An aneurysm.
That’s how he went.
Got so worked up over bad cell phone reception he popped a major blood vessel in his temple.
Monica found him in the back yard. Too late for 911. He’d already stiffened up. Probably there since morning. His cell phone was still in his hand. She was pretty freaked out. Pulled off his wedding band for safekeeping and then wondered if he’d be cold at the morgue without a jacket.
Quick exit, that’s for sure. I don’t know if he even had time to realize he was dying. I think about dying like I think about being rich; the thinking is what it is but the truth is I don’t ever really see myself in the role.
They’ll give his job to that bastard, Gene Haskell.
So Roger is gone. He’ll be missed … for a minute
but he doesn’t have kids, so beyond his wife and friends he’ll just fade out of memory altogether, as if he’d never lived at all. Fuck. What a fate.
He was a good guy. But he didn’t do anything in his lifetime that would make people aware he ever existed. I guess that’s the only way to get remembered long after you’re gone. Being just a good guy isn’t enough.
I hope he went on to a better place. I mean I hope there’s more. Sucks to think that you die and that’s it. ‘Course if you believe in God you don’t have these worries do you.
So long Roger. Golfing won’t be the same without you. That reminds me, I’ve got to ask Monica about your new set of Pings. After an appropriate amount of time has passed, of course.
Come to think of it, Monica could probably use some consoling. yombo