[ WP ] What if after you die , you wake up with a bong in your hand and your alien friend asks `` How was it ? `` .

“ Escobar! ” 
 
 “ Manos Para arriba! ” 
 
 “ Tira! Tira! 
 
 “ Mata este puto! ” 
 
 Pablo Escobar was running through the roofs of Los Olivos, Medellin. Each block of houses was connected to each other so it was easy to run across the rooftops of each house. Yet, the farther he ran, the longer he realized the impacting gunshot wound on his leg. The impairing situation was only bringing him to closer conclusions. The helicopters revolving around his head, the constant shouting, and the wild shootings coming from the men behind him was too close. 
 
 Reaching another roof, a bullet hit Escobar in the Torso, leaving him with the ultimate questioning thought. This it is. This is it. In front of Escobar was his only remaining bodyguard. 
 
 “ Andale Escobar! Puta Sea… Te Van a Matar. ” 
 
 Escobar looked at him. “ Jesus…..Ya estuvo…vete de aqui. ” 
 
 Jesus “ el Limon ” looked at him, his red eyes showed a conclusive sight. This must be it…for Escobar, but its not the time for Jesus. So with that, Jesus made an unforgiving 180 degree turn and continued running through the roofs. He wasn ’ t a priority, so he had a head start to get away. 
 
 Escobar rested sat against a lawn chair that seemed perfectly placed for this situation. A lone chair overlooking the sight of Los Olivos. The sun was setting over the mountains and for only a second, he drowned out the the chaotic noise following him. Reaching towards his front torso, he brought out his personal gun and pointed it to the side of his head. Placed upon his ear, he said. “ Checkmate. ” 
 
 The gunshot echoed though time as many tried to take credit for his death. From the BLOC Party to his own bodyguard, but only he knew who really wrote the story at this time. 
 
................................................................................................................................................ 
 
 The swiveling and swirling patterns were beginning to fade. The dilatation was ending. 
 
 “ How was it? ” 
 
 Damien was looking at the foreign figures in front of him. Reprocessing everything that he knew. The bong on his left hand was slipping from his fingers but he managed to hold on to it as reality was retaking control. His mouth was still at awe, but his self awareness was reshaping his own self again. Damien looked at the bong and back towards the foreign figures with their huge dark eyes. With an Evil grin, Damien looked at these figures, and with one word reassured them who they were dealing with. 
 
 “ Again. ” 
 
 The figures looked at each other with slight fixation, but generously reached for a nug very similar to weed and broke it up, placing it in the stem of the bong Damien was holding. Damien reached for the red lighter in his pocket and took a huge fat rip. Exhaling the smoke, he said, “ This is the best shit I ’ ve ever had. Even better than DMT. Motherfuckers, what you got for me this time. HA, Ha, ha ” 
 
 Damien ’ s posture turned into a relaxed position and swiveling patterns began to form again. The figures in front of him began to turn into mosaic shapes as he began to lose consciousness. 
 
................................................................................................................................................ 
 
 The person in front of him had a look of despair. His reasoning was fair, but….who cares. He reached for his hand and shot this despairing man in the head. Looking behind him, his officers looked at him with fear. Their was one officer who seemed unflinching towards this situation. This officer walked towards the man with the Makarov pistol. 
 
 “ Добро пожаловать домой сталинский. ” 
 
 Looking back at this unflinching officer, the man with the Makarov pistol just gave him an evil grin. A slight fixated smile that was menacing and out of this world. 

