He died of a bad credit score. All alone in his rented room. Looking out the window at gray skies and leaves turning brown; he died.

There was no cash in his wallet. Not a dime in his coffee cup. His refrigerator had pieces of American cheese in it and a slice of bologna. There was no bread to make a sandwich. A used bag of tea sat on the counter. The smell of weed came through the vents. His antennae on the radio was broken.

At one time, he was in good standing; a real part of the community. Had a nine to five job in a nine to five country of a nine to five world. Did his part to pay taxes and paid into social security. Then, one day, he said the hell with it. The old man quit everything. He no longer paid bills. Quit all financial responsibilities. Some said he went crazy. They said he lost his mind. He listened to Bach.

He died of a bad credit score. It killed him. Alone in his rented room they found him. Lying on the floor. A letter from a bank was next to him. It read, We can help you rebuild your credit. A cigarette burned in an ash tray.

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