“Hello! Is this Bryce Bryson?”
“Wow–your parents must really hate you.”
“I’m just saying–that name: Bryce Bryson. YIKES.”
“OK, I’m hanging up now.”
“Wait! Wait! Bryce Bryson, I’m calling to inform you that you have WON THE LOTTERY!”
“Wow, I–wait. Is this the regular buttloads-of-cash lottery, or the lottery where they kill you like in that short story?”
“Well, um…it’s the regular buttlo–”
“Because if it’s the lottery where you get killed, do I get to pick the way I go? It only seems fair–I should get something for winning, especially if “winning” means I die, you know? It should be like a last wish. Anyway, I think I’d like it to be by stoning. I’m sure it’d be painful, but I want to go out in the most dramatic way possible–I want people to still be talking about it years after the fact. And plus, doing it that way would be an old tip o’ the hat to the story, know what I mean?”
“So that settles it: Death by stoning. So, I’m assuming you’ll come to me?”
“All right, then. Let’s say noon-ish, tomorrow? I’d like to have the rest of today to get my affairs in order and say my goodbyes and what-not. So I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll just look for the guy in my front yard with the big sack of rocks, right? HAHA, all right, then. Take care.”
Bryce hung up the phone and laughed to himself.
Every January 2nd his dumb friend Jake–still buzzed from New Year’s Eve–would make these idiotic prank calls to all of his pals, including Bryce.
But this year, Bryce was ready for him.