Future Ghost

(After such a mad torrent of blissful good news [see previous post], it seems appropriate to keep things in perspective by posting something self-indulgently morbid. I reckon everyone fantasizes about what sort of obituary he'll receive, but I like to leave nothing to chance. So, to commemorate the eventual plummet of my pen name, I present this written monument to the future late Sleeve.)

Sleeve Consequences, (age here), passed away peacefully in his electric chair (date here) after a protracted state of "ice"-induced psychopannychy. A self-noted would-be author of numerous fictions, poems, and acerbic one-liners about how golf is dumb, he devoted his last years to growing a mustache on the inside of his upper lip. His taxidermized head sits in perpetual state inside the helmet of the Canterbury Inn's suit of armor, where through the wizardry of animatronics it sticks out its tongue and yells "fuckpig!" every time some drunk lifts up the visor. Sleeve is survived by his amanuensis, his augoeides, and his--his--hell, his "real person behind the pseudonym". Goddammit, there's gotta be a better word for that, a fancy Greek-derived three- or four-syllable word starting with "a". Anyway, mourners are encouraged to make donations in his memory to the Gnostic Nudist Foundation for the Prevention of Feline Serotonin Syndrome, a front charity for a pyramid scheme meant to enrich his--his--y'know, his "guy who writes under the assumed name". Christ, I wish I knew some Greek (and no, I don't mean some "Greek," either, you sick sick souls).