Finally, Dr. Proctoscopy had given up on saving me.

"Ehhh, this surgery's a piece of shit!" he screamed, raring back and drilling the scalpel into the far wall of the operating room, 40 feet away.

He tore off his surgical mask in disgust, wiped his bloody hands on a pant leg, bit off the surgical gloves, and stormed out through the OR doors so hard, they kept swinging for a while.

The attendants quickly moved to stitch me up as best they could, but before they were quite done, an 8-man Sony Guard unit burst in and arrested me for conspiracy to reveal the 10 most favorite recreational psycho-brutalities of man, at the World Peoples' Bureau of Standards annual picnic, next week.

In court the next day, covered with the signs of incomplete surgery, I plead guilty and was forced to not die, so I could serve my time in prison.

I was sentenced to solitary confinement for 7 consecutive life sentences, but then let go after serving only a minute, because they saw how much I liked it.

The time I had left to serve was deferred to those future incarnations when I definitely wouldn't like it one fucking bit.

As part of my rehabilitation, I was provided with a job on the "Dial U for Euthanasia" Project -- and I fit right in.

The purpose of the project was to expose the 15,010 internal inconsistencies of History, in quick, simple, easy-to-grasp pictures and phrases, so everyone could understand how the past had never really happened, and therefore, what a waste it was to bother with the present, since it'd just be lied about in the future anyway and, then, as usual, exclusively for the benefit of the lame egos of a few empty, stupid, brutal people, irrespective of gender, race, nationality, class, or sexual fetishism.

In between rehab sessions, I hung out at old broken down stadiums where whole games and leagues and tournaments and championships and trophies were improvised out of pure dirt and spit.

At one point, the game down on the field got completely out of control. Umpires started kicking astro-dogshit on the players, and the fans rushed out of the stands and started dismantling the dugout and the TV cameras. The disruption spread through the entire stadium and then out into the parkinglot and, from there, into the streets.

Soon, the whole neighborhood was out of control, and then, the whole city was out of control, and after a few months of trying, all attempts to stop it and clean it up and restore services were abandoned.

The area was blocked off and no one was allowed to leave. It was renamed "The World," and everyone inside was simply looked upon as having simply made the wrong choice and now simply paying for it.