KhyaaL

I am Racist.


…

I mean, my name is Racis T.

I was a stand-up comedian. The flop kind. The type who only got laughs when someone else was roasting him.

One night, I was doing a gig at a shady, run-down bar—the kind where tattooed bikers drink motor oil for breakfast. I went in with my usual dark humor, but my jokes were getting the same reaction as my dating profile: complete silence.

That didn’t sit right with my inner artist, who was already starving to death. So I did what any committed comedian would—I went darker.

Turns out, one of my jokes (or all of them?) triggered a guy so hard that he pulled a trigger. Headshot. Instant death.

But hey, look at this: A guy got triggered, so he pulled the trigger. That’s wordplay. But who cares? I’m dead anyway.

All I wanted was a successful show, people laughing, and maybe a few girls swooning over my wit. I never cared about money. The millions I’d have made would have gone to charity—specifically, 0.001% of it. See? I’m generous like that.

Anyway, death is death. My story should’ve ended there.

But… if there is an afterlife, I had a simple wish: become a successful comedian, find a loving wife, and have just enough money to afford three meals a day… and maybe a humble little private yacht. Or a jet. But that’s it. Because, like I said, I don’t care about money.

Unfortunately, wishes don’t work that way.

Because, well—there was an afterlife.

And it was absolutely not what I wished for.
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I Inserted It Anyway… Because That’s What Men Do