The Paroles Of JK

Michael Voice had not had a hugely productive life until this point, which suggests that his death was no great loss to the great sea of humanity that crowds this medium-sized planet. This is entirely dependant on the bigger picture, and for Michael, the bigger picture was actually very small, and in his wallet. It featured himself, and a girl, which made his world very much smaller than this planet, but it also meant that the rest of the population would be heartbroken. This is a very selfish though to leave this life with, but since only he knew it, he will probably forgive himself. We hope so.

We do not know. We only know that his body was washed up on a pebble beach in the south-east of England, the only place where such monstrosities are accepted. Further examples of tolerance in the south-east include the acceptance of the sacred rule of a man who was lucky enough to be in the right vagina at the right time and the sacred right of other, similiarly lucky people, to hold on to a particular space, despite the fact that they do nothing to earn it. We call these systems of tolerance royalism and jingoism.

His body was found by an unremarkable girl called Sophie, who was unremarkable only because she was called Sophie. Had she been called Xena, she may well have become a princess of warriors. Had she been called Margaret, I do not doubt that she would have been a great leader. However, she was named Sophie at birth, and there was simply nothing anybody could do after that.

This was a great shame, because Sophie was the third prettiest woman who has ever lived. Being called Sophie was a barrier to succeeding by her looks, and so she had resolved - as soon as she comprehended the terrible fate forced upon her - to turn her mind at once to learning all the things of the world, hoping by this path to become remarkable. Sadly, her name once again meant her achievement went without comment.

If it appears to you that the people in the plane of existence are terminally stupid then please, do not worry, they are entirely made-up, and being so are not hindered by their stupidity. If the time comes that I feel they are suffering I shall put them down without pain, so set your minds at rest.

As it happens, stupidity is not a made-up thing at all, which is a shame, nor is it something that can be augmented or diminished with key strokes, as I can do here. Somebody ought to do something about this, but so far all major deities have been silent, although they hardly have an unbiased approach to the proliferation of gullible idiots.

When Sophie found Michael, she did not know it was him. Since Sophie was - indeed, is - not an idiot, she did not check for a pulse, nor did she scramble around in his clothes for identification. But she could not help but see a small photograph clenched in his hand, and leaning over glimsped two people, one of whom was lying in front of her. They looked happy, and Sophie was not happy, so she took it, and afterwards could not have possibly said why.

And then she called an ambulance, and sat down, and hugged her arms around herself to guard against the wind, and she looked at the photograph, and she looked at him, and she looked at the photograph. And then she put it in her pocket.

Michael Voice was cremated, but not in a crematorium. The ambulance carrying his body exploded on a motorway. Sophie did not find this out until later, and when she did, she felt scared, but could not say why.