The Life of Bob: Part Two

II

SEVEN HUNDRED YEARS

Last time we saw Bob, he was standing in the middle of the road, hoping to rob somebody. He was determined. It took six different cars hitting him before he conceded defeat and crumpled by the side of the road. The next thing he knew, he was waking up in a white room on a white bed with white sheets and a white pillow. His view of the outside was blocked by white curtains. He sat up and found that he was wearing a white gown, and he saw that his skin (which he’d never seen before, because his entire body was covered in hair) was pure white. He felt his head. It was as smooth as an orange (some of you got that).

He screamed. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!!” The window behind the white curtain shattered.

A nurse (who was neither male nor female, and neither black nor white) came rushing in. “Oh my expression of surprise!” the nurse said. “The solid-bone-structurally-challenged patient is moving; someone help me hold him/her down!”

A doctor with broken glasses came in and handed Bob a piece of paper. “Please sign here on the dotted line,” he said. Bob made a scribble with the pen offered him, and the doctor stuck a hypodermic needle into Bob’s neck and guided him back to the bed as he went unconscious.

Now, I’m sure this all seems pretty strange to you. Trust me, I was once unenlightened just as you, but through diligent research and just a little educated guessing I discovered the truth. As you’ll recall, Bob was hit by six cars in the eighties while trying to rob them. Eventually an ambulance came and took Bob to the nearest hospital. The doctors there decided that there was no way a body with every other bone broken could possibly continue to live, so they just threw Bob into a 0° K freezer, because with budget cuts at the hospital, they couldn’t afford to bury anybody. Well, it would seem that Bob was doomed. DOOMED. But Bob was not so easily gotten rid of. He was like a cockroach.

Now we will jump ahead seven hundred years to when the freezer was opened and the body of Bob found. Well, as it turns out, seven hundred years from the eighties is enough time for scientists to learn a lot, and they were able to put Bob back together, because somehow he still had a spark of life left in him.

Now (notice how talented I am at starting paragraphs with the word Now) back to the hospital room where Bob had just been anesthetized. The doctor died shortly of a severe chill, because he couldn’t afford medicine, because he was forced to work for free, because no one else had enough money to pay hospital bills, because the government had taken all their money, because the supreme pizza ruler was greedy, because of a psychological problem that was harder to solve than the chicken or the egg question. And with that I conclude this paragraph; please do read the next one.

When Bob woke up again, he was terribly hungry. Not just a little peckish; he was TERRIBLY HUNGRY. This put him in a bad mood… a terrible mood, and he stomped past the body of the doctor out into the hall and yelled for some food. After a while, a nurse came with a silver platter of cafeteria slop and spoon fed it to the gagging Bob. Bob never again yelled for food in a hospital.

Bob knew he was an outlaw, a highwayman. Just because no one else knew didn’t mean he wasn’t one, and so he knew he needed to tread carefreely. He found his way out of the hospital without being seen by too many people or security cameras, and crawled (to avoid attention) to the nearest gun supply store. There he *cough* “borrowed” a handgun and happened to walk out with it unnoticed. Then he walked out of town to a country road and waited for a lone traveler. He waited. And waited. And waited. And died waiting. No one at that time traveled across land. Even those who weren’t rich enough to afford a teleporter could pick up an old spaceship outfitted with a hyper-drive for less than they paid for each breath of breathable air.

And thus ends the tragic story of the Modern Highwayman. Scholars have long pondered what drove Bob to do the things he did, what his motivations were, and what was going through his head. All the debate on the subject seems pointless to me, however, as it is easy to see what drove him: Not a chauffeur, but an irrepressible urge to be a highwayman. What else could it possibly be?

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Published in: on September 25, 2009 at 7:18 PM  Leave a Comment  

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