Death Doesn’t Care for Sex Appeal

Dozens of vehicles must have passed Jonathan Yates’ stalled car in the middle of the interstate, but none of them stopped. Instead of pulling over or calling an ambulance, they drove around him flashing impatient frowns and insensible eye rolls. They all knew of his type; he looked liked the kind who would have his daddy’s lawyer on speed dial should his saviors happen to rescue him the wrong way. And besides, being a Saturday evening, they all had places to be.

An exotic performer by night and a model by day, Jonathan was the cream of the crop when it came to attractiveness. He had a slim body, but was just masculine enough to keep him from appearing scrawny and weak. His healthy figure, chiseled jaw, and slicked back umber hair were, according to his clients, to die for. It was a shame that in his time of need, his moneymaking attributes were useless.

Blood trickled down Jonathan’s temple and over his eyes; with every breath a surge of glass dust filled his lungs. The fire bomb – unluckily striking Jonathan’s car as the bomb was randomly tossed off a bridge – engulfed the backseat in a red blaze, the inferno melting the polyester driver’s seat to Jonathan’s back.

The melted seat burned through Jonathan’s red striped shirt and pinned him down, his locked seat belt keeping him there. Glass shards drew crimson streams on his million-dollar face and bore holes in his strong arms and thigh. From the direction he struck the concrete divider, the front end of the car rested in his lap; he couldn’t feel his feet.

“Help! Somebody, please!” he pled, desperately trying to squirm into a better position. And yet he was still alone on the highway. He then turned to God, as if He would help an unfaithful sinner, “I promise to go to church; I’ll get a boring job someplace else, and get rid of this hot bod if it means getting out of this alive, God. Please?” He was met with silence. “How can you resist this face? Out of all your so-called children, I’ve got to be the hottest of them all. Are you really willing to risk losing the sexiest dude in the world?” Then: “You’re probably not even listening to me, because you’re lost in my eyes. Happens to all of us, so I don’t blame you.”

Suddenly, in what seemed to be an act of God, Himself, a yellow semi-truck hauling tons of produce teetered over the hill, rushing toward Jonathan. The semi driver was too caught up in an Adele chorus to ever notice the lone periwinkle Mustang GT in the road. He was about to finally hit the high note before plowing into the silicone bastard.

Pieces of Jonathan splattered the asphalt – a cheek on the center median, a sculpted torso off in the grass, a finger in the right lane. Some would call it a tragedy, but others would deem it Jonathan’s final gift to the wonderfully unattractive world. Now, passersby could at last witness true beauty in the form of bloody chunks, charred garments, and mangled hair blanketing the interstate.