I opened a fortune cookie. It was a piceous cookie.
The cool wind stirring through his hair and filling his nostrils, he opened his mouth to take in a deep breath of this sweet, new life, for he had finally made it to the top of the top; the summit of the mountain we call success. It felt good, really good there at the top, except for an acute, tugging pain in his abdomen that seemed to be nagging sadistically, cackling at him like an old witch, “There’s only one direction you can go now, buddy – hee-hee hee!”
I shrugged off the message I found in my fortune cookie after finishing a “pint” of sweet and sour chicken that told me I had only one week left to live. A week and a day later, as I lay sprawled across the couch with remote steadily aimed at TV, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, I should have taken the fortune seriously.
The Baroness sighed, washing her hands in the opalescent ivory wash basin. “Now look what you’ve done, gone and made me get my hands all dirty, there’s a naughty pet,” she said, as red streaked on the white.