You crouch next to Pete's body, wondering just how much you must hate yourself for making this choice. Pete isn't called "pestilential" for nothing. You try to tell yourself you're doing this for the money. It's like it's your first day at the rubber band factory's mail room all over again. You smile lightly at the memory of old Gus trying to... well, no time for nostalgia. If you don't get Pete up and walking again soon, you never will. You bend down, squeeze his nose shut, open your mouth, pinch your eyes tight, bend over and...

As you're about to make contact with the old bum's horrendous lips, a great big corpse-belch vacates his body. You are suddenly drawing in a horrendous bacterial stench so disgusting, it's almost beautiful. Falling over backwards, you hack and cough, and feel the world blacking out. The only comfort you find in this is that one of those life's questions is finally answered, "Can halitosis really kill?" That just leaves "What's the meaning of life?" and "Why are so many book titles in embossed print now? And why can't I keep myself from stroking them?". Perhaps you'll find out in a next life.

START OVER, BELCH-O.