"So this isn't 67P/Tschurjumow-Gerassimenko?"

"So this isn't 67P/Tschurjumow-Gerassimenko?" "No, your about 7 million miles off. This here's 109P/Swift-Tuttle, but why not set down and stay a spell? The ammonia snow powder's

setting nicely on the west face." "Far out" he said & strapped on some skis. An hour later he was riding a lift with a female with five eyes & a large penis growing out of her head

"Why did you grow that in your head and not the garden or something?" He asked. "I can grow things anywhere I want. Dont tell me what to do". She replied. He grabbed her head and

snapped and twisted it to the left. Her eyeballs shot out and ricocheted off the fridge. The marigolds growing in her heads wilted suddenly. He felt an unfamiliar pang. Remorse was

something he was not accustomed to feeling and this was strange indeed. As he walked away from her still twitching corpse, taking care to avoid the mess, he giggled slightly. How

was he to know she had a fatal allergy to cyanide? He found it very amusing as he ate a little himself. He looked up at the

he felt the cyanide begin to take effect. He closed his eyes with pleasure and leaned back, the dirty magazine falling from his hands as

his body slowly became numb. This was how he'd always known he'd die: alone, in the same old smelly apartment he'd grown up in. As the end of his life drew closer,

his spirit dissipated into the universe. As he expanded, he accelerated. He encompassed the world, the solar system, galaxies and the universe. Closing his eyes, he knew peace.