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"Did I tell you about the time that my parents were walking over that bridge in Paris, and Princess Diana's car zipped underneath them into the tunnel?"
"No, but I have a feeling you're going to."
It's like Rick didn't even hear me say that; he just kept going. "Yeah, the car and some paparazzi zoomed under the bridge, and then my dad heard the crash. They ran down the steps at the end of the bridge and saw what had happened and called an ambulance. They didn't know it was Diana, of course, and my dad would have called - celebrity or not - anyway. But he doesn't speak French so the dispatcher couldn't dispatch and that's why she died. They had to wait until someone who spoke French called."
I said, "Did the cars zip or zoom? Jesus. And didn't you train with Lance Armstrong, Rick?"
"And didn't you date Jennifer Connelly in high school?"
"Yeah," he said. "Lousy lay."
"You know, no one in the office believes you. There's no way your parents could be at the bridge in Paris, you trained with Armstrong, you dated Connelly, you drank bat piss in Cozumel."
"That was my brother."
"Whatever," I said. "You're full of shit."
"You mean you don't think I skied with Picabo Street, either?"
"No. And I don't think you hung out with John Mellencamp when you went to IU. Because you went to Clemson."
His head started to pulse at the temples. "But...but it's true."
"No," I said. "It isn't. Hey, what's up with your head?"
The noggin in question was vibrating like the electric chair in my grandparents' living room. I felt suddenly ill at ease. Rick grabbed his temples and doubled over, moaning and wailing. It sounded like, "Gaaaaaahhhh. Waaaaaiiiilll."
"Rick?" I said.
And then his head exploded in a real Scanners-esque sort of way. It was totally gross.
Date Written: March 15, 2005
Author: The Rid
Average Vote: 4.1667