204-word post, or “The End of Death”

A love-spurned college freshman in Buenos Aires dangled from a noose tied to ceiling beams in his apartment. His feet dangled, tears streamed his face, but he was aware that air was still reaching his lungs, and unconsciousness evaded him.

An aging British rock star, on tour in Japan, looked at his reflection in the mirror and gingerly touched the gaping, bleeding 1-inch hole he’d just blown in his forehead with a 45.

A housewife in Peoria was onto her 3rd bottle of sleeping pills to no avail. A jumper at Toronto’s Union Station stood up unhurt after bouncing right off an oncoming train. A supermodel walked out of a burning car she’d just driven off a cliff.  A widower who’d eaten rat poison suffered nothing more alarming than diarrhea, which in fact was caused by bad Greek yoghurt.

For days, governments urged the media to ignore the rumours that the death rate had dwindled to zero for 3 weeks.
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And in a small home in Sweden, Death lay sprawled in a heap at the bottom of a stepladder, neck canted at an impossible angle, screwdriver in hand, wires hanging out of a ceiling socket.

Don’t be Death. Always hire a certified electrician.

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