"PIZZAZZ" read the license plate of the car that ran me over and killed me. I noted this while I lay there bleeding out on the pavement. There came a muffled yelling, someone's voice, "Hey, get up! You're okay! Get up!" But their coaching me into ignoring that I was bleeding to death did not stop me from bleeding to death.
Later in the vague afterlife, I learned that PIZZAZZ belonged to one Dolores Delaney, Broadway superstar and Fosse dance extraordinaire. I did not know what Fosse dancing was until I died, but it's the kind of goofy dance number moves that involve doing silly-looking steps while waving your hands around. At least that's what it looked like to me, while I was dead.
"Why are you showing me this?" I asked the archangel who was, apparently, in charge of showing me life on Earth after I died.
"I dunno," they said with a shrug. "I'm bored."
What was even worse, maybe, was that Dolores created an exceptional production after her arrest and charge with vehicular manslaughter as part of a community service sentence. It was a new musical dedicated to me, distastefully called "Hey, Look Out For That Pedestrian!" And it was, to my chagrin, a smash hit.
"Shouldn't Dolores face some kind of karmic retribution for having killed me?" I asked the archangel.
"There's no such thing as karma," they said. "If anything, maybe your death was meant to propel Dolores to even greater fame. Maybe you should think about it that way."
And I wanted to argue that my life did, in fact, have purpose, except that I spent most of my mortal time watching YouTube videos. Dolores was a star who brought entertainment to millions of people, and I spent my time watching YouTube videos. In the end, being a victim of manslaughter whose death was turned into a musical was the only thing I really left behind.
"I don't even like musicals," I said.