It was obvious that the man had been extremely handsome at one time not long ago…

I’m saying this because my soul is floating above my flu racked, allergy devastated, dying body.

I look from above at myself with sympathy and awe….

I am not embarrassed by the fact that my dying body is not wearing any underwear.

We don’t worry about naked fat men here…..

I know that I have gone thru all 3 pair of tighty whiteys that I owned during the contagious stage of the dreaded illness that has destroyed so much promising talent, sexiness and man-dingoness from the world…..

I cannot fault the Fruit of the Loom people……The underwear were not designed for this type of abuse, being restricted by the laws of physics and thermal dynamics, the drawers are useless in their attempts to thwart the sudden, shattering expansion and explosive releases of dying organs…

My plagued body drags its pitiful flu-infested frame across the floor of the truck stop bathroom, pulling itself forward by sheer piteous will with little rapidly, waning spurts of desperation….and fading hope.

“Auntie Em……..Toto” the dying lips whisper in its delirium…

The stained fingers claw at the smooth bathroom floor, trying to gain purchase, or maybe, just trying not to spin into the abyss of agonies that is its current state.

The sorry sack of meat paste drags itself forward inch by lurching inch, leaving a snail trail of boogers and spittle that immediately kill the flies that swarm too close to the exposed buttocks of the dying man.

The body slowly rolls over onto its back and gives up….Strength gone…….

Hope…….dead.

The right foot trembles slightly, shaking the piece of toilet tissue that is stuck to it, making it wave like the lonely, defeated flag of surrender…..

The wheezing of the breath, the fevered brow, the sudden shivers, are the only signs of any physical strength left that are visible from the sorry carcass.

The left hand, lying across the body’s stomach, slowly twitches…..

The Nyquil Flu liquid stained lips barely move, they tremble slightly uttering “….going to Alabama with a banjo…” the whispers fading….

The shadows of buzzards circling slowly pass across the waxened, booger crusted face.

(In a bathroom?) Told you it was delirious…

I hear angels singing……weeping daisies fall from the sky….

Anywho….Back to the Drama King’s death scene….

A slight breeze from a hand dryer stirs a lock of hair across his face….

The dimming, glazed eyes are fixed on a spot in the air, as if though they can see me here looking down.

A slow trickle of spit edges from the corner of the dying bodies lips, pooling inside the ear.

The body uses its last ounce of strength and sticks a finger in the ear and wipes out the mucous….

“Gross” the dying man whispers….

My soul screams from the air above “NOOO!! That can’t be your last words!”

The left hand trembles, the surrender flag waving from the sticky foot….

The body whispers “I kiss’d thee ere I kill’d thee: no way but this; Killing myself, to die upon a kiss.”

“Oh my god you’re pathetic!” I scream with my spirit lips! “Don’t quote Shakespeare in a freaking bathroom death scene!”

The head of my dying flu-ravaged trucker body turns and looks at me, the misty eyes dancing, trying to focus and see me, his floating soul.

He raises his booger caked left hand and gives me the finger and says;

“Etu Brute’?”

Later, as I passed thru the pearly gates, I approached Saint Peter who gave me a quick nod to his right.

I followed the nod and saw Shakespeare standing there with a baseball bat…his foot tapping.

He didn’t look happy

Shit….

“Too much?” I asked……