text: It was his fortieth birthday. There was only one envelope in the mailbox. No cards, no emails, not even a slice of cake by mail. It was the mandatory donation form. Once you reach the age of forty, you are required to identify how your body will be used after death - it’s a sacred condition of citizenship. Two main options were on the form: donate your body to the necrophiles or to the cannibals. They also gave you the option to select both, but then you had to fill the supplemental form where you mark a diagram and give specifics instructions (within 400 characters, max). A recommended configuration is the right side for the cannibals, the left side for the necrophiles, eyes mixed use. Joe shrugged. There was no consistent death date, but one was expected to die within a few years of the their fortieth birthday, if not earlier. There was no clear pattern. Some died at 43, some at 47. A few even lived to fifty. One man lived to sixty. There may have been a few seventies here and there. Eighty? Unlikely, but not impossible. Stranger things have happened. The state was likely behind it somehow. But this was the man, the man named Joe. It was at this point in history he resolved to live to be 100 years old. It was not a decision made on mere whimsy. No, it was a decision that had taken him 40 years to make. The rest of his life started here, so he selected neither necrophiles nor cannibals. He turned to the page containing the diagram and drew a large red ‘X’ on it. Of the 400 characters he only required a few, and on the lines available he wrote the most powerful words he could conjure: "Don't touch.” Joe shoved the form in the envelope and decided to get a Birthday Burrito. While people normally get free bus rides on their birthday, the bus driver chose to avoid eye contact when Joe asked for his free ride. Instead, he paid the requisite 50 millilitres of blood at the needle-till to board, walked past some pale 30-somethings and took a seat. The shuttered windows were covered in faded ads. Prominently displayed was the new teen fad: Die Young, Sexy, and Tasty. It was a euthanasia service targeted at 13 to 17 year olds, which made Joe sad. He thought to himself, how can you enjoy being with the ‘in’ crowd if you are dead? The bus came to an abrupt stop and Joe rolled out of the vehicle. As Joe walked down the sidewalk, he passed a group of 13 to 17 year olds. When he passed them by, he overheard one of them. “I love to die young, sexy, and tasty. Forty? That’s selfish.” As a forty year old, Joe was now officially out of touch. He would never understand why this was cool. He arrived at the burrito joint. It was a small, anonymous shack nestled between two burned-out buildings. Peculiar decorations painted the walls, with vectors and math problems that all had the same solution: binge eating. As Joe gently shut the door, a man pointed a sawed-off shotgun directly at Joe’s face. “It’s 10 o'clock, what are you doing here?” Joe didn’t reply with language, only the ultimate expression of hunger. Joe pointed his finger to meal A, subset of X: Birthday Burrito. The host sighed. “We don’t have anything prepared yet, can you just sit down?” Joe complied, though he didn’t have to. As he sat down next to some corpses, he angrily thought to himself. He would never let himself become a corpse. An awkward silence ensued. “This is our destiny: to be one with flavour. A flavour so intense it can unify the necrophiles and cannibals,” the chef softly spoke. Joe didn’t understand. The chef produced a meat of mysterious origin while Joe sat idly by. He glanced over to the chef as he prepared the Birthday Burrito. He worked vigorously, imbued with an unparalleled passion. His sweat dropped into the sauce and soon he went silent. His eyes glazed over as he continued preparing the meal. Any identity he may have previously had was dead. When the burrito was finished, he handed it over to Joe. He had never tasted anything so good and he doubted he would ever again. When the last of the burrito slinked down his throat, Joe tearfully asked, “Sir, how did you craft such a work of perfection?” The man replied. “I did not craft anything. I simply allowed God to use me as a vessel. It is with his guidance that our work be done.” Joe looked down at his own hands and thought if God ever tries to use him he’ll fucking kill him. He clenched his fists and, without paying, barged through the door into the outside world. The host knew not to interfere - this was a man determined to live 100 years. Further down the street, Joe laid on the damp ground. Exhausted. Humbled. Nothing could bother him, until something bothered him. A small, soft man in a suit prodded him with a cane. He was accompanied by a scantily clad hunk. “Good day, I hope all is well on this beautifully foggy late morning. My name is George Shigu, but you can call me Mr. George Shigu. I am a representative of the Department of Organic Recycling. This is my gorgeous executive assistant, Hans Maffew.” George broke out of his monotone voice with a swoon but quickly regained a boring composure. “At any rate, we know that you recently ordered a Birthday Burrito. This was within 24 hours of receiving the mandatory donation form. Six hours, forty-two minutes according to our analytics.” George knelt down closer, still occasionally prodding Joe. “Joe... Joseph... forty-year-old Joseph. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you are...”, George smiled, “trying to live 100 years.” Joe confidently nodded, too exhausted to speak. “Very well. Hans, darling, please escort our special friend to the car.” Joe felt a hypodermic needle in his arm and everything faded to black. Joe awoke in an unfamiliar place. Dim light traced the edges of the walls enclosing him in a cell. He was in a bed. Across from him laid another man in another bed, a very old man. The sound of George’s voice blared from an unknown corner. “So, you want to live to the big 1-0-0! In front of you is a man who is 99 years and 99 days old. Tomorrow he will be 100. If I were you I would listen to what he has to say. I cannot force you to do anything, Joe. But I can warn you: you must not live to be 100 years old, for your own good.” The man across from him sat up and began to speak as if to no one in particular. “Hello again, Daniel. It's Peter. I'm old today.” “Hello sir,” Joe said to the man. “If I had to do it all over again I would've killed myself somewhere between 13 and 17 years of age. Well heck, it ain’t too late!” “Sir, I admire your strength. You are an inspiration.” “I became incontinent on this day 20 years ago. I should've killed myself before then. Well heck, it ain't too late!” “Sir, please don't kill yourself, you're so close!” “It ain't too late Lady D! It ain't too late to die like a little piggy! That's what I like.” Hans entered the room with a handgun placed on an embroidered pillow. He placed it in Peter’s hand, stroking his wisps of hair compassionately. “Fucking kill yourself already you old bitch,” he said to the old man in his Bavarian accent. “I’m the pizza pie,” said Peter before painting the wall with a Rorschach test of blood and brain. George yelled “Next!” A phone rang and Joe picked up. “It’s me, Elie. I served you the Birthday Burrito this morning. Because of this, you consider me to be your closest friend but this feeling is not mutual. Joe, you are being egocentric. An egocentric prick. An egocentric dog, I’d go as far as to say. Think about the society we have created, a world with no borders, no hunger, and ample sex for every man, woman, and corpse. What would cannibals and necrophiles do with a shitty 100 year old corpse? This is the question that none of my students could answer. When one tried, I shot her and am now no longer allowed to teach topology. Goodbye, fucker. Count me out of this entire friendship.” Elie hung up, their friendship apparently over. George opened the cell door with his prodding cane and limped into the room. “Hans, you may leave, but please take that useless corpse out of here, sweetie.” Hans smiled. George grabbed a metal chair, dragged it over to Joe’s bedside with a metallic scrape, and tenderly placed his hand on his chest. “Joe, we cannot legally kill you. Our nation is based on the principles of solidarity, diversity, and accommodation. I swore an oath to uphold those values when I joined the Service. But I wanted to show you something: my pre-clearance mandatory donation form I filled out when I was 33. My body will first go to the cannibals. Then, my bones will go to the necrophiles - they can make use of every part of the body. But my heart...” George stopped and blushed. “My heart will go to Hans.” He held the form close to his chest. “Do you understand?” George asked, some tears gently rolling down his cheeks and onto his medium-priced suit. “Do you see the beauty now?” Joe thought silently for a moment, clearly moved. Touched. Prodded, even. All by a man he just met. He then loudly proclaimed, “The only beauty I see is me living to be 100 years old. Suck it, heart boy.” George immediately revealed a revolver and pointed it at Joe, struggling with his feeble hands to maintain a straight shot. “Get out.” After a small pause, he sighed and continued. “Go through the cell door, head three doors down and take a left turn. The elevator will take you to the atrium and you can’t miss the exit. Remember to rate your client service experience at en-org-rec.worldgov/feedback. Thank you, have a wonderful day!” “Oh. Okay, sorry about that Mr. George Shigu. Maybe I went a bit too far.” “No problem, it happens to the best of us. Bye now.” Joe checked the survey while waiting for the elevator. Extraction quality, 7. Guidance quality (objective), 7. Guidance quality (subjective), 3. Room atmosphere, 8. Agent quality, 8. Peter quality, 5. Perspective on a patriotic 40-50 year old death, 1. In the comment section, he wrote that the experience was good overall, not great, but he still is determined to live to be 100 years old. The elevator arrived as he tapped submit. Five days passed. Joe nursed a normal burrito in his hand before sheathing it within his throat. The static that flared on the TV made way for a special newscast. There was a man who looked like Joe being monitored from outside. “Local man wants to be 100,” the lady began. The newscast turned to citizens on the street. A frumpy woman provided the first comment. “Well I guess that’s why they call him ‘Knuckle-dragging’ Joe!” The crowd around her laughed, but Joe wasn’t laughing. This was his dream. Why would they ever desire to take it from him? Joe slept, woke up, and ate burritos for 59 more years, and for 59 years he was utterly alone. Sometime during the 59th year of his mission he was approached by a man in a medium-priced suit. They shook hands and the stranger spoke. “Hello Joe, my name is Chrint Dringolt, and I'm from the Department of...” “I know where you’re from, and I know why you're here, so let's get this over with.” Chrint seemed surprised. “Very well then.” He produced a hypodermic needle from his pocket. Joe awoke in a room, a room similar to the room from 59 years prior. In front of him was a woman who appeared to be 43 or 44 just beginning to wake up. A voice reached out from the darkness. “So! You want to live to see the big 1-0-0!” The woman became alert. “Across from you is a man. His name is Joe, and he is 99 years and 99 days old. Tomorrow he will be 100. I want you to listen to what he has to say. We cannot harm you and we cannot force you to take your own life, but you need to understand the delicate balance our society has achieved.” Joe looked into her eyes and immediately knew what needed to be said. “Hello lady, I'm fucking old.” He smiled. “I have lived these last 59 years in total solitude. My joints ache, sometimes I pee dust, but mostly I pee blood.” She spoke, her voice cracking. “I'm sorry to hear that Joe.” Joe’s voice became more determined. “If I could do it all again I'd have killed myself between the ages of 13 and 17.” “Don't say that,” she said, “you're so close!” Joe continued. “There is no point in getting old. There’s no need to watch as your body decays. Everyone I might have cared about was donated long ago...” His thoughts turned to Elie. “You have to give up this foolish quest, Samantha.” He paused. “Chrint! It's time.” From a shadow emerged Chrint. In his hands was an embroidered pillow supporting a handgun. Joe picked up the gun and chambered it. Chrint leaned forward, looking directly into Joe’s eyes. “Fucking die already you old cunt.” As Joe lifted the revolver, the woman screamed, tears streaming down her face. “Don't do it Joe, we can both live to be 100! It doesn't have to-” Her sentence was cut short with the crack of the pistol. Chrint collapsed to the floor, blood spilling from his skull. The woman looked at Joe, gun still in hand. “I knew you wouldn't do it! Now we can-” A second shot erupted from the pistol. The woman fell back into the bed, part of her jaw embedded in the wall. Joe casually tossed the gun to the floor. “Fuck all of you, I'm living to be 200.