“Listen, buster,” he said, placing the light down. “Beyond the honeyed little catacombs of death, destruction and sweet oblivion, darker than the blackest sea, way down deep in the blood of deadly cold somehow alive creatures, the very bottom of the bottom, the crud, crust and caked up hellhole of bitter tears that make up the end of it all, you’ll find me, passed out, and probably hella hungover from way too much alcohol or other vice, and when that death grimace comes to finally string me up by the neck, I’ll look it straight in the eye and kick it in the fucking teeth.”
“Or, you know, whatever it uses to get around and eat on. Living souls?”
“When the darkness comes to bid me to my final rest, consuming all that I am into utter nothing, you had better fucking come find me. I will miss beer.”
He was adamant about it. He was so unafraid of death that he considered it a near-eventual event to be taken up by his peers, who, if had not died yet, better find him and bring him back to the land of the living where all of this was supposedly taking place. Everyone sure acted alive, but he had his doubts and didn’t want to introduce the idea to people who might not even be aware of it, for fear of irresponsibility to some governing force such as himself, mass delusion or maybe some really strong magnets, if you think about it hard enough.
Up to you. Here lies Jim, gone but not forgotten.