The Curse of the Eight Ball

This is what happens when I start talking to myself in the middle of the night:

           “ Take it.”

           “ No.”

           “ What do you mean, no?”

           “ I mean no, what else can that mean?”

           “Take it!”

           “ No!”

           “ You can’t argue with me.”

           “ Why not?”

           “ Because I made you.”

           “ So?”

           “ So, just take the @&^& eight ball!  I’m the $%^@ writer and you have to do what I say!”

           “ Why?”

           “ Because I made you!”

           “ But I don’t want the eight ball.”

           “ And why not?”

           “ Because whoever has it dies.  That’s it’s curse.”

           “  I know that’s it’s curse.  It’s my story, remember?  That is the only reason I wrote you.  To take the eight ball and die.  That is your purpose in this story.”

           “ No!  That’s not fair.  I don’t want to die.  I’m so young, so beautiful!  I have so much to live for.”

           “ No you don’t.  You’re just a minor, expendable character.  Your whole purpose for being is to die at this point.”

           “ That’s so unfair.”

           “ I don’t care if you think so or not.  I’m the writer, you must do as I say.  Take the eight ball.”

           “ No, please, I don’t want to die.”

           “ When did you get so much personality?”

           “ I don’t know, I was born that way.”

           “ Are you going to do what I say?”

           “ No.”

           “ Then who am I going to kill?”

           “ Why not you?”

           “ Me?  I’m the writer!”

           “ So? You want some one to kill right?”

           “ I made you for that reason.”

           “ But I don’t want to die!”

           “ Fine, I’ll kill myself.  Are you happy now?”

           “ Yes, very.”

           “ Fine, here goes.”

           The writer sighed and picked up the eight ball and looked at the black number against the round white circle drawn on it’s side.  It was hard to believe that this was cursed.  That was when the bee flew into the room and stung him on the hand.  He used to be very allergic to bees.  I say used to be because he was now dead.