A Complete And Comprehensive Physical And Psychological Analysis Of Mr. Matthew Moore (Who At This Moment In Time Is Completely Unaware Of His Near And Untimely Death)
For the purpose of saving time, this paper shall from hereon be referred to as:763Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡX6NsY6Cw0q
ACACPAPAOMMM (WATMITICUOHNAUD)
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DATE: January 13th 2015763Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOc0nNJEfPl
LOCATION: [WITHHELD]
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Mr. Matthew Moore woke up at precisely 4:17 am, due to the fact that his alarm clock, set to wake him up at 7:30, had taken part in the power-outage rebellion and reset to midnight three hours early.763Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡafwhaxJAdy
As of such, Mr. Matthew Moore (hereon to be referred to as: Matthew, Moore, Mr. Moore, Mr. Matthew, Matthew Moore, [insert pronoun here], or variations thereof) was not in a particularly good mood. His sleep pattern had been interrupted, and this tends to cause irrational behaviour, stress, depression, lowering of sex drive (not that it mattered much to him anymore), memory loss, and impaired judgment.763Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEtGgvAFjm3
Mr. Moore found himself contemplating strange philosophical notions and making amazing breakthroughs before going to the toilet, coming out, and wondering what on earth he was doing at 4:30 am wearing nothing but boxers. He was, unfortunately, unable to come up with an answer (the alarm clock, had, after being hit violently and breaking, escaped his mind), and opted to go back to sleep.
Mr. Matthew Moore woke up for a second time that Tuesday morning at 9:54, over an hour late for work.763Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6AnJzQ1RBY
He spent a frantic few minutes getting dressed, washing, deciding not to eat, hurrying out the door, realizing he forgot his car keys, heading back inside, thinking he might eat after all, spilling tomato sauce on his shirt, changing clothes, searching for his car keys, on benches, in drawers, under tables, hurting his back and deciding to give up after all.763Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmsCcnz5n88
His thoughts stayed for a while in the section marked REAL LIFE PROBLEMS before straying back to STRANGE PHILOSOPHICAL NOTIONS. Here he considered whether it was humanly possible to both eat a double decker burger and suck lemonade up your nose at the same time. Here he made an amazing breakthrough: he had, for the first 47 years of his life, been a complete and utter idiot, and that his impact on the world was one that an algae particle would be ashamed of.763Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDx8vZN6qqO
For the first time in years, he explored GOOD THINGS TO DO WITH YOUR LIFE and decided that he would phone his boss (*leave a message after the beep* “Hey there Gary, uh, don’t think I’ll be turning up today, or tomorrow, or anytime really”) sell his house, live in his car (providing he could find his keys) and help the poor. He thought this sounded like the transcendental stuff that hippies would approve of, but was strangely set on it anyway. He decides that to have a proper think over this he would take a walk.763Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMCpTNrXICw
He steps out, breathes the air, smells his healthy lawn, enjoys the sunshine, realizing he truly feels alive. He knows, suddenly, that he won’t even go back to search for the car keys; the world now was finally his, and all these material thoughts faded away with the sudden realization that he is going to make a change to the world. He wants to do something meaningful, something with purpose.763Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAiGIWVfUhp
He takes his first steps of freedom, and is promptly run over by a large truck.763Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkK5UiAoZ1V
MANDY’S MANGOES, the stylized writing on the side of it reads, accompanied by a rather raunchy cartoon of a woman in a jungle posing by some mango trees.763Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYYJxGwn2zQ
We don’t really need to know Mr. Moore’s final thoughts, do we?
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Before we continue, I must first clarify the intent of this paper. ACACPAPAOMMM (WATMITICUOHNAUD), is a mandatory record of the last day in the life of Mr. Matthew Moore. The length of the title is enforced, and all papers of this type are similarly named, much to my chagrin, for I am required to write each one out fully at least once (and there are a lot of these papers, you must understand), and, at best, in acronym form, which I have been informed is in fact more difficult to read.
I am most similar to what you would refer to as a secretary, or administrator; but the place I work is the largest you will ever find, still growing steadily, and I am, unfortunately, the only employee other than my boss.763Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFbk7uk65N9
The attentive reader may have intuited that I deal with dead people.
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We now return to the strange tale of Mr. Moore. The last we saw him, he was run over by a truck. I, perhaps cheekily, gave you the notion that his last thought was of the scantily clad woman in the cartoon on the truck. However, this was not the case, nor possible; it is rather difficult to see what is on the side of a truck, when you are in front of it, the most popular location for being run over (READER POLL: 100% of readers said that they would rather be run over by a truck while standing in front of it. This was not a surprising result, for I offered no second option). So, then, you may ask, what was his last thought? It was of one dashing lady named Amelia, whom I will begin to describe to you, briefly, in the next paragraph.
Amelia Annleigh Brown is currently still alive, and a stranger meeting her for the first time would think that she would remain so for quite a while still. Her hair is losing none of its youthful luster, smooth, and, contrary to what her surname might suggest, a streaky blonde. Her rather unconventional yellow-blue eyes are at first slightly jolting, but then develop a kind of exotic attractiveness, which I am sure that our Mr. Moore was most taken with. She is sweet, polite, and elegant. Mr. Matthew Moore fell in love with her at the fragile age of 17. For the entirety of her life to date, Amelia has had no idea that he even exists.
As of such, I highly doubt that she will be of much consequence to the course of events that are to unfold in the near future.763Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbDQOhT3Ub3
Of course, even I suppose wrongly sometimes.
“Where the bloody hell am I?” Mr. Matthew Moore is not taking kindly at the news of his death.
“Mr. Moore, this is what you would call the afterlife, the underworld, heaven, etc.” (pronouncing ‘etc.’ is a difficult feat that I am quite proud to have achieved). “Put simply, sir: you were on the street in front of your house, you died, and now you’re here.”
Mr. Moore is silent. At least, for a moment he is silent.
“Fucking hell! If you took me yesterday I would’ve been happy to be here. But I was going to change, to do…” He pauses for a moment.
“Yes, Mr. Moore? What was it that you were about to do?” I had once dealt with a person who was shot because of an affair. He died right before orgasm, and was more enraged by the timing of his death, rather than the fact that it was death. I don’t recall everything he said or described during his tirade, nor do I want to, dear reader, so however much this little anecdote may interest you more than the actual subject of this paper, I will not elaborate.
“Something! A heck of a lot more than I was doing before! And now you fuckers had to - ” I am notoriously pedantic, so I was forced to interrupt here.
“Fucker, sir. I am the only employee here.”
Mr. Moore seems taken aback by my response, as if I said something unusual. I take the opportunity to begin with business.
“Mr. Moore, we have some paperwork to do.” I turn the sheets on my desk 180 degrees (for the ease of his reading) and slide them towards him. “You should sign here, here, and here. Please get your next of kin or closest friend to sign here, and any pets to sign here.” He takes a moment to digest this.
“Are…” He’s breathing heavily. “you… serious? I have just died, which is a traumatic experience in case you were not aware of that, and now you are actually telling me to sign this stupid form, and to get my next of – how the fuck are you even supposed to do that anyway? Just turn up as some crappy CGI ghost in the middle of the night and say: ‘Hey, sign here!’ This is fucked up, you, this place, your motherfucking forms, every fucking thing here!” I blink. I sigh. I grab his hands and look him in the eye.
“Mr. Moore, please refrain from excessive use of expletives here. It’s tiresome, uncreative, and not offensive in the least to me.”763Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8QffD4AAeo
To his surprise, he stays quiet.763Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkfi1TwJoEt
To my surprise, he doesn’t go comatose like he was meant to. I must be losing my touch.763Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ30ZqBatT2J
“Sign here, please, sir.” He does so. “And here. And here.” I turn the page; “And who is your next of kin?” He doesn’t answer, because he has none. I know this all of course, and it frustrates me not only because I am still required to ask the questions, but because our Matthew Moore’s responses mean that I have a while yet to deal with this man. “Any close friends?” No answer. At times like this I wish that I could insert an abundance of four letter words (and extensions) in my speech. I sigh, and brief Mr. Moore.763Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡstjjUwCvVT
“Mr. Moore, another signature is required (pets are strictly optional).” I must mention that speaking in brackets is another nifty little skill that I have acquired over the years. “Whether it be done by a living or dead person, by the orders of [CENSORED] this little line here must be filled. Records show that you have no relatives here, or at least any that can be linked to you. Why that is I have no f***ing idea, but it sure makes my life a lot f***ing harder, because that means you have to go back to get some poor motherf***cker to sign this! And do you know what the sh**tiest part about it is, hmm? It’s that I need to go with you! Insurance, [CENSORED] calls it. Motherf***ing insurance!”
Still in a trance-like state, Matthew Moore does not react. I deflate, and cough hoarsely.
Asterisks sure do hurt your throat.
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