Other Story

We are puffing on our corncob pipes outside the mall and sipping bourbon, watching the supermodels that are passing by. “Care for a smoke?” we say to them, holding up our pipes. “Sure,” they reply.

Thus the models pack themselves into our car with us, but it turns out that its engine is still broken. (Recall that the vehicle recently overheated — after taking it to the repair shop, we got it back; but the mechanic must have fixed it wrong, cuz now it won’t run.) So we all push the car to the woods; then we stay there and smoke for a while.

Since it’s growing dark, we ask the supermodels if they’d like to dine. We set up a three-course meal, and then we take a dip in the pond. 

Now we all fall asleep and die. You heard me right: we give up the ghost. (The cause of our death is listed as “Slumbering too soundly”.) So this means that we’re deceased: we have left the land of the living. No more puffing pipes; no more sipping bourbon.

We and our supermodels now get reincarnated as beer. This means we’re alive again. The looking-glass before us shows that our brand name is Miller Lite — we are shiny metal cans. We’re packed closely in a large case, resting on a shelf in a liquor store located near a U.S. military base in the northwest Pacific Ocean. 

Next thing we know, we’re being stolen by a desperate soldier. She guzzles us down. We mingle within this new host for a span of time.