I am Racist.


…

I mean, my name is Racis T.

I was a stand-up comedian. The flop kind. The type who only got laughs when someone else was roasting him.

One night, I was doing a gig at a shady, run-down bar—the kind where tattooed bikers drink motor oil for breakfast. I went in with my usual dark humor, but my jokes were getting the same reaction as my dating profile: complete silence.

That didn’t sit right with my inner artist, who was already starving to death. So I did what any committed comedian would—I went darker.

Turns out, one of my jokes (or all of them?) triggered a guy so hard that he pulled a trigger. Headshot. Instant death.

But hey, look at this: A guy got triggered, so he pulled the trigger. That’s wordplay. But who cares? I’m dead anyway.

All I wanted was a successful show, people laughing, and maybe a few girls swooning over my wit. I never cared about money. The millions I’d have made would have gone to charity—specifically, 0.001% of it. See? I’m generous like that.

Anyway, death is death. My story should’ve ended there.

But… if there is an afterlife, I had a simple wish: become a successful comedian, find a loving wife, and have just enough money to afford three meals a day… and maybe a humble little private yacht. Or a jet. But that’s it. Because, like I said, I don’t care about money.

Unfortunately, wishes don’t work that way.

Because, well—there was an afterlife.

And it was absolutely not what I wished for.
——— ——— ———
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So Malthus thought of a way to decide the winner.


And clearly he failed his economics tests. Or he passed. I don't know.


No matter how I see it, it's a lose-lose for me. To win, I have to eat his heart, which I don't want. And if I don't fight then he will eat mine, which I also don't want because well, I would like to keep my cholesterol to myself.


"Whoever eats the other's heart?" I blinked. "What are you, a medieval Gordon Ramsay?"


"Silence!" Malthus barked, his voice echoing like a hangover headache. "This is the only way to settle it."


"Settle it? This isn't a cooking show, you psychopath." I rubbed my forehead. "What next? You gonna make me julienne my liver for a side dish?" 


Sexis leaned closer, whispering into my ear. "I don't know what julienne means, but it sounds delicious."


"You don't know what it means? Your nickname is dictionary fucker. You should know its meaning."


Chapter 79 - How to Die Without Learning What Julienne Means