By Simon Drax
December 11, 2009

* * *

“In the midst of life we are in death, etcetera…”

They were old words from an old song, written and recorded decades before Mori was born, “In the midst of life we are in death, etcetera,” a moldy tune spinning on warped plastic from way before she was born—practically goddamn classical, Elvis or Mozart or somebody—so why did the song and the words spin and spin inside Mori’s head, Jesus, was she that gone?

She was at the bar, check. And she was doing most of the talking, check.

“In the midst of life… ”

She was talking to the Bald Writer Dick, also known as Fredrick Stanwyck, famous in fifty-three languages, check.

“We are in death… ”

And Famous Freddie Stan-Wick-Dick (whatever) was looking better and better with each sip of her drink, not that he was so drop-dead-hot and all, but he was “nice,” you know, he was…

“Etcetera… ”

And Mori was talking and talking and she was getting more stupid by the second but who cared, she was going to die, man, she was going to be wiped from every plane of existence, Trista couldn’t rake her over the coals because she had splurged on a little human contact, and now they leaned closer and closer together with the stupid ancient song spinning in the cobwebs of Mori’s brain and they were just about to goddamn kiss…

When Freddie Stanwyck said in a weird creepy rush, “This body will deteriorate in minutes…”

And Mori actually thought in a flash, Oh no, goddamn baggage already—?

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