I died fairly recently. Also, I want to point out that Adam was killed in a glorious fight by some cool, wild beast, while I died rather unceremoniously. I only say so because it bothers me still--the way I bought it. I mean, I never really thought about how I would go. The truth is, I though the rapture or something along those lines would happen long before I died. And while I am being honest here, I believe we all think the same thing. Think about it. Did you ever look at some poor sucker in his (or her) casket and not think that he (or she) was somehow unlucky? Maybe just born at the wrong time? Admit it. You see the dead as somehow less fortunate than or weaker than you. Well I'm here to tell you, its bullshit mind games. We've all got an expiration date, believe that, and you never know when its coming.

Want to know how I died? It was so glorious. Novel worthy. Front. Page. News. It was...drum roll please...ACID REFLUX. Yup, you read that right. One fine summer evening while other folks were out dancing or in screwing, while kids were playing in their blanket forts and mom and dad were smoking a joint on the back porch or just having a glass of wine in the hot tub, I was busy dying. Simply put, I puked in my sleep and breathed it in. Mexican food. I could say I never thought in a million years that I'd go like that, but that would be a lie. I'd had some close calls of the same kind before; I just figured I'd keep lucking out. I was wrong. Dead Wrong.

Did I mention I was sort of fat? Not reality TV fat, just pot bellied, sports fan, truck loving, beer drinking fat. Not that I liked sports at all, but I am trying to create a mental image here--generic stereotype that you have seen many times before--because Daves comes in all shapes and sizes. My ex knew a Dave with a huge cock. She was a bitch.

Anyway, I guess you want to know about Adam and what happens when we die. I hope you are sitting down.