Billy was an average kid, as you might say, leading an average life. His friends consisted of a tipped cow and some dead frogs. Billy was happy with his friends, and his life in general. One day, Billy got to thinking, "What will I do with my life?" "How will I buy a house?" "Did I leave the oven on?" All of these questions spurred answers, but one stuck out in general. A few years progressed and Billy became mature, older, wiser. He was leading his life's dream: a minimum wage dead-end job. You or I might think this strange, but to the newly-titled Bill, it was all he could ask for.
Bill came home every night to his apartment, with his dog and five fish. He fed them all and proceeded to get on his pinstripe suit and go to the clubs. It had been a few years for Bill, but he had the right idea. He always said the clothes make the man, and he stuck to that theory. In this age in time, blingidy bling is all the rage, but Bill was a modest man.
He drove to the club in his car, a 1978 Ford Mustang. The kids outside were impressed, until they saw the rust buildup on the back. Bill parked and went up to the bouncer. "Yo homie G, pound it." "Okay," he responded, and beat the shit out of Bill. "If you can still walk, get inside now,: he said. Bill did so quickly.
The club was straight bumpin, mo'focka. Bill went inside, despite the welts and bruises from his encounter with the bouncer. He then realized, kids nowadays are straight wack, yo. He proceeded to mashed potato, twist, and polka as much as possible. Nobody was impressed. They all laughed at Bill, as the rage, frustration, and anger built up. He left the club and as he was leaving, he choked a wiglet with his own West Side chain.
Bill now went to the Denny's for the midnight special. Bacon in pig lard was never so good. The anger went away shortly after his heart stopped.
The half-tranqed Bill was now in a hospital, diagnosed with high blood pressure. He never thought his heart would stop, especially since he used fat loss products. Bill didn't care about anything now, he was too dazed to think straight.The doctor came up to him. "Mr. Finklestick, you have two minutes to live," he said. Bill responded with "My last name is Schwartz, you fuckface." Silence. The doctor ran off, seemingly to find his client before his time ran out.
Bill pulled out the cords keeping him alive and got a new pair of clothes. He was bleeding from the leg, but that was only a fleshwound. He grabbed a Band-Aid from the nurse on his way out. He had no means of conveyance except for his own two legs, seeing as his car was still at home. He needed to do something before his dog was shitting all over the place. He saw an elderly lady who was clearly an amputee and stole her scooter. "Stupid old whore, let's see her catch up with no legs."
He arrived home to an empty house. He called for his dog, and the dog came to him. He could see that his dog was shitting all over the carpet, so he took it to the balcony and made it piss over the ledge. Old man Hubbard was infuriated when he saw his slightly discolored, smelly wig. The shit landed somewhere inside his pockets.
Bill went through the years to and from his job in his rusted out, piece of shit car. He was 60, so he was retired. All he did with his life was work. He needed a vacation, so he went to the best place for vacations: Hawaii. He got a lei and a hut somewhere by the beach. He decided to go swimming, so he put on his trusty swimming trunks and swam away. He was later hit by a runaway boat. He died a short death sinking to the bottom of the sea.
THE END.