After the death of N.—designated in newspapers only as “the passing of N.”, which rather took the sting out of it—people turned to L. for some comment.
And L. said:
—Horrendous fuckhead; glad he's dead.
And they said:
—Can you say something a bit more positive than this, this seems a little negative? Thanks?
And he said:
—Yes, I guess I can say something a bit more positive, sure. It was a wonderful thing, like a dream come true, imagining N.'s final weeks—a fully deserved ordeal, torments of sweat, piss, fear and pain! I can't imagine anything more perfect, really ... just perfect. The only fly in the ointment, as far as I can see, is that I'm sure they gave him a lot of morphine towards the end. Shouldn't have done that: he may have missed some really terrible moments that would have caused him to reflect even further, in what was left of his brain, on the true meaninglessness of his whole life as a project and the complete memory hole into which his name will fall within the next year or so, and, well, too bad. But all in all, the type of death and its timing couldn't have been better.
How's that?

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