"Man Teabagged in Kitchen"

      "Walter needs a change," he thinks tiredly to himself in the third-person one bitterly cold mid-February afternoon. Languishing through another obligatory three-hour break between shifts, the sort that wide-stance a workday to improbable lengths. The drive home had been nondescript, slow-going and mindful of ice. Lunch is likewise nondescript, a can of microwaved SpaghettiOs® and a pressed-ham-product sandwich over tea. Between the bland mouthfuls and bleak view of his snowbound backyard Walter begins to feel a bit compressed, spiritually.

      That is to say, having been dancing about the edge of depression for such a long stretch of time today Walter becomes acutely aware his feelings have clutch-and-shifted gear into a newer, much more thorough stage. Between bland mouthfuls of ham and tomato stuff he wonders what day it is, either a Tuesday or a Friday. That he cannot for the life of himself remember - and that even if he could it wouldn't have mattered - Walter realizes that his life had become an empty one, an interminable march toward old age and unbending routine.

      This clutch-shift feels like an icy cavity in Walter's chest, combined with what might have been the beginning of a cough tightening. For all intents and purposes he might well have died inside for the feel of it, and all the hot tea in the world couldn't revitalize him. There seemed no way out; his salary was enough to pay the bills, but so far as savings went they hardly came enough to go again. No, short of finding a miracle job online there was no discernible way up from the rut.

      And it was a thought, the job search. A few clicks and clacks here, a point of the mouse there, upload, send and wait. If it were but that simple. Daunting, even in the best of moods. And as things are, Walter can scarcely find the energy to rinse his bowl and rack it. So he shoots back the mug, getting at the last bit of tea and - fwooph! - the soggy bag comes with it and nestles itself into the back of Walter's throat, catching his gag reflex in addition to cutting off his air supply.

Shocking! - Man Teabagged In Kitchen

      He tries retching it up, mind in a state of shock and panic. "My god, I'm going to die from a teabag," he thinks to himself frantically. He could visualize the scurrilous headlines, Man Teabagged In Kitchen, drawing in readers for a bit of a laugh at his expense. Unable to work the bag out with his neck muscles, he attempts to reach in with his fingers to try and wrest it out. Desperate probing gropings about the inside of his lukewarm mouth as his digits stretch themselves to their fullest, scarcely able to touch the filter material. Then suddenly he remembers the string! The string and tag are still hanging out of his face.

      Walter gives it an enthusiastic tug. Damnation if the string doesn't tear free of its bag! He looks at it swinging limply with disbelief as his free hand tugs absently at his collar. Dying, running out of air. Drowning dry. Already the pressure on his head is beginning to tighten. Pulsating in and out, losing clarity. He leans over against the fridge, fingers resuming their last ditch search for the bag.

      For naught.  Air. Needing air as the blackness envelops him. Fading, going, dropping to the floor and at last retching dying gone.