Where do bad folks go when they die?

Still in the future here. Looking good, looking good. Cars don’t fly, but all the highways are underground now. Also, I live in Canada. Did I ever tell you that story about moving to Canada? It was way back in ought-seven, and I sneaked over the border after killing a trucker. I had to survive the first few cold nights inside an elk carcass. I eventually got a job sewing fake Kenneth Cole shoes.

Oh. None of this ever happened, you say? That’s too bad. I always have super vivid dreams, and sometimes I’ll think of some piece of a dream and have to remind myself “Naw, you did not really push that person into a volcano.” It’s a bummer.

These days I have this new thing where I do whatever I want as it occurs to me. It’s going well so far. My wants are few. Today I wanted chocolate chip cookies, so I bought some. I’m also enrolling in off-shore medical school. My experience in the ER proved without a shadow of a doubt that I have the right stuff to be a doctor. Yes, follow my finger. I diagnosed the child in the next room with a case of poor lineage, and I gave myself a skull and crossbones tattoo with Betadine. I also diagnosed several people in the waiting room with obesity.

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