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January 11, 2008


With his last breath, he gasped the single syllable, "cond..."

And then he was dead.

What do you suppose he was trying to tell you?

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As he died in my arms, I couldn't deny his hair smelled nice.

His final word -- syllable -- troubled me. What could he have been trying to tell me? Did he have a medical condition? Was Condi Rice responsible for his death? Maybe I'd heard him wrong... maybe he'd been conned.

I searched the gift basket he carried, with a tag saying, "From your friends in the Family." Aw... sweet.

It came with some nice soaps, and some shampoo, and... well, he wasn't going to miss certain items, right?

Besides, my hair needed cleaned anyway. I wanted it silky and smooth.

Posted by: LJ at January 11, 2008 7:25 AM · Permalink

I’d known Sly for years. He was science-fiction family. In fact, I sat a deathwatch for him. At the end, it was just me and the machines. His family had gone to a nearby hotel for the night.

His eyes opened, and he motioned me closer. “I want a Martian funeral,” he whispered. “Hear me, little brother? A Martian funeral.” I nodded.

“I grok in fullness what you ask, elder brother,” I told him, and he smiled.

“Good,” he said. “Don’t forget the cond . . .” his eyes rolled back, and he sighed. Once.

So, mustard, mayonnaise, or Tabasco?

Posted by: Spike at January 13, 2008 11:56 AM · Permalink

Check before you post!