Walt Disney World, Orlando: 'You're an old, lonely man in a state-run nursing home. You're too frail to move, and can't even get up to see out the window. Chester, your roommate, has a bed beside the window, and spends his days telling you about the wonders he sees every day- children playing, kites flying, squirrels climbing trees, pretty young ladies.
You hate him. That smug, grinning fuck. He didn't raise three whining, ungrateful brats only to have them turn their backs when things got bad (You never took us anywhere fun, they said. Fun? Since when is life supposed to be fun?). He didn't spend two tours overseas. He didn't get sepsis and nearly die because one of his own squad shot him in the back. Why should he get the bed by the window? No, it isn't fair. You're going to kill him.
So, one dark and moonless night, you drag your pathetic proto-corpse across the floor to his bed, wrap your dry, rat spine fingers around his mouth, and wait for his heart to stop beating.
It doesn't take long.
You drag yourself back to bed and pretend to sleep. The nurses find his body in the morning, and cart him away. Ms. Aberdeen, the head nurse, delivers the good news an hour later: It looks like the spot by the window has opened up, Mr. Christie, she says. The bed wheels shriek against rusted fittings as she moves your bed across the room. You struggle to sit up, still exhausted from the unpleasantness of the previous night. You look outside, only to see a gray cement wall covered in soot and bird shit. You clench your rat spine fingers and hold your breath until you pass out.'