Jonathan left his job three months prior to his bedridden state. He was a cook at a somewhat successful restaurant, and cried every day before showing up to his 10 hours of sweat and root vegetables. One day, after watching his tears hit the snow, halfway to work, he pulled out his phone and texted his boss, “I quit,” and blocked him from his contacts. He loved food, but did not fancy the work conditions. Jonathan flew down south and spent his time masturbating and watching HBO. He finished 5 seasons of this, 9 seasons of that, and the first 2 seasons of this again, all in the first 2 weeks of unemployment. One night, after masturbating, he fell asleep and never woke up. He didn’t die. He just never woke up. The Universe was not happy with Jonathan, and thus had punished him for his perfuse laziness. The priest next to Jonathan’s bed told his mother, “He is forever dreaming. May God have mercy on his soul.” God did not have time to bestow mercy upon Jonathan. He was busy trying to stop the Ebola business from killing all of his little creations. God had made a tiny mistake though, and the frisky virus made its way to Dallas. God thought to himself, “Well there’s no huge loss there” and focused his efforts on containing it within the city. The rest of Texas was spared. Jonathan was dreaming of fucking his old high school wrestling coach. He wasn’t too sure of how he had ended up naked on the mat with the grey-chested man. Jonathan let him finish, and then moved on to his next surreal adventure, which involved a towering creature and a sword. That one ended quickly as well. Outside the dreams, his mother had a coffin made for him. There was a typo in the measurement of the coffin. The coffin was built 3 inches too short for Jonathan. His Mother could not afford to have another built, or the current one modified. The mortician opted to saw off his feet when it came time to put him in the coffin. He would have to charge a $25 removal fee. Jonathan could hear horns blaring beyond a mountain. He walked through blue blades of grass that covered a long deep valley. This was by far his favorite dream. Everything was soft, and the sunlight was a calming warm yellow. There were ants in the distance the size of wooly mammoths, collecting sugar water that flowed down the valleys immense river to the east. He climbed over the mountains to find the source of the horns, but all he could see on the other side was a small dinner table sitting below telephone lines that seemed to go on forever out of his sight on either side of the landscape. Hiking down to the dinner table, he sat. On the table was an old radio blaring jazz. This was the source of the horns. He ran his hands against the polished wood that made up the table. Two Men appeared from behind him holding their own chairs and sat across from each other, on either side of Jonathan. The men were bald. On the right side of their heads they had white and red targets made of four rings. From under the table, the man on the right of Jonathan pulled out a revolver. The man to the left reached into his mouth and pulled out a silver bullet. “Ever play?” The man to the left said, smiling, holding up the bullet for Jonathan to see. “I have never really thought of it, though it does seem exciting.” He replied. The man continued to smile as he gestured the other for the gun. He flung open the revolving chamber, stuck the bullet in, spun it, and flung it back shut, handing the gun to the other man. The other man pressed the barrel against the target on his head and pulled the trigger, spraying his brains all over Jonathan. A bit of skull had struck him in the right eye. “Fuck!” he yelled as he leapt from his chair. The other man held an expression of bewilderment. “That ended way quicker than I thought it would.” He reached over and grabbed the gun, wiping the blood off with a handkerchief made of red silk. “Quite exciting though wasn’t it?” Jonathan was still yelling. The man pulled another bullet from his mouth, loaded and spun the chamber. He offered the revolver to Jonathan. “Your turn.” He said as he tucked the silk hanky back into his pocket. Jonathan stopped yelling and gazed at the bald man as he covered his right eye with his hand. “What?” he asked as if the world had stopped. “I said it is your turn. Take the gun please.” Still covering his eye, Jonathan turned and ran for the ant mammoths over the mountains. He was halfway across the valley before stepping on a bear trap and falling to the ground. “Fucking hate dreaming.” He whispered in pain, clutching his leg. He was in quite a bit of it, pain. Though it was the kind of pain you feel in dreams, the kind that hurts like hell, but is still dull enough to bear. When Jonathan turned his head to face the sky, the barrel of the revolver was hovering over his good eye. “If I die in a dream do I die in real life?” he asked in a calm, frozen tone. “In this one yes.” The bald man replied. “What are my chances of dying in this dream?” The bald man tells him “One in eight.” He pulls the trigger and paints the blue grass red. As instructed, a bald man named Dr. Davis had pulled the plug on Jonathan. This was the thirty-fourth time he had pulled such plug. Jonathan didn’t react. His heart subtly stopped pulsing. Jonathan’s mother tells the funeral director that this is no need for shoes. The director does not bother to ask why, and goes on to ask her what color bow tie she would like him to wear for the viewing. She picks the red one.