A private eye talks to a palm reader, hoping she can help him locate a lady living in the same building the psychic is working out of. After the private eye admits who he’s looking for:
She stood up. “Who sent you?”
“Nobody. I just thought you might be able to help.”
“Don’t know the name, mister. I just moved in here last year.”
“But I thought you might be able to use your divination—”
“Crap!” She stood up. “You a copper?”
“No. I’m an agent…”
from Shooting Star by Robert Bloch.
Man, the internet is weird.
Someone out there has to pretend to be a restaurant and they’re just trying to get people to buy pasta. Then someone comes along who wants to share about their deceased sister, because talking to chain restaurants comes somewhere around the “acceptance” stage of grief now, apparently.
Now the bar is set. If at least three brands don’t offer their condolences when I’m gone, I’m going to feel like a failure. And I don’t mean on social media. I want someone at the ceremony, in cosplay, looking solemn, shaking hands… throwing in some free appetizers.
“What yall’s didn’t know was that the ACTUAL Mark o’ the Beast is a blue verified checkmark on ya Twitter. Uh huh. You live tweet from them FEMA camps! See how that goes for ya!”
It sounds exciting when the scientists say they want to copy your brain to run a robot that they’re gonna send to another planet, but then the robot is out there in space having the adventures and you’re still on this dying meat planet, so whatevs. I don’t even care that they didn’t pick me.