Well, I lived a decent life, even if it was kinda short. I had a girlfriend, some friends. Became an aristocrat, got into a fancy academy. I worked hard, studied, and… suffered. I worked a shit-ton and suffered even more. I worked like a fucking dog, and suffered a hundred million times worse. Name one goddamn reason to call this life decent!

  What’s next? Death? Not my first rodeo… Never ended well. Guess I’ll reincarnate again. But as what this time? Let’s say I stay in this fantasy world. I’m used to being human, so I’m not signing up for anything else. If we’re talking about being reborn as another species, the stats are grim. If the minimum requirement is a brain, there’s a 99% chance I’ll be a fish. Wait, do fish actually have brains? Ugh... never mind. Let's just assume they do. A 1% shot at being a land-dweller. The odds of being human? Near zero. The odds of being a healthy, hot, rich dude with a big dick? Hahahaha. But if all you need is a nerve cluster, you’re 100% some bug. Even in my home world, even if I’m guaranteed homo sapiens, there’s still a solid chance I’d pop out in Africa, India, or russia. Thinking about it, I felt like that one sperm out of millions that made it.

  So, with these simple thoughts, plummeting off a cliff, I decided dying’s not really my thing. Gotta do something. First—buff my thinking speed. Adrenaline’s already got me wired, but a buff’s better. Done. So, here’s the deal: I’m falling from about fifty meters. Physics says I’m dropping with an acceleration of roughly 10 m/s2. That means in about three seconds, I’ll be a wet splat. Or not? My 65-kilo body will hit the ground at around 30 m/s, that’s 108 km/h. Impact force? 65 × 30 = 1950 N. What’s that mean? Fuck if I know. But I’ve got a sinking feeling this life’s nearing its endgame.

  Think, there’ve been cases of people surviving falls like this. There was that parachutist who didn’t splatter. What’d they do? How’d they pull it off?

  Well, for starters, they had a parachute.

  Thanks, Captain Obvious.

  You’re falling without one.

  No shit.

  Guess that’s the key detail.

  Other ideas?

  Bungee jumping.

  What, bungee jumping?

  Always wanted to try it…

  Well, at least something positive before I die. Other options?

  Booze. A drunk person’s basically immortal, immune to gravity.

  Oh… So we just need to time-travel back, chug some vodka, and hope that theory holds?

  Exactly.

  Fuck me! I’m about to print myself into the ground like the cheapest pizza. Alright, if I use my jacket as a parachute, how much will it slow me down?

  Zero point fuck-all meters per second.

  You sure you did the math?

  You know you’re talking to yourself, right? Do it yourself: zero times jack shit equals…

  Ass…

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  No, it equals…

  I get it, shut up. Gotta find other options.

  Try looking at the problem broadly.

  Broadly? I’m falling off a cliff. How the fuck do you look at that broadly?

  Dunno. It’s just what people say when you need a solution. Like: our life’s threatened by a big solid object. Eastern philosophy says all we need to do is dodge.

  God… This absurdity’s making my head spin.

  No, you just shat yourself from the height.

  Shut up! I need smart, logical, real ideas.

  Grow wings.

  Bitch…

  Condors, 15 kilos, have a three-meter wingspan, so for our 65 kilos, we’d need thirteen-meter wings.

  How the hell do you know that?

  No clue. Like someone opened Wikipedia and copy-pasted it into my brain.

  And who might that be?

  Oh, idea! Become lighter than air!

  Nah, too much hassle. Need something less abstract.

  Right, I read in some book that in situations like this, you should calm down and find a compromise.

  That bullshit about making a billion bucks in half an hour and growing a second dick without doing anything?

  Yup. Modern motivational-philosophical crap.

  Fine. Best idea so far.

  Thanks.

  Fuck off.

  Fine, I’ll do it myself. Dear Earth, my apologies, could you kindly step aside? Please. I must insist, as otherwise, your humble servant will be forced to prematurely leave this esteemed and undoubtedly prestigious club, membership in which is reserved for living gentlemen.

  Seems it’s not listening.

  FUCK!!! Get lost!!!

  Gotta say, that was pretty witty and insanely dumb at the same time, but somehow I’m not laughing.

  I tried.

  Ugh… Why’s everything always so shitty? FUCK!!! How do I survive? Think! HOW!? Run the numbers again. Calculate survival odds. Gotta plan the fall perfectly.

  So, rule one of falling off a cliff: don’t fall. Rule two…

  No! No! No! Rule one should be: “don’t talk about falling off a cliff.” Fuck… What am I even thinking? Does everyone get like this before death, or just me? How do I fall? On my feet? Hands?

  Head.

  Alright. Obviously feet. Straight? Bent?

  What other kinds of legs are there?

  Wet, square, carefree, nutty…

  I pick carefree.

  Cool. Gotta land on slightly bent carefree legs, leaning a bit to the side so they don’t carefree their way out my mouth. Main thing—protect vital organs… and all the other ones. Alright, get ready…

  STOP! I remember! I’ve seen something like this.

  Huh? Where?

  Doctor Who, season 9, episode 11.

  Really?

  Yup.

  And?

  He was falling too, trying to figure out how not to die.

  How’d he survive?

  Oh, he fell into water.

  Ahem… Excuse me, anyone else here with bipolar disorder? Is it normal for your other personality to be a FUCKING IDIOT?!

  Who the hell are you talking to? It’s just us…

  Not exactly. Or rather, not at all. Next to me, hurtling toward the merciless ground, was a lone hellhound. Seemed it didn’t give a shit about life, the universe, or anything, because instead of growing wings, it was trying to chomp my ear with its long, sharp teeth. Long and sharp… Get over here!…

  I didn’t even process the thought before my hands acted. In a split second, I knocked out the dog, ripped off its lower jaw with my twitchy technique, grabbed its back legs, and as my body passed the cliff pocket, I slammed the beast’s head into the outcrop. Its teeth sank deep into the stone, and I crashed into the wall at full speed. I continued my journey clutching the headless hellhound. For a moment, I slowed my fall. Maybe that’ll save me. Gotta stay conscious. Knew I should’ve leveled resilience.

  No matter how hard I try, this situation’s still fucking dire. But I won’t give up… I’ll fight to the end! I’ll keep battling gravity. Battling fate. Battling this shitty system! Know this, you bastards, I’ll survive! I’ll be the most stubborn survivor in this godforsaken world. I’ll get out. I’ll find you! And then…

  Bit off-topic, but it’s all I got. I’m no Peter Capaldi, but still… Always wanted to recite this Grimm brothers’ monologue. So, they say an emperor once asked a shepherd boy, “How many seconds in eternity?” And the boy replied, “There’s a mountain of pure diamond. It takes an hour to climb it. An hour to walk around it. Every hundred years, a little bird comes and sharpens its beak on it. When the bird wears down the whole mountain—that’s the first second of eternity.” Think that’s a shit-ton of time? I think it’s a shit-ton of stubborn…

  Splat!

  Blub blub… blub blub blub blub… blub blub… blub blub blub blub…

  [Author’s note: After a less-than-ideal landing, our hero reincarnated as a staphylococcus bacterium in a rather unpleasant place. Lacking a nervous system, he can’t express or form thoughts. All he can do is divide. Probably not the most thrilling read. Might be time to rethink the plot…]