Poor Johnny Depp by Sam Kistler

Because death is a conclusion, I killed Johnny Depp in my dream last night. He kept demanding more time, so he had to go.

The George Bush types in my brain laid wait in ambush, then overpowered Johnny while he was putting a pirate’s bandana on his head. There were three of them. They took Johnny to my childhood home where they bound him and removed his bandana. Next, they took turns donning the bandana and dancing around the living room taunting, mocking Johnny.

“Oh hey, look at me, I’m Johnny Depp. I’m an artist, I’m sooo coool.” Johnny mostly just absorbed the abuse—his only reply a disinterested look in the eyes.

The lack of emotion bristled the George Bush types, so they began torturing Johnny Depp with kitchen implements. Johnny remained cool, which only further infuriated them. Finally, one of them knocked him out with a pink marble rolling pin to the backside of the temple. Johnny fell over. The George Bushs circled around me. One of them held out the bandana while the other two poked at me with a carving fork and the rolling pin. I took the bandana and strangled Johnny. "I am the art," said Johnny as he died.

They chopped Johnny into pieces with an assortment of Ginsu knives taken from a drawer in the kitchen, big knives for the big parts, small knives for the small parts. They stuffed him into the fireplace, and hundred dollar bills were used to light the fire. Once the fire was roaring a bright orange and red, the Bushs resumed taking turns dancing around the living room with the bandana on: “I’m sooo coool, I’m Johnny Depp.”

After a while they began to fight over the bandana. The head George Bush, there were five of them now, demanded order: “Stop that, you idiots. Give me that goddamn bandana before I slam a WMD up your ass.”

The George Bush in charge then tied the bandana to his head and donned an eye patch he had extracted from his pocket. He danced and swashbuckled in front of the fire while the lesser George Bushs crouched on their knees and sulked. They stared in a hypnotic drool at the dancing fire-blades created at the expense of Johnny Depp.

When the fire was out and all that remained was smoldering ashes, the greatest George Bush made the least George Bush scrub the inside of the fireplace with a chimney sweep’s brush. He then ordered a pre-emptive air strike on my childhood home.

I woke the next morning feeling like my head had been cleaned out with a flame thrower. It's a new day, I thought to myself. Johnny Depp could demand no more time and the right side of my brain was sufficiently cauterized. A new day, indeed. I went to my job at the NASCAR memorabilia store with a Mormon smile on my face.

Sam Kistler has not been taking psychoactive drugs. He clearly doesn't need them.