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Death and taxes. There's not many guarantees in life, but you can set your sundial by the bone chilling touch of the taxman and the punctuality of death. Having never paid taxes, I'm kind of glad that ol' Grimm got to me first. At least I think he did.

It's kind of hard to judge, this being my first alleged post life experience. The evidence is strong though. Cold, desolate surroundings? Check. An ever present mist of unknown origin that drags deep into your very soul? Yep, creepy mist is a check. The haunting moan of despairing souls trapped for eternity in the bondage of existential suffering? Oh yeah, I'd know that sound anywhere. Big check on the moaning souls.

Those are some big indicators that my mortal coil is sprung. But I don't want to discount the whole dream explanation. Sure, it's cliche but I have a good reason to consider it. I had stew last night for dinner. It was a bit dubious, if I'm being honest, purchased off the back of what I assume was some sort of food cart.

Trekking home after another long day of violence and bloodshed, I spotted a rickety cart rattling over the hill. At first glance I thought plague cart, what with all the bloated and disfigured corpses piled up in the bed, but I was clearly mistaken. As I approached, careful to stay downwind, the masked and heavily robed driver propositioned me with a steaming bowl of chunky gruel. Not going to lie, I was tempted. His price was dirt cheap and I was dead tired. Underfunded and understaffed, anyone not on sick leave was pulling triple hero duty. So sue me, I caved. Instead of cooking for myself, which would have been the chivalrous thing to do, I chose to purchase my dinner. It was not laxity, it was supporting local businesses.

Do I regret that decision? In hindsight, yes. Not because of the hours of ceaseless vomiting or the icy chill that crept into the very core of my being. Buying from a food cart, these risks are a given. It was the nightmares. Tiny demons, giant babies, a goat that wouldn't take no for an answer, and now this. Paddling down a ghastly river of tortured souls with a spindly geezer who keeps begging for alms. Every couple of minutes the boat stops and I've got to fork over another couple of coins before father time over here starts up again. If this keeps going, my purse will be dry up before we ever make our destination, wherever the hell that is, and at which point I would have been better off with the devilish taxman. At least he stops asking you for money once you're dead.

Dammit! Had I known this was going to happen, I never would have gone back to the food cart for a second bowl.

---

Inktober is here!
And despite deliberately misleading assertions and rampant speculation, Sir Goober returns.
Hopefully everyone had fun with my little misdirection yesterday. I felt like a little bit of preamble might be an amusing addition to this year. But I assure you all, Goober isn't going anywhere... except straight to hell.
Please join us.

Description

Death and taxes. There's not many guarantees in life, but you can set your sundial by the bone chilling touch of the taxman and the punctuality of death. Having never paid taxes, I'm kind of glad that ol' Grimm got to me first. At least I think he did.

It's kind of hard to judge, this being my first alleged post life experience. The evidence is strong though. Cold, desolate surroundings? Check. An ever present mist of unknown origin that drags deep into your very soul? Yep, creepy mist is a check. The haunting moan of despairing souls trapped for eternity in the bondage of existential suffering? Oh yeah, I'd know that sound anywhere. Big check on the moaning souls.

Those are some big indicators that my mortal coil is sprung. But I don't want to discount the whole dream explanation. Sure, it's cliche but I have a good reason to consider it. I had stew last night for dinner. It was a bit dubious, if I'm being honest, purchased off the back of what I assume was some sort of food cart.

Trekking home after another long day of violence and bloodshed, I spotted a rickety cart rattling over the hill. At first glance I thought plague cart, what with all the bloated and disfigured corpses piled up in the bed, but I was clearly mistaken. As I approached, careful to stay downwind, the masked and heavily robed driver propositioned me with a steaming bowl of chunky gruel. Not going to lie, I was tempted. His price was dirt cheap and I was dead tired. Underfunded and understaffed, anyone not on sick leave was pulling triple hero duty. So sue me, I caved. Instead of cooking for myself, which would have been the chivalrous thing to do, I chose to purchase my dinner. It was not laxity, it was supporting local businesses.

Do I regret that decision? In hindsight, yes. Not because of the hours of ceaseless vomiting or the icy chill that crept into the very core of my being. Buying from a food cart, these risks are a given. It was the nightmares. Tiny demons, giant babies, a goat that wouldn't take no for an answer, and now this. Paddling down a ghastly river of tortured souls with a spindly geezer who keeps begging for alms. Every couple of minutes the boat stops and I've got to fork over another couple of coins before father time over here starts up again. If this keeps going, my purse will be dry up before we ever make our destination, wherever the hell that is, and at which point I would have been better off with the devilish taxman. At least he stops asking you for money once you're dead.

Dammit! Had I known this was going to happen, I never would have gone back to the food cart for a second bowl.

---

Inktober is here!
And despite deliberately misleading assertions and rampant speculation, Sir Goober returns.
Hopefully everyone had fun with my little misdirection yesterday. I felt like a little bit of preamble might be an amusing addition to this year. But I assure you all, Goober isn't going anywhere... except straight to hell.
Please join us.