Olive You to Death

Bartholomew "Bart" Finch didn't aspire to martyrdom, nor did he crave a heroic last stand. He merely wished his final act hadn't involved a particularly tenacious olive pit during a particularly uninspired corporate luncheon. Yet, here he was, afterlife-adjacent, filling out Form AP-7b: "Cause of Departure – Mundane Mishap" for a celestial clerk who bore an unsettling resemblance to his old HR manager, Mildred.

"Finch, Bartholomew," Mildred droned, her halo flickering like a faulty fluorescent light. "Died: choking on an olive pit. Date of Departure: last Tuesday. Note: The pit was described as 'exceptionally obdurate'." She peered over her ethereal bifocals. "Really, Mr. Finch? An olive pit? We've seen more dramatic exits from a lukewarm bath."

Bart bristled. "It wasn't just *any* olive pit, Mildred. It was a defiant, calcified sentinel of despair! It fought me tooth and nail, or rather, uvula and trachea."

Mildred sighed, tapping a glowing quill against a shimmering ledger. "Our records indicate a 'lack of dramatic flair.' Your cosmic performance review is… subpar. No meteor shower, no heroic sacrifice saving a kitten from a runaway artisanal cheese cart, not even a decent fall down a decorative spiral staircase."

"I was *eating*," Bart argued, feeling more aggrieved in death than he ever did in life. "It's a common human activity!"

"Indeed," Mildred conceded, stamping his form with a resounding *thwack*. "And now you're a common post-human activity. Welcome to Sector 7: The Unspectacular Exits. Your support group meets Thursdays. Try not to choke on the celestial communion wafers."

Bart shuffled away, grumbling. He overheard a spirit lamenting their demise from a rogue tumble dryer sock, and another who'd simply "forgotten to breathe." His only solace was that, finally, he was amongst his own kind. Pity they were all dead.