This is such a startlingly interesting question that I just have to try to answer to the best of my ability. (It's a quote from Sherlock, a BBC series about Sherlock Holmes.)
Now, first, just to get into it I have to know how it is I'm going to die. Because I know that it would depend on how I felt at the time and what was happening to me.
First premise: I have to be murdered, as specified in the quote. Who would my murderer be? How would they go about it? Would it involve torture? Mentally? Physically? For the sake of accuracy this is going to end up to be more than one post, possibly over a period of time so that I can get into my head each case.
First I'll focus on a death similar to the one described in the show. *****If you haven't watched it and plan to continuing to read would be a huge spoiler for episode one: A Study in Pink*****
I'm going to switch to a sort of narrative description to make sure I can answer as honestly and accurately as I could.
I'm standing, resisting the urge to pace, to move about even if it doesn't mean escape. I roll my bottom lip in and squint harder at the man before me, knowing that inspecting the identical pills would be useless otherwise the test would be easy. If there was a difference. It would be a matter of observation. But these... the way they've been separated depends entirely on which mnemonic device this fucking cabbie from hell-- Correction: from London would use. My mind, because it is idiotic and totally dependent for memory recall on association flashes to my mum talking to herself as she goes to unlock the door 'left it unlock'. And this makes me think of the lug nuts on her red Jeep wrangler. The act of washing the car was highly therapeutic. Though, any act such as washing or tidying always seems to be relaxing. My favorite had been to clean my gun, though I hadn't done it much-- Fuuuuuuuuuck
This fucking cabbie has a fucking gun. Why the fuck does everyone think that a gun is like the God of Weapons. Personally I'd be more terrified with a javeline. Or possibly like a shark tooth or a particularly rusty broken pipe. Am I really sitting-- standing here criticizing what type of weapon this loon with a pistol is using to coerce me into taking a pill that may or may not be poison. I wonder if people actually fall for this. Think that there isn't some extra trick. Obviously, this loon is marginally intelligent but not smart enough to realize that killings sprees are ultimately impractical.
See? And this is why I have no respect for murderers. They go about it and get caught and how terribly droll it is that there is so little creativity in this department of humanity. It's as if they're all smart enough to outwit another life but not smart enough to fucking realize that killing is just so damn time-wasting. The idea of concealment and the efforts one must go through and the strategy behind not becoming a suspect is just too much damn effort. Aside from that one never knows what a person will do with his life.
But fucking shit why don't I just take the fucking shoot me option. There is no way any being, outside of some impossible murder mystery would offer to take the other pill unless there was no way for them to die. Possibly a resistance to the poison? An antidote? More likely that it's only poisonous to some; like poison ivy. Shit, this bitch better not be making me consume some fucking horseradish poison ivy cocktail cause that would be totally fucking uncool.
Heh.
I'm pretty sure, self, that he's already surpassed the line of 'uncool'. Possibly even erased it for all of fucking time. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit. At least there's more of a chance of survival with the gun. A fifty fifty shot with a pill just seems so damn anticlimactic. Plus there's no fire involved. And I don't want to seem a wuss for taking a pill instead of going down fighting. Speaking of... this guy is like ancient and English. I don't think he would know how to fight. I wonder if I can dodge a bullet.
This is going to be a fun test.
How about you give me the gun? Make sure to aim for my face; I want to make some bitches cry at least.
No. No, Tesk, that's terrible. What kind of last words are those? Aim for my face? Why not say lower my chance of survival even less, plzkthxbai BANG.
Ugh.
Well, what the fuck do I say?
"Well, shit. I'm just gonna go the gun option."
I shrug and try to think of something to say that would be decently befitting the ending of one such as I.
"Could you like make sure twenty bucks makes it into my coffin? I've got this bet going with a friend. Why am I telling you this? You're just going to fucking leave. Ugh. My brain sometimes. Anyway, shoot me, then."
I'd make a lunge or a fall to avoid the bullet and if it missed, awesome, I live. I call the police. If I get hit and die then it could go a few ways:
- I die immediately. Probably with one last "Well, fuck"
- I die slowly from a gut wound or shoulder wound. I try to write "Fucking cab driver" in blood on the floor.
- I bleed profusely and write the above mentioned and live. I use many cusses and probably end up calling all cab drivers cunts for the rest of my life.
- I get shot in the head but retain "life" and go through the rest of my days in a near-vegetable brained or bodied way.
- I die but before I go I call the police and tell them all I know.
- I die but try to call the police but I've got no signal/battery/phone.
Or it could go like in the show and a mother fucking flame comes out of the lighter-pistol and I'm so damned disappointed that my death show-down ends so anticlimactically while glad that I lived without the unnecessary bullet hole. I end up with one weird as fucking ass story to tell if anyone asks. And more than possibly kick the cabbie in the nuts twice and brain at least once with his lighter-pistol.
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