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“Happy Days” Star Tom Bosley dies at 83
That was the headline on today’s New York Times. Henry Winkler looked down at the paper and frowned. Poor Tom had died of lung cancer a few days ago in his California home. Henry had played a character on the show along with him, and although they had never exactly been friends, he was still missed by his friends and family. Oh well… It wasn’t Henry’s problem anymore. He had visited Tom’s wake, and said his goodbyes, and now he had to put it behind him.

Besides, he didn’t really like Tom anyhow. He had smiled to himself as he looked down at Tom’s lifeless corpse. See you around, old-timer, he had thought.
Henry got in his Toyota and drove off. [EDITOR’S NOTE: I’m still not sure which kind of car Henry Winkler drives.]It began to rain. He got on the highway and turned on the radio, trying to listen to NPR, but they were just playing that stupid Burger King breakfast jingle, so he turned off the radio in disgust. It rained harder.
As he was reaching out to turn off the radio and was only driving with one hand, the car suddenly swerved out of control, the steering wheel jerking erratically.
BUMP.
Henry’s crazy car hit a speed bump and the passenger door flew open. Random stuff flew out of the open space.
“Whoaaaaaa….” Henry fought to keep control of his suddenly cuckoo car. Frantically he pressed almost every dang button in the sedan, until finally he slammed on the brakes and came to a full stop.
Henry panted, working off the adrenalin gifted by his escapade. For the first time, he looked around him. His jaw dropped in shock.
Construction workers had been working on the Brooklyn Bridge. A gap was in the side of the bridge. He was inches from plummeting into the East River.
Slowly, Henry put himself back together. He carefully drove off, his passenger door banging uselessly every time he turned.
He started moving for Office Depot. And he never took his hands off the wheel. Only when he was parked, and his car was dead cold, did he remove his mitts from the helm.
He walked into the computer store and headed for the software section. He picked up a copy of Windows 7and a racing-striped thumb drive. Walking toward the checkout, he tripped over air. The soft/hardware flew everywhere. Henry blinked. He got up, looked around him to see what he could have tripped over. Nothing. Nada. Nary a thing. Henry blinked again. Okay, he thought, this is getting rather strange. Henry hoisted himself up to his feet and, after gathering his merchandise, continued his walk to the cashier.
It wasn’t easy. Things poked him really hard, tickled his ribcage, gave him a hard shove as he walked by a designer paper-clip display, and pulled his hair as he tried to explain to an employee why he knocked over the paper-clips.
But the most dramatic event by far occurred when he finally, finally reached the checkout counter. Sighing with relief, Henry pulled out the now-battered copy of Windows 7 and the flash drive and set them on the counter. He closed his eyes, expecting to any second hear the soothing *bleep* of the laser scanner. It never came. Confused, Henry opened his eyes.
The Office Depot employee (let’s call him Cashier Guy) lay cowering about ten feet away, a large welt forming on his forehead. The racing-striped jumpdrive lying on the linoleum tile next to him. Then Henry looked up. The Windows 7 box hovered over him, and although the box was only eight inches tall, the shadow it cast seemed as large as the mythical Adamastor.
Henry gazed at it in shock, his eyes round in shock. Suddenly the software drew back, as if retreating. Curious, Henry couldn’t stop himself from poking his head a little further to see the paranormal box.
Then the box swung like an arm was flinging it away, and it smacked Henry square in the face. Bleeding, Henry stumbled out of the store, leaving Cashier Guy a whimpering ball on the ground.
Henry staggered through the parking lot and down the highway. Blood dripped from his wound, warm and salty. He didn’t care anymore. He didn’t even know where he was going anymore. The wind whipped in the trees around him. It The sun set among a wreath of stormy clouds. Soon he found himself approaching St. Paul’s Churchyard. Tom was buried there.
“Oh, no, no, no, no…” he whispered. He stumbled onward. He tried to stop himself, but he could not. He was rooted to the spot, for he was already there.
At Tom’s grave.


HERE lies tom bosley
1927-2010
He will be missed
Whispers stirred through the wind, telling him what he already knew.
He was about to die.
“No, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I-”
The last thing Henry saw was a slender, pale hand, with dirt caked under the fingernails reaching out for its necklace.
The one Henry stole from the lifeless, waxy body of Tom Bosley.





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