He was writing a letter and suddenly his right arm began to itch. With a frown, he kept his pen down and began to scratch his right arm. It was too early, it wasn’t supposed to itch now, in fact, according to the man in the black hat it wasn’t supposed to itch at all.
He met in the man in the black hat, seven years ago, after the other men in white coats had told him he just had 23 days to live. Death, he did not want, not so soon anyway; and what did they know, the men in white coats, who were they to tell he could only live for 23 days more.
So he drove his ’49 white and blue Buick over to the yellow land where he would meet the man in the black hat, the man who would take him in, save his life and treat him with certain experimental drugs, drugs which the men in white coats were not authorized to use.
He drove back again and again, across the yellow landscape over to the yellow land, to meet the man with the black hat. Every passing year, he became thinner and thinner. Every passing year, he took new drugs, drugs which were not legal in his homeland. Every experimental drug he took, worked on him.
Yesterday, he had taken the injection. The man in the black hat had told him that this injection would gift him 3 more years. Prudence told him it was time he made his will. So today, he sat on his table, writing his will when suddenly his right arm began to itch. With a frown, he kept his pen down and began to scratch his right arm. He lifted his shirt sleeve to see what was going on.
His right arm had turned black. He sighed and got back to completing his will.
Loosely inspired by the