I found myself in a large, candlelit chamber, without doors, without windows, and I did not know how I got there.
There was a strange altar in the middle, and on it a naked woman, twitching and groaning; and before her a short man in a crimson robe, watchful and silent.
The woman was Kate Middleton; the man, Gilbert Gottfried, the late comedian.
A severe anxiety overwhelmed me as I approached the altar.
Kate Middleton was pale and frail. She seemed to be in excruciating pain.
— What’s wrong with her? I enquired.
— She’s dying from the AIDS virus, Gilbert Gottfried sullenly answered, without making eye contact.
There was a long pause.
I wanted to say something but words would not come out. All I could do was stare… and pray.
I grabbed her hand. It was sweaty and cold.
— She suffered enough! the funny man suddenly croaked.
Then, in a flash, he produced a knife and slit her throat.
Kate Middleton was gone, and Gilbert Gottfried’s hideous laugh echoed morbidly through the chamber.
