The following three stories were inspired by prompts in which people on Reddit gave me a random setting/weapon to create a satirical death scene. Hope you guys have as much fun reading them as I did writing them! Lol. Let me know what you think!

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Setting: movie set in front of a green screen on the 20th story of a building

Weapon of choice: a toaster containing a cold grilled cheese sandwich

Everything was going great on set. It was finally time to film the emotional climax of an indie drama about grief and gluten. The green screen shimmered behind the actor like a portal to nowhere, cameras rolled, and crew members whispered excitedly into headsets. They were 20 stories up, rehearsing on the top floor of a downtown building, the skyline painted behind them in dull morning haze.

The scene began.

Without a word, Marvin strode over to the toaster, pulled a grilled cheese sandwich from its slot, and took a bite.

Then froze.

He glared at the sandwich like it had just committed a hate crime. “Who the fuck broke the toaster?” he shouted, eyes bulging. “Who. The FUCK. Broke the toaster?”

Everyone on set stiffened. A boom mic dipped, then wobbled back up like it was terrified.

The director stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Marvin, it’s—it’s not broken. Nothing’s plugged in during rehearsal.”

“I bit into a cold grilled cheese! Cold! What am I, a fucking animal?” Marvin chucked the sandwich across the room, nearly assaulting a round faced woman who immediately pretended to be engrossed in her clipboard. “Do you expect me to act under these conditions? Do you even KNOW who I am?!”

“Marvin, please,” the director tried. “It’s just practice. Everything’s off until we’re ready to shoot. You weren’t supposed to actually eat it—”

But Marvin was already on the floor, crawling under the kitchen set like an angry mechanic. “This is sabotage,” he muttered, yanking cords and slapping outlets. “ You sick bastards! Someone rigged this. You think I wouldn’t notice?”

The crew stood back, rubbing their temples, sipping coffee, or quietly placing bets. “Let him do his thing,” someone mumbled. “It’s pointless to stop him.”

SZZZKTTTT. A jolt. A flash. A scream.

Sparks exploded from the outlet. Marvin jerked backward, arms flailing. In one spectacular moment, he launched through the window of the fake kitchen. It shattered abruptly. Thousands of tiny glass shards rained down on the crew members. Glitter from the depths of hell. People screamed and dove for cover as the actor flew out the 20th-story window like a red-faced comet.

Down he went, until SPLAT.

People glanced at one another skittishly. The round faced woman vomited into her purse.

The director, as if giving a standing ovation, slowly clapped his hands together. “Alrighty, folks, Who wants to replace Marvin?”

——————

Setting: in a pillow for

Weapon of choice: a plastic spork

School was out for the summer, and Lizzie and Chloe were determined to make the most of it. It was 3 AM on a Saturday, and they were sprawled in a pillow fort, belting out Britney Spears songs like they were on a world tour.

“Hit me baby one more time!” Chloe screeched, holding a plastic spork like a microphone as she threw her head back dramatically. The sheer volume of her voice was almost enough to shatter the windows. Lizzie winced, hands clamped over her ears as she recoiled backward into the wall of their fortress.

Time seemed to slow down. The spork slipped from Chloe’s hand and shot straight into her open mouth. Lizzie stared, wide-eyed, as it lodged deep in her friend’s throat right as the fluffy fort walls collapsed.

Panic surged through her as she scrambled to dig through the mess of blankets and pillows that now trapped them both.

“Oh God, oh God!” She screamed, furiously tossing pillows aside like a mad woman. Chloe’s choking, gargling sounds made her blood run cold. She didn’t know whether to cry or throw up. Every blanket felt like a dead end. The more she flailed, the more trapped they both became.

Then, everything stopped. The wriggling beneath the pile came to an eerie halt.

A bolt of adrenaline shot through Lizzie. She clawed at the last layers of fabric and uncovered Chloe, whose eyes were wide open and skin turning a ghastly purple. With shaking hands, Lizzie reached into her friend’s mouth and pulled out the spork. She stared at it, dumbfounded.

“Noooooo!” she wailed, pulling Chloe’s limp body into her arms. She rocked back and forth, snot and tears streaming down her face.

Then, a faint gurgling sound broke through the sobs. Lizzie froze, heart pounding wildly. She leaned in.

Chloe’s eyes fluttered open. She was alive, but hanging on by a precious thread

Lizzie bent closer, ear inches from her lips. “What is it?” she whispered.

Chloe, in a voice that could barely be heard, rasped, “Your pillows… smell… like shit.”

And then, she died.

Lizzie blinked rapidly, mouth agape as she stared up at the ceiling. “I knew I should have changed the pillowcases.”

——————

Setting: produce aisle in a grocery store

Weapon of choice: a toddlers emotional support toy

“Nana! Nana—NAAAA!” shrieked Baby Jack, beating his slobbery teething toy against the side of the grocery cart like an angry leprechaun.

I pressed my fingers to my temples, cheeks burning with embarrassment, and gave a tight-lipped smile to the shoppers nearby. “Babysitting,” I muttered. “He, uh… really loves bananas.”

No one laughed. One woman actually clutched her purse tighter.

I pushed the cart forward, praying the produce section would swallow us whole. Maybe I could get us to the restroom and scream into the hand dryer for a minute.

“Nana! NANA!” Jack howled again—and then, with the strength of a vengeful god, launched his teething toy across the store like a weaponized boomerang.

“Jack!” I hissed. “You’re embarrassing me!”

But it was too late. A gasp—then a shriek—cut through the air. I spun around just in time to witness it: an elderly woman, arms full of discount steak, suspended in midair like a Looney Tunes character right before gravity kicks in.

Down she went, cracking her head on the sharp corner of a Hamburger Helper shelf. Her groceries flew everywhere—ribeyes, ground chuck, a lonely pack of hot dogs. And there on the floor, like the murder weapon in a toddler crime drama, was Jack’s teething toy.

As the woman convulsed on the tile of Aisle Seven, a red-faced man began shouting, “Who threw this toy?! She slipped on this toy! Who’s responsible for this?!”

Jack chose that exact moment to clap.

I didn’t say a word. Just grabbed him out of the cart like a baby napper and ran, leaving the groceries – and definitely my dignity – behind.

We peeled out of the parking lot just as the wailing of sirens pierced the air.

From the back seat, Jack clapped and sang, “Old lady go BOOM!”

I stared ahead, dead-eyed.

“Fuck my life. I really need a new job.”