BANG!
“I’ve been shot,” I say, clutching my hand to my chest. I gasp and crumple to the floor. The pain is unbearable. I can hardly catch my breath as my wife sits down next to me and cradles my head in her arms.
“Just be still. Don’t try to talk too much,” she says comfortingly, gently moving a stray hair out of my eyes.
“But…gasp…but there’s something…gasp…I need to tell you. I…gasp…I want you to have…gasp, cough, cough…I want you to have my baseball cards.”
“Your baseball cards?” she asks incredulously.
“Yes. They’re my most…gasp…valuable possession. Cough, cough…you can sell them…gasp…sell them and use the money…gasp…to live…cough, cough. I don’t have much…gasp…but what I have…gasp…is cardboard,” I say sincerely.
“And how much are they worth?” she asks me suspiciously.
“I’m sure…gasp…they’ve gone up in value…cough, cough…but the last time I checked, they…gasp…were worth around $12.00.”
“You have got to be kidding me!” she exclaims, rolling me off her lap. My head hits the floor with a thunk.
I roll over to face her with some effort. I plead with her. “But, Baby, it’s…gasp…it’s not my fault that Jose Canseco ended up sucking…cough, cough…and…gasp…nobody’s heard of Don Mattingly…gasp…and Barry Bonds thought it would be a good idea…cough, cough…to do steroids. It seemed like a good idea…gasp…at the time. I spent hundreds of dollars on them…gasp…and now they’re worth about five cents apiece.”
“You’re pathetic!” she screams at me and stomps out of the room. The last image I have in this world is a sideways view of the floor and her retreating shoes.
I think to myself. “Damn you, Jose Canseco! Damn you!”
