Home of Infant Vision, Inc
Adventures of Tom
in Never-Never-Always Land
(The Resurrection Renaissance)
Tom’s felt lost and alone. His arteries couldn’t hold the massive quantities of misery flowing through them. With no purpose or meaning in his life, he sat in his bathtub waiting for the resurrection.
Suddenly, the good Angel Bartholowette descended.
“Dear, Tom,” she cooed, waving her celestial hand above his head, “do not despair. Elective rebirth is in sight. Flow Fluid, Inc is a company that makes Resurrection pills. They can be purchased at your local pharmacy. They’ll cure you! Write down their name.” She handed him a blank papyrus roll. “Now run along. Get thee to a pharmacy!”
Angel Bartholowette then floated through the window, crossed the roof, and hopped the shuttle to Venus.
Tom lay in his tub, baffled but hopeful. He rose, tied a towel round his waist, put on his shoes, and headed for the local Bronx-Riverdale CVS Pharmacy.
Carrying his recently printed 3D gun, he walked through the doorway and met Angel’s nephew, Mighty Less Bartholomew at the counter.
Mighty Less greeted him with a smile. “How are you, my young wire?” he asked. “What would you like?”
“I need a Renaissance (Resurrection),” Tom answered.
“Flow Fluid or Pill Potentate? Both companies make excellent products.”
“Flow is better.”
“You said it, my lad! Capsule or liquid form?”
“Capsules. Give them to me immediately or I’ll shoot you with my printed gun.”
“Well, well, technology wins every time! You are angry this morning. Please, don’t shoot.” Mighty Less reached to the shelf, grabbed a jar of Renaissance (Resurrection?), and read the label: “The pills in this bottle will help you. Do not open. Swallow complete bottle. You will be cured.”
Mighty Less handed Tom the bottle. “I’ve seen this work in the past,” he said.
“But swallowing the bottle will kill me.”
“I don’t want to die.”
“Without death, (one cannot be resurrected) one cannot be renaissanced.”
“How wise you are. Just like your brother, More Lee.”
Tom put the bottle into his mouth, swished it around, then swallowed it in one gulp, and dropped dead.
Sirens wailed. The Renaissance (Resurrection) ambulance rushed to the pharmacy.
“Which graveyard do you prefer?” asked the kindly attendant in white suit.
“We don’t do renaissance in New York,” Mighty Less apologized. “Take him across the G W Bridge to the Jersey. They’ll take care of him.”