[ WP ] Everyone dies on their birthday , but no one knows at which age it will occur .

It was almost The Day. Every single citizen knew the date of The Day as well as he or she knew the date of Califor-nation ’ s independence from the evil tyranny of the US, or the date of his or her own birthday. The Day was none other than the birthday of our Great Leader, Nero Pilatus, crown emperor of Califor-nation and third of his name. 
 
 Every year around this time, the mounting nationwide sense of unease would be buried beneath a frantic hullabaloo of preparation for the massive birthday celebration, which was commenced the moment the clock struck twelve on the following day. Glittering crimson streamers would arc across the streets, and the most magnificent fireworks, in Nero ’ s noble likeness, would spray the midnight sky. Steaming platters of food would appear from the previously silent storefronts, freely sampled by the partiers who had burst into revelry like clockwork dolls. The pop of champagne corks would echo ‘ round the country. No expense would be spared on the emperor ’ s behalf, nor would the heretical possibility that all these preparations could go to waste even be considered. 
 
 No one knew our great Emperor ’ s location on The Day, except the very highest at the chain of command of the Department of Homeland Security. Some said he flew to a different exotic, privately-owned island every year while others maintained that he holed up in a personal security bunker that could withstand a nuclear detonation. 
 
 Let me tell you a secret: *They ’ re all wrong. * 
 
 Our coffers are not endlessly deep; there is only so much international demand for our wines and grapes, and much of our revenue goes towards the imported satisfaction of our Great Leader ’ s refined and exquisite tastes. So why spend trillions we do not have, when a much more elegant, completely free solution is at hand? 
 
 As the hour strikes twelve on the morning of his birthday, our Emperor can be found simply in the sunroom of his own palace, ensconced within a living sphere of human beings whose birthdays fall on any day but The Day. These volunteers are restrained hand and foot to the spherical titanium frame for the entire day, packed tightly without a crevice for even a ray of light to shine through. Their discomfort is appeased by the knowledge that their Emperor is cleverly, infallibly protected by their aching bodies. 
 
 How do I know this? I am the most trusted preparer of official, handmade documents in the nation, the only accepted format for a birth certificate. Every year, the day before The Day, a single black government vehicle escorts me to the palace where I examine every volunteer ’ s birth certificate for signs of forgery. Once I have given my personal seal of approval, I am returned to my home with a sizeable amount of cash in an unmarked envelope, buying not only my services but my continued loyal silence. 
 
 But this year is the year it all ends. 
 
 Tomorrow night will be this wicked Emperor ’ s last. His throne is built on the blood sacrifice of innocents –what do you think happens to those volunteers who guard his worthless life with the impenetrable protection of their own? They number at least 100 every year, drawn to the Palace by a mysterious invitation to meet with the Emperor. As they arrive and find themselves restrained to a metal sphere, packed side-by-side like plague corpses, are they surprised, even delighted to have been chosen for a matter of such high importance? I wonder if they are promised rewards or honors to keep them tranquil and obedient. When do they realize that by prolonging the Emperor ’ s birthday by one year, they have ensured that their own next birthdays will be their last? 
 
 When did you realize you ’ d never see the light of day again, my daughter? With your birthday only a week before The Day… were you the last one to die? 
 
 An errant tear slips down my face, threatening to ruin one of the perfect forgeries I have slaved over for what feels like a lifetime. The tear is lost in the deep wrinkles of my cheeks. I stamp the creamy vellum with my seal, dipped in liquid gold, and with a tottering step I approach the agent to give my yearly report. 
 
 “ They are all authentic. ” 
 
 “ Good. ” 
 
 When I am returned to my home, I sit before my fireplace and open the unmarked envelope. Within the wad of bills there is an unsigned note, but I recognize the Homeland Security Director ’ s thin handwriting. 
 
 *Not much longer, Friend. Tonight it starts… and tomorrow will begin the REVOLUTION! * 
 
 His enthusiasm tires me. I am too old for revolutions, and my heart aches at the thought of those boys and girls, true volunteers this time, who will conceal themselves with my forged certificates and die for their so-called revolution this time tomorrow. A targeted missile, or perhaps some kind of fire, I have asked not to know the details. I want only to collect Kayla ’ s bones, and to lay beside them my own. 
 
 
 

