It was on the abysmal day of January 3, 1999 that Dr. Emmer Hoofd met his demise. The morning of that fateful day began as any other Saturday – Emmer Hoofd awoke from a deep, fitful sleep at six-forty-three AM. He had been having nightmares for quite some time now, weird, symbolic ones that make psychoanalysts go wild. The most recent one centered around our dear doctor falling from a high precipice. Falling, that meant failure, right? A major struggle in life? Of course, Emmer Hoofd believed not in these silly dream interpretations.

He crawled, wearily, slowly, out of bed and into a pair of fuzzy, white slippers. His bedroom was perfectly nondescript, normal: the crème walls; the bed sheets green; a lamp perched atop a desk near the head of his bed, right beside the old-timey alarm clock, a pair of spectacles, and a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes.

A mug of coffee mixed with nothing more than a half-teaspoon of sugar soon found its way into his hand and down his throat. The mug was overly large and underly colourful, an ugly thing that did not quite fit with the rest of Emmer Hoofd’s life. When the mug was emptied of its delectable contents, it was washed and put away for another day, and Dr. Emmer Hoofd left his home for the hospital where a day of hypochondriac patients awaited him – or so he thought.

It was raining. Emmer Hoofd despised rain, because it was ugly and kept him inside the house – not that he would leave the house if it weren’t raining, it’s merely the fact that going outside was barred to him on days like these that irritated him so much. Meaning to take the train, Dr. Emmer Hoofd, under a somber black umbrella, marched to the train station (and to a funeral dirge, though this destination was unluckily unknown to him). He got the cuffs of his pants wet, so he cursed at the passersby.

The train station was packed on rainy days like these, and Dr. Emmer Hoofd cursed that too, making it loudly clear that he was perturbed. Someone asked him to think of the children, but those roaches were the last things he wanted to think about.

“This is it,” said Emmer Hoofd, throwing his hands into the air and unleashing a wet umbrella into the crowd. “Playing in the street is better for my mental health than this!”

So he did just that. The good doctor stormed out of der Bahnhof and marched right into the middle of the street, calling out to a pantheon of gods to strike him down in mercy.

Instead an omnibus veered around the corner and crashed into him.

Spiraling into whatever afterworld awaited was decidedly pleasant. A slight tingling sensation, like that of freefalling, teased Emmer Hoofd’s feet and head. It was more colourful than he had hoped – death, that is. But he was generally satisfied with the end. It could be worse, he admitted.

And then his corporeal body plopped right into a wicker chair, drooping mustache and all.

Eight heads sitting around a poker table turned toward him.

Dr. Emmer Hoofd ogled them back, his mouth drooped open, far too sillily for his particular standards.

“Another one’s dropped in, Data. How many times have I asked you to fix that rift in the afterlife? The rafters are getting full, and I think some of the bodies are starting to stink.”

“Yeah, let me just play my hand first, and I’ll take care of him.”

Dr. Emmer Hoofd was surprised, a bit taken aback, yes, but surprised for the most part. He grumbled that the hook Data pierced in his back itched a little, but it was only slightly more uncomfortable than life had been for him. Plus, he couldn’t complain about the company. Some of the bodies up there looked familiar…