The Mower was before me, erect like a shadow assassin. His scythe was covered with blood, and everything around her is spreading an aura of death. Around her, the world was dark, as if plunged into silence and darkness proclaiming the inevitability of my fate.
I felt his eyes pierce through me, his scythe was the last thing I would see, I knew it. Why was I woke up this morning? Why did I eat so much grain GMO fake chocolate covered chemical materials? Was I going to die because of my cholesterol? His
grated his teeth in a very shabby.
"- Mr. Hate?
- No. "
No, it was not me. Me, I was not there. My door was closed. I was asleep. His teeth damaged by time and seemed to form a smile squeaks.
"- Yes, yes, it's the right apartment.
- No, no, it's not there, that devil. "
She pushed me inside my apartment, and making me fall on my bed-sofa seat, his hand frozen. I collapsed weakly on the mattress. She walked in silence, like a cat killer, raised his scythe, and said in a tone which froze my blood:
"- Turn on the TV. "
Not TV. I had already seen too much! Why did she want to torture me before I put him to death? What suffering would I still have to endure?
"- Turn on the television. "
She gave me the remote control in the face, telling me the same token it does not really offer me another loophole. Feverishly, with horror, fingers trembling, I pressed the red button that allowed the window to scream nonsense. That was the news hour, apparently. I had to watch
the paper through. For an hour, I heard many and varied information on all possible topics: Laurent Fignon died, Laurent Fignon was a good man, we regret Laurent Fignon, the final words of Laurent Fignon, notices of close to Laurent Fignon Laurent Fignon died. As new in France and around the world.
In this world there are actually two rules: do not have a problem that deserves the attention of the media during the World Cup football, and not have a problem that deserves media attention when a celebrity dies. Finally, a celebrity ... A person a little more important than ordinary mortals. For example, Laurent Fignon.
Death looked at me satisfied. She explained what she wanted, I was just trying to do: talk of celebrity and death when these two things crossed. She invited me to a hand movement to continue.
My new inspiration
Let us, therefore. When you are rich, no one knows nor respects us until we do pass the bucket. I say rich, because in reality, when someone is known, it sometimes is not great world. He had a heyday, and that makes someone more important than all the rest of the world.
Two things: his death saddens person. When Michael Jackson is dead, the fans yelled that it made them much trouble, even if a few months ago, they told everyone that sex (black? White? Riddle, stand), said the singer was nicknamed Truth because he always went out of the mouths of children. When he died, he became a legend.
Therefore, no more laughs. We respect that. And we watch a film about him. And you listen to his CD. And Best of leaving. And his new Best Of Posthumous With unreleased tracks Inside. And also, we are informed that he has never been drugged, never pedophile, he has remained chaste and never spit on the floor in the school yard. He spends a poor rag to God.
Nearby, people whose lives have been exemplary die in agony for unfairness. These individuals have unwillingly been stupid enough not to become famous. Consequently, their death is worthless. Children jumping on mines that had to be grafted on the stumps of the feet and become dwarfs in Fort Boyard.
a mine and it comes to that. Go a little effort !
So, I recently learned the death of a cyclist that I had, O God, never heard of. And during this 1 hour newscast. Nothing has changed from one in France. When a cyclist dies of cancer, France stops. Nobody died in the streets, nobody has more interesting life, no football game is played. You are silent, and allowed the rider to die.
What is funny is also to listen to the testimony. The cyclist told-is presented as a good man who fought to the end with pride. There are, worldwide, people still die more dignified. But these people do not bike. Too bad for them. They are stupid, these people do not ride a bike.
I also learned the death of a director I had never heard of before, which gave birth to films I had never heard of. Once dead, he became the idol of I-don't-know how many people, was a true cinematic genius, and besides, he went to Mass every Sunday, and he gave money to beggars. He even saved baby seals. And dolphins, and ponies, because it's kawaii.
Let us compare two individuals:
the right, Roger, humble worker in a plant. Roger has always lived in an apartment like a cave. He took a shower while standing in the middle of the room, so filtered water. The work took too long for him to marry. So he lives alone and without children. There is little time, Roger has discovered, in addition to his broken back and his arm paralyzed by years of toil, he had bone cancer.
The poor man suffers a martyr, but he continues to smile at her niece, and not told anyone of his family he will die. Historically, he rescues those who are dear to him, and he does not want him to suffer from his illness, whereas they are the last hours during which he may admire their innocent smiles.
He eventually die quietly in a small provincial hospital.
left, Jack Nowell, director, writer and actor. He directed the film "The exceptional man," is richer than Croesus, lives in a yacht, a girl under each arm, another between the legs. Le seul alcool qu'il consomme est du champagne, et pour lui, la vie est tout ce qu'il ya de plus simple. He lives his passion, is famous and adored, in addition to being very easy financially. One day he was found dead in his vomit sauce (caviar) following a cocaine overdose in his bathrobe gold on his carpet $ 200 per square meter.
Roger does not exist. Everybody cares Roger. Roger is an idiot, he never made a film. As for Jack Nowell, he pays tribute for 3 months, spring edition of its film post-mortem with additional deleted scenes. In addition, all fans are screaming that his death is unjust, and television, everybody says that his heart on his hand, was a genius, autodidact, and besides, he liked dolphins ( always).
In the end, and approve the Reaper: become famous, die, and you're a god.
Not before, however. When one is alive, it is a failure. Except when one makes a bad movie but so pretty and kawaii it at half mast throughout the world (avatar, for example) or no one writes a book (Twilight, for example).
Make Avatar wet virgins or do with Twilight, and you'll be living in God. If you do not feel comfortable in, just to ride a bike, you'll be dying.
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