One more for the collection

"No!” I shouted. “You can’t leave! Not now!” But my cries were barely audible over the roar of the sirens. My vision was blurred by tears. I couldn’t take it. I wanted to run after the ambulance and tell the doctors that he would be okay, but I knew he wouldn't.

Inside the ambulance the EMTs puzzled over the origins of the patient. Who had made the 911 call? The house had been empty—just a pale man barely breathing, lying in the foyer, a green vial in his hand. Much of his hair was gone, lying in clumps beside his head.

They still had a pulse on the man, but just barely. Suddenly, his eyes began twitching uncontrollably. The EMTs lifted his eyelids, their sight unexpectedly fastening on a pair of bright red irises and dilated pupils.

"I—" croaked the man, "I—" The EMTs leaned forward, trying to make out his words—perhaps his last. The man reached up with a trembling hand, to tap a beat on the heart monitor. "I—" he spoke again, "I—I—I like big butts & I can not lie. You otha brothas can´t deny."

And like that, he was gone. The EMTs broke simultaneously, falling into to each other’s arms as they wept. It was the most poignant moment either had experienced as part of someone passing. “He was too wise for this world.”

“I sure am going to miss him,” said Ethel. “I listened to his radio show every day for thirty years.” Doris took the remaining donuts and tried to discretely leave the room, but she

failed to navigate the black rubber phone cord spiraling off the desk near the door. Doris felt it tighten on her stockinged leg the moment before she hit the floor in a puff of powdered sugar and rainbow colored jimmies. Ethel fumed. So I’m the only sentimental one, she thought.

For a moment Doris thought a snake had coiled around her leg, and she wanted it nowhere near her boot, so she wiggled her foot and got up and ran. Turns out, the Doris shut. She slammed her face on the door, leaving an imprint. Ethel pondered the ethics of this enigmatic dilemma.

Doris Shutt had an unfortunate name. It made the first week of school a chore every year. More than one substitute teacher accused her of lying about her name. Her parents thought it was hilarious. But the joke was on them when she changed her name to

Jacqueline McCafferty becoming the most notorious female serial killer in history, pole dancing by night, and killing… also by night. She didn’t do much in the day, except rearrange her macabre trophies in a huge glass-fronted freezer. Well, that’ll teach them she often thought.