Short Stories

Table of Contents

Alphabet Soup

Options After Death

Last Man Killed

Gunfight at the Okey-Dokey Corral

The Last Voyage

Short-short Movie

The Hammer

Tibetan Monk

Fruity-veggie Story

The Train Wreck

The Bridge

Slaughter on Elm Street

The Bank Job

Fowl Play

Death in Slo-Mo

Alphabet Soup

Three friends are having lunch at a local diner. All three order a sandwich and soup. The soup of the day is alphabet. All have their soup first. On his second spoonful, Carl notices the letters of Dr. Sam have formed. He says, "That would be my doctor, Doctor Samuels. This must be an omen". Carl had a biopsy done on a small tumor on his neck last week. He gets a call on his cell phone. It's from Doctor Sam's office. The results came out benign.

Leo dips into his soup, and the letters form the word 'winner' are displayed on his spoon. Leo always buys lotto tickets. He pulls out his tickets from his wallet. John grabs the morning "Sentinel" He hands Leo the lotto listing. Going through the numbers, one ticket has 4 correct number, worth close to a thousand bucks.

All being excited now, they anxiously wait for John's message. He dips into the soup and comes up with his word. Carl looks at it, and quietly says, "Bummer". The word is..... 'death'. All heave a sigh of depression. John dumps the word back into the bowl. He stirs up the soup, and scoops up another spoonful. This time the word is ..... 'soon'.

Within five seconds, a man burst into the diner, brandishing a snub nosed gun. He aims at the man sitting next to John, while saying, "You've screwed me for the last time, you bastard". The targeted man lunges off his stool at the gunman. The gunman fires, missing his target, but hitting John in the chest. John clutches his chest while collapsing to the floor. His dying words were, "I'll never order alphabet soup again".

Options After Death

What really happens right after death? Supposedly, we go before the MAN (St. Peter). He looks at our rap sheet, then decides which line we stand in to spend eternity — heaven or hell.

Don't I get some say in the matter? My scariest nightmare is having a celestial committee arrange some entertainment for us while waiting our turn to see the MAN. The same ones who arrange time-killers during halftime at sporting venues, A whole bunch of new inmates who, very recently went through the Pearly Gates, got to choose either of two instruments to play for eternity — a harp or a trumpet. Those who picked harps, don't know how to pluck 'em. It will be like listening to a bunch of Japanese samisens (a three stringed instrument) played off-key, for ever and ever. They should be plucking chickens instead. Nice and quiet. Plus, they'd have all those feathers to recycle into wings.

The other choice is even worse. To cut down on cost, the trumpet will be the cheap Red Chinese plastic variety, coated with bright lead paint. While waiting in line, I will have to listen to these morons try to 'out-noise' each other. I couldn't stand the continuous blaring of those plastic trumpets, for the two hours while watching international soccer matches between the U.S. and Mexico on cable TV. I will remember how many times, if I had a screwdriver handy, I would have jammed it in through my eardrums.

More entertainment. For added torture, the singing would be done only by yodelers.

Pass. Hand me a coal shovel and tell me “to go to hell”. Maybe, I'll even meet Sam McGee down there. As a bonus, I still will be able to listen to, and tell, dirty jokes.

The Last Man Killed...

Captain Leo Spangler is retiring after 46 years on the police force. He is in a one-on-one interview with Channel 12's Bobby Carpell, on his 'Our Town, Our People' Sunday morning show. During the interview, Captain Spangler noted that he joined the force in 1950, and became a detective in 1955. Towards the end of the interview, Bobby asks the Captain what the most bizarre case he had during his career.

"That's easy", says Leo. The oddest case I ever had, was in my first year as a detective. It had gone unsolved for 35 years. It finally got solved only because of DNA, in 1991. According to the curator, Samual Glass, the incident happened on or about August 27, 1956. Carl Benson went to the local Art Gallery two or three times a week. He usually spent an hour or so, on each visit.

The curator talked with Mr. Benson on his every visit. Even if it was just a "Hi, nice to see you, Carl". Mr. Benson got particularly excited when a series of new paintings arrived. He was an amateur painter himself, and was fond of studying color formations and brushstrokes.

Towards the end of February, in one of his talks with Samual, Mr. Benson mentioned that, on a lark, he visited a fortune-teller on his way to the gallery. "She gazed into her crystal ball, and said with a straight face, 'you are going to be killed by a saber-tooth tiger'". I tried to stifle a smirk at her, but couldn't. "You know they've been extinct for about ten thousand years now, don't you?" Again, with a straight face, she repeated her predication. "Still, I'm going to avoid any big statues of them, just in case one may topple on me", Carl said with a laugh.

"That is strange, at least the timing", said Sam, "I just found out this morning that in August, we're getting a series of 'extinct animals' set up. Mr. Benson was doubly excited, noted Sam Glass. A new exhibit, and that era of historical animals fascinated him more than dinosaurs did. Mastodons, saber-tooth tigers, short-faced bear and other North America extinct animals.

On Friday, August 24^th , the exhibit opened. Carl Benson was at the gallery as the doors opened. He immediately went to the extinct animal section; and spent more time than usual on this exhibit, three to four hours a day.

"Tuesday, the 28^th ,at about 10 am, I had to leave because I wasn't feeling well. I said 'good-bye' to Carl and left the gallery", Sam told me.

"That's the last time I saw him." I had to take Wednesday off too. Thursday morning at 9:00, no Carl. Unusual. I went to the 'exhibit', since Carl spent all his time there since last Friday.

The saber-tooth tiger painting intrigued him the most. I went there first. Sam thought to himself, 'I know this is so far-fetched; but remembering his encounter with fortune-teller, I examined the tiger very closely. On its teeth were bloodstains I didn't remember seeing before. Below the painting, I noticed a very small pool of blood.'

That's when Sam called the police department, and Captain Sardino assigned me to the case.

We did a thorough investigation. We had very little clues though. No patrons saw him after Sam left for the day on Tuesday. Other than the bloodstains, we had nothing. We kept the blood sample in the unsolved section of the evidence room. We never found the body, not even shreds of it.

After the DNA identified the blood sample as belonging to Carl Benson, I checked the death certificate. Since the body was never found, the death certificate notation for 'Probable Cause of death', was: Unknown.

Gunfight at the OKey-Dokey Corral

The two sides slowly approach each other. Four on each side. From their snarling sneers, and the smoldering looks in the eyes, this gunfight was for real. It had been coming to a head for some time now.

The non-players started scattering out of the way. With no signal given, one side took it on itself to start ablazing. Smoke belched from the guns, twelve in all. Some of the gunmen preferred using a single gun, while fanning the hammer for quicker release of shots.

Through the smoke, you could barely see bodies fall to the ground. It was over in less than ten seconds. Most of the bodies were lifeless. A few twisted, as if in great pain. No one spoke.

Then a voice from the main street shouted: "Okay boys. Time for dinner."

The Last Voyage

"Mission Control, we have some problems up here. Commander Granger has now died. That leaves only me alive. To make matters worse, the correctional stabilizer is erratic in its workings. I have little control over direction of travel."

"Houston here. How much control do you have of the ship, Aaron?"

"Very little. I couldn't even make a wide bend to have a high orbit around Earth."

"We'll try to figure out a solution down here. How are you feeling?"

"Not very well. Whatever virus, or other critter, that we picked up has gotten me too. It seems to be moving at a much slower pace though. Can't even guess how much time I have left."

"Not sure what we can do for you, but we'll try."

"I'll put Roy in the cooler for now. I need a few hours shuteye. I'll do some testing later today, maybe."

(Three hours, twenty two minutes later)

"Houston, I'm back. The rest did me no good. I'm at the stage of illness the others were less than an hour or so before they died. You can't do anything for me now. Just sit back and listen to my farewell monologue. I am recording this. Some day, this ship may come back home to you."

"I'm sitting in the in the Commander's chair. What a beautiful sight. Almost pitch-black, except for some far away stars. I'm getting light-headed and delusional. I guess I can't be delusional. There's no one out in this part of space, but me, to delude about."

"Wait.... there's a flying saucer approaching on my port side. It's kind of cigar-shaped. I can't make out the brand, though. It just passed over me with a sign on its underbelly. 'Eat at Mel's Diner'. You're saying to yourselves, 'he's got to be kidding', right? Of course I am. I don't think Mel has any franchises this far out; besides, who's Mel?"

"I see a light in the distant. Even with my hands on the controls to straighten out my course, the ship is veering towards the light. It's getting larger and softer in tone. The closer I get, the slower the ship is traveling. This thing is taking shape to gigantic proportions. It's still fuzzy looking, but it's looking like a carnival setting. What the hell is going on here???"

"We're heading for the front entrance. The ship is barely moving now. I'd swear that we're at Heaven's Gate. There's an old man with a long flowing beard, dressed in white robes. He waves to me. My first guess is it's Father Time; but he's not wearing an hourglass around his waist. Maybe it's Mel. No, and I'm really, really serious about this. I think it is Saint Peter. We have all wondered where Heaven is. That it's somewhere in the ether. By providence, I may have just found it. All my instruments are at zero. I can't tell you where I am. I don't think I would, even if I could. World corporations would turn Heaven into a theme park."

"'Meet Mickey God', and other such silly greetings. It's best no one know where this place is. Until you die. There's an old saying, 'die and go to Heaven'".

"I think I just have."

Short Short Movie

Frank Symore, an eye doctor, calls together his closest friends to his home. He's really excited. In secret, he has been working on a time machine. Others have done the same. The big difference with his setup, is that he has incorporated a movie system to see things in today's world, as he does, in real time.

Ever since he was a boy, his most involved interest has been with dinosaurs. He already has his machine set for the Mesozoic Period. He tells the three of them of his plan to record actual live dinosaurs. With the receiving camera here in the living room, you'll see things as I do.

Andy, the most skeptical of the three, scoffs at the prospect. "I doubt that you'll get this contraption off the ground." Leo and Norman may have the same thoughts, but are more polite about it. "We look forward to seeing real live dinosaurs roaming the earth 200 million years ago"; probably saying that with tongue in cheek, though.

Frank climbs into the cockpit. He gives his farewells to the three of them. "It'll take about ten minutes to get to my destination. You'll see the passage of history as I will see it." With that, he closes the cockpit and takes off into history.

About ten minutes later he lands in an open plain of huge dinosaurs. He turns off the engine to marvel at the spectacle. The camera is panning the herd. He is so excited, he doesn't at first notice how close some of them are to him.

Then Frank sees an ominous dark gray cloud closing in on him. It's the leg and foot of a diplodocus plant eater. Before he can crank up the engine to get out of there....

SPLAT!

The End.

The Hammer

NEWS ITEM: According to police reports, the complete demolition of the nearly finished Good Luck Hotel, was started by a faulty hammer. John "Carpy" Jones, a new carpenter was just hired this morning. He had been unemployed for the past six months, and was hammering away on the roof with real gusto. On a back swing, the hammer head flew off, striking a workman in the head. It cold-cocked him, and he fell on his electric saw's kill-switch. The saw kept cutting off an end section of the roof.

The end piece fell three stories. It hit a cinder block placed on the end of a plank for balance of something, not yet determined. The block traveled several floors before hitting another plank with a big heavy screwdriver on it The force of the bounce catapulted the screwdriver across the yard striking a metal beam. The spark that was generated ignited a stick of dynamite that must have fallen out of someone's pant's pocket. The stick's wick, now well alight, rolled off the beam, exploding just before hitting the ground. This set off an open, full box of dynamite.

Several large pieces of shrapnel entered parts of the ground floor. One set off a 5 gallon can of cleaning fluid. The ensuing fire engulfed the ground floor and quickly shot up to the other floors, caused by the good draft created through an open elevator shaft. The hotel was fully ablaze before the firemen got there. Miraculously, no one was seriously injured nor killed.

John "Carpy" Jones is again unemployed.

Tibetan Monk

A Tibetan monk douses himself with gasoline. I said to him, "Lighten up!"

He looks at me, and lights a match. Poof, he goes up in flames. He must

have thought I said, "Light it up!" I'm going to have to work on my diction.

"HOW NOW, BROWN COW."

Fruity-Veggie Story

Al Falfa and Arti Choke were on the Okra Winfrey Show. She says, "I heard a leek that you two maniocs are way over-paid. Is that true?"

Arti says, "Oh shoot, lettuce squash any rumors about our celery being too high. Man, go check out what others make."

Al chimes in, "Chicory, chicory tock, the mouse ran..."

"Knock it off, Al. This is serious. It's a-maize-ing how green with envy some people can get."

Al says, "Bean there, done that. I broke my pump — kin I use yours?"

My girlfriend is so old, I call her Granny Smith. She was ugli and very plump when we went on our first date. I bought her a 3-carrot diamond ring, and sang her a variation of our favorite song, too. "Shallot be, shallot be." She wishes her other boyfriend could do this. I said, "If I can do it, zu-ccin-'i."

He doesn't like me. I turnip my nose at him. He started raisin' cane and said he would berry me. We got into a rhubarb and I beet him badly.

Blimey, "Red" Peppers was awarded the Nopal Prize for finding a new way to sprout eggplants. This may sound corny, but I asked him why he was so modest about it. He gave me his Popeye imitation and said, "I yam what I yam".

To this day, I don't understand what sweet potatoes had to do with it.

The Train Wreck

Three woman are having lunch at Rozay's restaurant.

"Veronica, you don't look well, are you all right?", Caroline asked.

"I have these dull, throbbing pains in both my legs. I started getting them around 8:00 yesterday morning. Nothing's wrong with them. I just feel slightly numb in both legs, like I shouldn't even be able to walk. Strange."

The third woman, Gina, is reading the front page of the morning paper. "That saying, 'about something being a train wreck', really happened near Carterville yesterday, about eight in the morning." Showing the front page to the other two, she remarks, "I'm glad I wasn't on that train."

Caroline, with a puzzling look, asks Veronica, "Weren't you suppose to be on that train for your monthly visit to your folks in Carterville?"

"Yes, but a strange series of small events happened, and I missed the train. I always set out my clothes for the trip, the night before. For some inexplicable reason, I forgot to do it Tuesday night. You two know how flustered I get when my schedule is screwed up. Next, I burnt my bacon and had to make another batch. Then a button broke on the blouse I planned on wearing. By now, it's 6:20. I decided I won't make the 6:35 train in time. I called my folks and told them what happened, and I'd see them next week."

Caroline and Gina get up to leave. "We have to go", Gina says, "Say 'Hi' to Sally for us."

After they leave the restaurant, a man from the next table gets up and seats himself at Veronica's table. "I heard your conversation, and I'm embarrassed to say, it's my fault that you're so distressed", he said.

Veronica thinks, 'That's a pick-up line I've never heard before'.

"You humans have sayings like 'He dodged a bullet', or 'It wasn't his time to go'. Those incidents that death or serious injury were miraculously avoided were not from blind lucky. They were orchestrated from above. I am called a 'Custodian of Life'. Many people have events similar to yours. Something happened, and they missed their destiny with tragedy, without ever giving it a thought why things happened as it did. That's because a Custodian tweaked some minor elements of the day affecting the recipient's live only. Times and places were so slightly changed. As an example, a man gets a phone call just before leaving the house. It causes him getting caught at a traffic light, missing getting into a serious accident down the road. Stuff like that."

"The train wreck did happen. If you had been on that train, you would have had both your legs crushed beyond repair, needing amputations. You were my first assignment, and I botched it up a bit. Not by much. Just enough to let you have phantom pains. My superiors are correcting that oversight of mine as we speak. Very shortly, the pain will abate. So will the memory of our meeting. Because the wreck happened without you scheduled to be in it, the conversation you just had with your friends here, will be different."

Veronica says, "Even though I think you're a kook, there's no way I could forget what's just happened!"

"You will. Savor these few minutes, realizing a spiritual force saved you legs. Don't try to keep the memory alive, though.... Let it go."

The Custodian rises from his chair and doffs his hat to her. He pays his bill and walks out the door, holding it open for a woman entering Rozay's. All the while, Veronica watches him leave with her mouth slightly agape.

Her friend, Sally, sits at the table. "Do you know that man that just left?", she asks.

"Never saw him before." Veronica says offhandedly.

"So, how are you feeling, Ronnie?", Sally asks.

"Great! Couldn't feel any better. Everything is fine."

Sally says, "You were suppose to be on that train that wrecked yesterday, weren't you?"

"Yes, I was. A couple of small things happened, that changed yesterday's schedule. Looks like I was really lucky to miss that train. It's just one of those things, I guess."

The Bridge

While traveling cross-country, I stop in a town I don't even see located on the map. It's not that small either. On and off, I heard a mild clunking sound from the engine the last couple of hours. I dropped the car off at a garage to get it fixed. I ask the mechanic for the closest restaurant. He says just over the bridge. "You'll be tempted to spend some time on the bridge while crossing it — Don't. Just walk across without stopping. Especially in the middle." I don't know why he said that. I'm too hungry to lallygag around on a bridge. 'Hey, once you've seen one bridge, you've seen 'em all.'

It's a small bridge, over a roadway with four lanes separated by a narrow medium strip. While I'm walking over the bridge on the walkway, I casually look over the railing at the traffic. Odd. I stop to take a closer look. I'm looking at the southbound traffic. Over the span of three minutes or so, I see 15 to 20 vehicles pass under me. Mostly cars, with a few trucks and one bus. That wasn't so strange. What I thought odd, was that during this interval, there was no traffic in the northbound lanes — for miles.

I shrug my shoulders and move on without looking at the traffic again. I get half-way across the northbound lane and I hear an 'ahh-woo-gah' horn. I recognized the sound. I once had a 1930 Model A Ford coupe. Before I can look over the rail again, I hear a second, throatier one. To my amazement, I not only see two Model A's, but several cars and trucks from the '20s, '30s and '40s bopping along the northbound lane. I watch the traffic for a minute or two; then my peripheral vision catches sight of the southbound lane. I look directly at the traffic in the southbound lanes. There isn't any!! What the hell's going on here? I look again at the 'old-timers' lane. Cars traveling north. Still nothing in the 'modern' lane. No traffic for miles.

I shake my head in disbelief, while keeping my eyes on the 'modern' lane as I'm running back to it. While I pass the center medium, I get a short light-headed feeling that passes as I get to the passing lane of the south traffic. The same thing happens. Modern vehicles in the south lanes, nothing in the north traffic. I wonder what I'll see if I stand directly over the medium strip?

I run to the outer edge of the passing lane. I turn sideways and sidle across the medium. The more I get to the center, I see a dimmer view of the 'moderns' and a faint images of the 'old-timers'. All the time, the peripherals are growing darker. I get to the near center of the medium-strip. I am now in total darkness. I can't see anything! No roads. No cars. No sounds. I can't even speak to hear my own voice. Worse than that, I can't move my legs to get back to reality. This must have happened to others, too. This is what the mechanic meant when he said don't spend time on this bridge. I feel a cold clammy hand on my shoulder. I hear a voice, though I too petrified to turn. "You should've listened to the mechanic. I didn't listen either. You shouldn't have stopped. Now, like me, you'll never get off this bridge."

Slaughter on Elm Street

Surveying the field, General Tommy thinks to himself, 'This won't take long'. The weapons sharpened, nice cool Autumn day, everything in place. Let the attack begin! With every push of the war wagon, the clattering of metal causes hundreds and hundreds to get mowed down in one swoop. No resistance, no cries of mercy. Up and down the ranks, the same results. This is almost too easy. Such ease has seldom been seen on fields of battle. A complete annihilation in just over an hour.

At the end, only one voice is heard: "Dad, I'm finished cutting the grass".

The Bank Job

Butch Casserole and the Sand Dunce Kid along with their small gang prepare to rob the bank in One Forks. Butch was a stickler for even the smallest detail. He considered every possible obstacle, then countered it with a foolproof replacement. Blocking the back exit, so no one could sneak out and alert the sheriff; at least two men for each teller window. Enough gunnysacks to carry all the money in. "Don't want anyone sticking money in their pockets or under their hats. "Folks get mighty suspicious seeing money in those places. Especially from people just leaving the bank."

On Thursday morning, at 7:00 sharp, the gang took off for town. Butch was also meticulous about looks and demeanor. All shaved that morning and put on his cleanest dirty shirt. On the way to the bank, which Butch reckoned should take three hours and nine minutes to travel, no clowning around was tolerated by Butch. "Just concentrate on the job you're responsible for", he told them. "I've already taken care of all the minor details."

They arrive in town at 9:51. Had a good tailwind. Each man casually got off his horse, and tied it to the hitching post. Then, just as casually, each man got ready to go to his assigned post. Butch, looking at them, nodded for those assigned outside duty to go to their post. Butch, followed by those to go inside the bank with him, started up the steps. He turned the door handle. It didn't open. He saw a sign on the door. "NUTS", he said. Sand Dunce wiggles his way to the front of the group and read the note aloud.

"Closed today for our annual bank picnic. Reopen tomorrow at 9:00 am."

"Sorry for any inconvenience to bank robbers."

Fowl Play

Three feathered friends are suspected of robin' Falcon's crest,

near the Swanee River. Two of them were apprehended

shortly thereafter. Martin Snipes was caught wren his pants

fell down to his ankles. He was saved further embarrassment

because he had his capon. Peli Dabchick, being out of shape,

was runnin' and puffin'. Not being very swift, he was easy to

nab. What a par-a-keets!

At headquarters, the world-famous Chinese detective, Duck

Ling and his assistant, Jay Peacock, got this information from

the parrot them. They had their secretary bird take notes.

To this day, they still crow about it.

"We can make this very unpheasant for you two. If you don't

want to get finched by an angry mob, you'd better squawk;

and don't grouse about it."

"Auk, go fly a kite. We ain't cuckoo. We did it for a lark."

"Gannet, Snipes. Toucan can play this game. Make it easier

on yourselves — or we can make it ruff on you. We'll grab one

of your wings and pullet. Eider Owl do it — or-i-ole! Tell us

who the ringleader is, or you'll erne some jail time"

"I can't swallow that. Why don't you geese who he is. I was

there just chicken' the place out. I can't tell you who he is,

but Peli can."

"Okay Pellie, it's your tern, you bustard, who is he?"

"It's Al Batross. He's stork raven' mad."

"Tell us moa."

"He's a pigeon-toed marsh hen from outer space!"

"Oh boy, can you tell some whoopers. Here's the

confessions. You two can use this penguin you're

ready to cygnet. Then both you turkeys are going

to prison. Don't expect any treats though, like apple-

gobblers. You'll be there to poultries out of the

ground for myna myna years."

Death in Slo-mo

In the spring of 1954, at the University of Callway, a prominent pain researcher, Doctor Ellis Carlton, is giving a speech on inflicting slow torture on lab animals to see how they react to the pain incurred. He anticipates his findings will help humans better able to endure the pain of slowly incurring debilitating pain, especially in terminal diseases

Dr. Carlton's research is in calibrating the threshold of pain that small animals can withstand before death. He engages the procedures by attaching wires to parts of its body. He then slowly pulls on some parts, say, an arm or a leg. Reading the meters attached to the wires, he can measure the level of pain.

He claims that time does seem to expand in pain or other unpleasant experiences in humans. Due, in part to our complex and sophisticated nervous system. In small beings, not so much so. Take the worm, for example. Putting one on a hook doesn't have the threshold of pain as it would done to a human.

After his lecture, he takes some questions. He apologizes for his nasal tone. He has plugged up sinuses.

"Doctor Carlton, why do you have to use a slow means of death?

"It's the only way to evaluate the level and threshold of the pain they suffer. If death was so quick, there would be very little pain to endure."

"Why do you make them suffer for your pleasure?"

Doctor Carlton replies, "It' just a unique way of observing them. What difference does it make? They don't know what hit 'em, nor feel that much pain. Are you another one of those kooks into animal rights? Well, they don't have responsibilities, so they can't have rights.

Maybe if we had mannequins with measuring devices inside them to monitor movements and other aspects of impacts, including pain levels, we wouldn't need real animals to experiment on. Until then, animals are our best source for research.

Well, that's it for today. I'm cutting the Q and A section short to get to my favorite spot, to get some spearfishing in this afternoon."

Dr. Carlton opens the back window of his 1950 Mercury woody station wagon. He dumps off his notes into a box he has for that purpose. While he's there, the gear is quickly checked:

Scuba wet suit and flippers, "Check".

Air tank, "Check".

Weight belt, "Check".

Face mask and regulator mouthpiece, "Check".

Spear gun, "Check".

Spears, "Check".

"I guess that's everything."

He closes the trunk door window, jumps into his wagon, and off he goes. Though it's only past noon, he wanted to leave the campus by 11:00. It's late autumn. The roads are a bit icy in spots. Dr. Carlton pays them no heed. He spins his wheels out of the parking lot and roars down the road.

Speeding at 70mph at the outskirts of town, Dr Carlson is traveling along a road that's tree lined forming a canopy that blocks out most of the sun. He hits a large ice patch and starts to fishtail. Still on the ice, braking has little effect on slowing down. He gains partial control on a dry spot, then almost immediately hits another ice patch. He's slowed down, but by then he's heading for an oak tree on the other side of the road. Unable to stop, and from his perspective, he heads towards the tree in super slow motion. He sees the crevasses of the tree getting larger and larger as he approaches the oak tree. It seems like the impact took a couple of minutes to occur. He hits the tree head-on at 50 mph. The front end starts to buckle from the impact. The car comes to a quick and sudden stop. His body doesn't. It is still traveling at the speed the car was, 50 miles per hour.

"Oh, my legs!", he cries out. The impact throws his legs onto the the underside of the dashboard, slowly breaking the bones in several places. The legs continue moving upwards crashing into the lower part of the steering column and the bracket holding it in place. The kneecaps crackle like chestnuts in an open fire, while being pulverized by the upper part of the steering column.

With the collapse of the front end of the car, the motor mounts break, causing the engine to smash through the firewall crushing his feet, ankles and lower legs. Very little of them are in tact.

The driver's door get bent into a small accordion forming sharp ridges, slicing up the left arm.  Blood and bone parts get splattered over the dashboard and onto the driver's pane of the windscreen.

His chest is violently thrust onto the center hub of the steering wheel, ripping through the skin and smashing his sternum. The horn rings break and cut though his chest, piercing his lungs. "I can hear and feel my center rib cage being slowly disintegrated by the extended center hub of the steering wheel. It has the sound of walking on hard snow on a crisp morning."

"It's so painful. Why can't I die, and just get it over with!"

All the action hasn't been happening just at the front of the wagon.

The next assault on his body comes from stuff in the back section of the station wagon. They have been accelerating through the wagon, flying and caroming off the back windows, seats and the inside frame of the station wagon. The heavier gear does the most damage, of course.

"Now, I've got a dull ache at the back of my head. I can feel something traveling slowly through the back of my head. I lose sight in my left eye. I look at the left eye with my right eye and see why. A spearhead is coming through my left eye and ripping the eyeball apart in its travel Parts of the torn eyeball are dripping down my cheek."

The weight-belt just walloped me in the back of the head. My body is flung forward. "My head just smashed into the windshield crushing my forehead and face. No need to worry about my left eye now. The force of impact is so strong, the spearhead lodges into the frame. The shaft is bent and swiveled to the right, crushing the back of my head. I'm still alive! Why? How can that be!"

With his head smashing into the top section of the windshield, the glass gets separated from the frame, causing his head to smash into the frame, ripping the skin of his face to shreds, and slowly crushing the skull. He's able to hear the breaking and crunching sounds of the skull's fragments being pulverized into smaller and smaller pieces, each compounding the level of pain by the head's motion into the windshield frame. His sinuses don't bother him now, because they're not there any more.

It's not over yet. He can feel that his internal organs are still in motion. The spleen, intestines, liver and the other organs are smashing into each other, and into his spine. As a parting shot, the heart is being pierced and ripped into bits by the broken sternum.”

His body recoils back into his seat. Being still alive — barely, he uses his last breath, to utter his last word.

"Fiiinally!". Then he dies.

* * * * *

Two men at a bus stop across the street witnessed the crash.

One said, "Ow, that hadda hurt."

The other replied, "Not really. From the time the bumper touched the tree, until he died, was only seven-tenths of a second."

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