What would you do if you only had a month to live?
Many people have wondered the same question — often under the influence of a psychotropic substance while listening to Pink Floyd — but only few have experienced it first hand to answer it with the gravitas it deserves.
Nox the World-Breaker tried to answer this question when, after laying siege to planet Orgifon-ß, he informed its inhabitants that they had exactly 30 galactic days before the destruction of their planet, just to see what happened.
Apparently, the answer was: intense screaming.
Hollywood has also tried to answer this question to a varying degree of success. From selling all your stuff to live in an Italian chalet with Gérard Depardieu, to a full-on orgy in the middle of a family dinner, and even teaming up with a millionaire to do everything you haven't done in life. Fantastical, if unrealistic.
Reality is more mundane than that. People, more often than not, fall into despair and anguish, or maybe even find solace in family or loved ones to carry that weight during their last few moments in life. Some would, perhaps, do some crazy stuff like paragliding or ride a scary rollercoaster. But most are consumed with despair and anguish.
In fact, psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, after studying terminally ill people and how imminent death affected their psyche, determined that people tend to cope with imminent death though stages, none of which involved Gérard Depardieu.
Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance: the five stages of grief, as they are popularly known. Self-explanatory, and so ingrained in popular culture that even a toddler would be able to recognize them. Most people find peace by going through every stage, understanding themselves a bit better after every iteration.
Peter was not like most people. In fact, he was so disenchanted by the whole process of grief that he blew right through the five stages and entered a new, previously unknown stage: the "fuck it" stage.
In the fuck it stage, one realizes that, since your time on Earth is drawing to an end, you won't live enough to reap the consequences of your actions.
There was a bullet with Peter's name somewhere in the near future. Or a knife. Peter hoped It wasn't a knife. But whatever the thing that was out there actually was, it had his name on it, and he was going to have as much fun as he could possibly have before that thing went through his body.
Peter woke up early to plan out his day, maybe even have a nutritious breakfast, which to him consisted of half a dozen eggs, a pound of bacon and a pint of Scotch. Unfortunately, he didn't account for his cancer-riddled bowels rejecting that much junk food, so he spent most of his morning kneeling in front of the white throne of the bathroom kingdom.
"Meow," said Mr. Trash, Peter's tabby cat. He rubbed against his leg, softly purring as his tail coiled around Peter's leg.
"Hush," said Peter, too tired to even think. "I'll give you your food later."
"Meow," repeated Mr. Trash, which in cat meant: "Worry not, human, for I am here to take care of you. I feel a disturbance inside you and know that our time together is drawing to an end. Know that you were loved, child of man, and will be remembered by generations to come."
"Go play with your pole," said Peter. "Just leave me alone."
Around noon, Peter felt he could stomach a meal. After leaving the fridge open for Mr. Trash to choose what to eat—because, and we cannot stress this enough, fuck it—Peter went out to fulfill a dream every New Yorker had but was too afraid to chase after: punch celebrity chef Bobby Flay in the face.
Peter took a trenchcoat, still in his pajamas, and drove to the Gato restaurant to force his way into the kitchen. Of course, he didn't even get inside the restaurant, partially because he didn't have a reservation, and partially because he looked like a drunk—if handsome—hobo.
"Charging fifteen bucks for a Burrata is a crime, Flay!" he yelled from the entrance before punching the Maître d' and running into traffic. Because, again, fuck it.
He went for a few corn dogs down at the pier, which he proceeded to throw up. Not because of his condition, but mostly because pier corn dogs are gross.
With nothing more interesting to do, Peter decided to head to the Museum of Modern Art, just to make fun of those who find MoMA actually entertaining. It took two hours for someone to realize that the half-empty can of Pabst Blue Ribbon Peter left in the middle of the hallway was not part of an Avant-Garde exhibit.
Peter wouldn't admit it, but he felt a certain captivation for one of MoMA's biggest pieces: Vincent van Gogh's The Starry Night. There was something sublime and awestrucking about the piece that made Peter just stare at it for the better part of an hour.
Maybe the way it reflected the inner struggle of its creator, juxtaposed to the beautiful view from his asylum window reminded Peter of his own situation. Maybe it was because he liked the color blue. A toss-up, really.
He would've stared at that painting all day were it not for an individual approaching him with a rather interesting proposition.
"Wanna make fifty bucks?" said the man.
Peter took one good look at him. He was tall and lean, wearing a bowtie, thick glasses and an unironical handlebar mustache. A blood-red beret and black spandex pants made him look like the world's weirdest mime. And if Peter knew one thing, it was that you should never trust a mime. Even less a hipster mime.
"Do I look like I need fifty bucks?" asked Peter.
The hipster mime took one scanning look at him, from his unshaven face, all the way down his mismatched Crocs-and-socks combo. "You look like you need a bowl of soup and lots of deodorant."
Peter wanted to tell the guy where he could shove his deodorant, but again, fuck it.
"Sure, why not?" said Peter. "Fifty bucks is fifty bucks."
"Good, good," said the man. He took a $50 bill and slipped it into Peter's coat. "All you have to do is go to the next room and cause a diversion."
"Like, a fire?" said Peter.
"Nothing fancy," said the man, leaning on Peter. "Just fall down or something. Cause a ruckus. Just generally draw attention to yourself."
"Why?" asked Peter. "You wanna have some alone time with old Starry here? 'Cuz they have cameras," said Peter, pointing at the different cameras on each corner of the room. "Not to mention the guards."
For the first time, Peter looked at the man in the eyes. There was something there, something deeper. The man was not a simple hipster mime. No, there was purpose there. He had that look in his eyes that only few men have had through the years. The eyes of a revolutionary.
"I want them to see," said the man. Followed by a solemn silence.
Peter nodded, not daring to disturb such silence. He simply walked away into another room, feeling like there was something bigger than him at play. Fuck it, he thought.
People were milling around the contiguous room, photographing and commenting on different sculptures, all of them mostly red. Peter hated red.
He tried to think of different ways to make a commotion. First, he tried to slip and fall, but one of the guards was quick enough to catch him before he fell.
"Be careful, sir," said the guard.
Peter ignored him, took three steps forward, and tried to fall again. But yet again, the guard managed to help him.
"Sir, I'm gonna ask you to please refrain from slipping," said the guard.
"Well," said Peter. "I must ask you to please refrain from catching me. I would very much like to fall."
"I'm not paid enough to let you fall, sir," added the guard.
"How much do they pay you?" asked Peter.
"Not enough," said the guard.
Peter took out the same $50 bill the hipster mime had given him. "Is this enough to let me fall?"
"Bribing an officer of the law is a crime, sir," said the guard, visually distraught at the notion.
"You're a security guard, not a cop," argued Peter, scooting closer to the guard. "I'm not violating any law."
"You're violating museum law," said the guard. "We cannot accept any handout, tips or bribes."
"Is there any rule against slipping?"
The guard thought about it hard for a second. One could almost see the proverbial cogs in his mind turn. "No. I suppose not."
Peter patted the guard in the back. "See? There you go. There's no rule against slipping. You uphold the law, and I get to slip, no one gets hurt. Well, I do get hurt, but that's beside the point."
"I see," said the guard.
"So, will you let me slip?" asked Peter.
"No," said the guard.
Peter crossed his arms and puffed his chest, trying to appear bigger than he was. "Didn't we just establish that it's okay for me to slip and fall?"
"How do I know you won't sue the museum?"
"What?" said Peter with obviously faked contempt. "I would never!"
"You can never be too careful, sir," said the guard. "There was this lawyer guy last year who slip and fell on an exhibit and sued for damages. Took a million, too."
"The nerve of some people!" exclaimed Peter, knowing full well that he was the one who sued them. And he took more than a million, thank you very much.
"I swear," said Peter, "that I won't do such a thing."
"I don't believe you," said the guard.
Peter raised his right hand, pinky finger outstretched. "Pinky swear?"
The guard looked at his hand as if it was some foreign object, but Peter didn't budge. Finally, the guard shook his own pinky with Peter's.
"Pinky swear," said the guard.
"Good!" yelled Peter, slapping his hands together. "Now, if you would excuse me," he said, throwing himself at a particularly rickety structure made out of red cooking pots.
The sound of dozens of metal pots resonated through the building, quickly drawing a crowd.
"I'm in terrible pain!" yelled Peter, making sure to wriggle his body around to make more noise.
"Not enough pain to sue the museum!" yelled the guard.
"Pain! Pain!" yelled Peter.
After a few seconds of making a commotion, Peter caught the hipster mime standing in. the back of the crowd. The man only nodded before disappearing. Peter took it as a sign to stop doing what he was doing.
"Sorry about that, folks," said Peter, making a complete change in tone. "Nothing to see here. Move along."
The crowd, however, didn't move along, because a loud scream drew the whole flock to the adjacent room where The Starry Night was displayed.
There, Peter saw what the hipster mime had done with his diversion time. Somehow, he had painted a smiley face over the moon with a permanent marker, forever ruining the legendary piece.
"...was another attack by the Unemployed Artists Revolutionary Movement," said the news coming from a radio in Time Square. "The terrorist organization, specialized in art terrorism, attributed the attack to the museum's inability to comply with their demands of featuring more starving artists, arguing that dead artists like van Gogh don't have outstanding college debts to pay. This has been the latest in a string of hits, all with the same modus operandi."
A part of Peter felt a tinge of guilt for playing a hand in the destruction of such beautiful work of art. The other part said "fuck it."
At that moment, his phone rang. A familiar number sullied his screen.
"Deadman talkin'," said Peter.
"It's not funny, Mr. Katz," said the boring and dull voice of Dr. George.
"I find it hilarious," said Peter. "What can I do for you, doc?"
"Well...I wanted to apologize for my Secretary's behavior," said Dr. George.
Another voice spoke up from the doctor's side, faint but audible. "Administrative Assistant!"
"It was very inappropriate and out of line," said the doctor. "Not at all professional."
"I regret nothing!" said the other voice.
"Water under the bridge, doc," said Peter.
"Perfect," said Doctor George. "Now, about your treatment-"
"Yeah, I'm gonna stop you right there, doc," said Peter. "I'm not gonna take the treatment. With all due respect, I prefer to live the rest of my days rather than surviving them in some hospital room."
The doctor let out a loud sigh, followed by a brief silence. "With all due respect, you're dying, Mr. Katz, and-"
"So what?" interrupted Peter. "You're also dying. We're all dying since the moment we're born. Decay and stuff."
"Please, don't deflect, Mr. Katz," said the Doctor. "I'm not dying."
"Watch out, doc," said Peter. "First stage is denial."
The doctor began to breathe louder, taking deep pauses to calm his temper. "This is not a game, Mr. Katz!"
"Anger. Stage two."
"Could you please just...come to my office so we can look this through? There are some new studies being made, and I couldn't bear it if I let you fall into despair."
"Whoa!" exclaimed Peter. "Bargain and depression at the same time! Double whammy!"
There was a dead silence, with only the static between them making any kind of noise.
"Okay, Mr. Katz," said the doctor. "That's it. I give up. If you want to throw away your life like that, so be it. It will be against my Hippocratic oath, but it's ultimately your decision."
"And there's the acceptance!" said Peter. "Congratulations!"
"You know what? Fuck it," said Dr. George before hanging up.
There was a weird satisfaction in making a saint like Dr. George curse out like that. It made Peter feel good about helping destroy the painting.
Such was his satisfaction that he chucked his phone at a guy dressed as Elmo from Sesame Street. Because, you know. Fuck it.
When he returned home, he found that about half of the contents of his fridge were tossed out on the floor. Also tossed out on the floor, as fat as a pregnant pig, was Mr. Trash.
"Meow," he said, which roughly translates to: "Master. While I am forever grateful for the bountiful meal you have provided for me, I'm ashamed to admit that my hubris got the better of me. I am unable to move until I digest this meal. Know, however, that there is nothing I would like to do best than to cuddle with you and show my everlasting love."
All Peter saw was a fat cat, flat on his back and pawing at the air, probably unable to stand up.
"Same, buddy," said Peter. "Same."
"Meow," said Mr. Trash yet again, which translated into something like: "Also, a weird individual with no fur and smelling like overripe tomatoes came into the house a few hours ago. I tried to fend him off but was unable to move. Damn, my gluttony! For that, I will never forgive myself."
"Just walk it off," said Peter, tossing his trenchcoat on the floor.
A knock on the door grabbed his attention, and for a moment, his breath stopped. He has almost forgotten about the hit on his head. He now realized how reckless had he been by parading the streets. Of course, he was never going to be killed in a place like Time Square. Maybe it was dead who came knocking on his door.
He dry-swallowed. "Who is it?" he asked.
But there was no response. Only knocking.
His hands were shaking. Every step he took to the door felt as heavy as the world itself. It was unbearable. But he had to answer.
Peter opened the door, fully expecting to see his executioner. But death was not calling this time.
It was an angel.