When you awaken, you’ll find a mariachi band in your room playing “La Cucaracha.”
I know this because I’ve hired the band.
It’ll follow you as you prepare for work, then follow you to work. It’ll play at your office, your lunch break, and your car on your way home. Always the same song, always in the same up-tempo, perky way.
It’ll play until you go mad, then play as men in white coats drag you away to spend the rest of your life in a tiny, padded room.
You should’ve never made me the executor of your living will.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Labels: 100 words, Drabble, Short story
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