It was unfortunate that General Hobbs liked liquor so much when on leave and that he didn’t brush his teeth regularly.

His gruff countenance was still as leathery as the skin on his face, but as he lay there, white hairs defiantly clinging to the hospital white pillowcase, his blue veins visibly contrasted the pallor his skin had taken on. His family had been called, but only his oldest son and his closest lieutenant flanked his bedside.

He’d only had a toothache. He took acetominophen and went to sleep. He woke up vomiting and his stomach ached, not 6 hours later. Being a staunchy old brute, he decided to wait out this odd stomach bug, let it run its course.

Unfortunately, he began to vomit up blood. It took him several minutes to calm the heaves long enough to get to the phone. It took several more for the ambulance to reroute past the stopped train on the tracks.

It was all these unfortunate events that killed him, tied together by fate and time; not the glorious end he’d imagined.