Most people don’t believe this, but my job wasn’t always swindling terminally-ill people into buying terminal-illness-curing licorice pipettes.
Flash-back to the good old days about two or three days ago, and I‘m basically sitting around with my cat, Mittens, and eating licorice non-stop, since that's the only thing that inspires me to write lyric poetry, my sole source of income. But everything changes the day I have a tragic overdose in Dylan’s Candy Bar and develop severe allergies. Goodbye Mittens.
“Am hungry. Anything helps,” I write to the publishing house as my last desperate attempt at a haiku. Dylan “Candy Bar” Guy, town mobster, intercepts the cardboard haiku just as I had planned. “I‘m gonna make you an offer you can‘t refuse,“ he seductively whispers into my ear as he hands me heaps upon heaps of licorice pipettes. I accept immediately. No fool ever lived to see another day who ignored a threat from Candy Bar.
Is selling licorice pipettes to the terminally-ill really fulfilling? Let’s just say eating them was more fulfilling, but I got yelled at after taking my first bite of a cancer arm.
Flash-forward to the not good old days, now, where I, having just forgotten that I am bathing in licorice cream, not water, take a big sip. Infection has already begun to wither me out when one of the terminally-ill men I‘ve swindled comes to my house and tries to force my pipettes down my throat, asking how does it taste now.
Fuck. Licorice. “It‘s so delicious,” I whisper my last haiku before the world turns dark. "My last haiku before the world turns dark", I add out loud—that was such a good verse.