by gdeangel on Thu Apr 03, 2008 4:45 pm
I remove the illusion charm from your eyes, whereupon you realize the corpse you have shot 40,000,000 times and kicked for good measure is in fact, your childhood pet, Wiskers the cat. Grief stricken, you try to shoot yourself, but you are out of bullets. In an act of kindness, I give you cartridge, but, alas, you put barrel in mouth, pull trigger, and - it's a blank. You die of heart attack.
My Hill.