MAX MAXWELL

My opponent misses his first serve and the ball nestles against the fence. He slices a successful second serve. After a short rally in which I come out on the short end, I walk to the end of the court and retrieve the first ball.

I pick it up and there are several ants crawling across the fuzzy sphere. I could drop dead in a second and in less than an instant ants would be swarming over me, followed by other insects, animals and vultures. Not only would nature be feeding on my corpse, but the wolves would be licking their chops in anticipation of feasting on my wife's body.

How long would it take her to become infatuated with one or several of those ravenous creatures? I can hear it in the tone of their voices when I'm at her side: "If your husband weren't around, we'd love to fuck the shit out of you."

I think that she is hoping that I die soon. What she grudgingly gives me once or twice a week, she would generously bestow with renewed enthusiasm on these salivating beasts. For the favored brutes there would be no "hurry and get it over with."

Bursting with lust, her sexuality would flower like that spring many harvests ago. From her breasts would hang fresh fruit and from her pussy would issue intoxicating juices as wild dogs ravished her. If there is life after death, am I supposed to witness this bacchanalia?

"Welcome to heaven," says St. Peter, a touch of cynicism in his voice.

It seems more like hell to me.