I used to work at the museum as the guy that told people not to touch
the mummies. It was normally easy because most people are respectful or
too stupid to realize that the mummies could be touched, but one old
woman came in every year on the same day and made my job tough. She wore
a shirt that said “#1 Mummy Toucher” and didn’t even look at the other
exhibits, even though we had some cool ones like King Arthur’s round
tablecloth and Kennedy’s novel about the Matrix. This woman
would hop right over the velvet “do not hop over” rope and make a
bee-line for the most touchable mummy. One year I was a step ahead of
her and dressed up as that mummy, so when she went to touch me I grabbed
her hand and said, “Don’t touch the mumm-ME!” and laughed and laughed.
She didn’t think it was very funny though and had a big heart attack and
died on the spot. I didn’t want to get in trouble so I threw her into
one of the empty mummy sarcophagi. I think she’s still there today.
Anyway, obviously I got promoted from that job to tour guide, so if
you’ll follow me, we’ll check out Kennedy’s novel that caused the
Wachowskis to kill him.
“…I snatched away
my hand and gave a cry. What I had touched was cold and, at the
same time, bony; and I remembered that his hands smelt of death…”
“I tell you I kissed her just like that, on her forehead…
and she did not draw back her forehead from my lips!
…I tore off my mask so as not to lose one of her
tears…and she did not run away!…And she did not die!…
She remained alive, weeping over me, with me.“