It was a normal day for me. I’d just started my trek back to the little hellhole of society where I lived, letting loose a few exasperated sighs as I walked. I was coming from my 9-5 job at the paper company, the only place I could find a job since none of the tech giants, or midgets, wanted me. My stupid paper company didn't even sell high-quality paper. It was recycled and grainy, the kind of paper you’d use to send a letter to a person you hated.

I hated my job, I mean who even uses paper anymore! It seemed like we wage slaves at Miller’s Paper were the only ones. After all who’s going to buy paper from a company that doesn’t use paper, at least that was what my boss Jerry Davis constantly regurgitated when he saw me and my coworkers texting. Looking back though I wish I’d taken his advice, even though it's stupid.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

As I turned on to "I don’t pay attention to street names" Road I heard a BING. I looked around for a moment at the rundown apartment building next to me and the kids playing with chalk on the other side of the street drawing some unknown thing while laughing. I then realized I was an idiot and took out my phone.

Bruno (now): Hey man! Just wanted to check if you’re still up for watching that game tonight.

I started typing swiftly my fingers flying across the screen, "ofc! Wouldn’t miss it for the worl…" and that’s when I died to a high-velocity flower pot.