After we have built successful careers both with each other and independently from each other, we will forget all about our pact that we made so long ago. Then, inevitably, comes the night of October 8, 2033. It’s a Saturday. Two days following your thirty-ninth birthday. Our series concluded three years prior, and we are both experiencing the success of our own individual careers, while still reaping the rewards of our time together. Do we live together? No. Hell no. But after so many years spent working so closely together, there is speculation that we might have some homosexual feelings for each other. We are having a great party for your birthday at my secluded estate in southeastern California. Amid the rumble of the guests, I stand up from the table that we share with our wives and closest friends, including Wes Anderson and Chloe Grace Moretz, whose career vaulted into even more rarefied air when she was cast in the role of Elyse. I tap a fork on my champagne glass (gosh, these forks sure are sharp. I nearly cut myself on the handle when I picked it up!) to gather the attention of all the guests and nonimportants in the room. I make the request for you to stand with me, since you are the guest of honor after all. I give a short speech about our success together and our friendship that has endured for so many years. Then, I jokingly recount the story of some twenty years earlier when I had vowed to kill you on your thirty-ninth birthday. Now, we’re much older now and quite a bit more sophisticated, so of course the entire audience laughs off the story, as do you. I’m merely reminiscing of a time before wealth, surely. But, then I make my grand reveal to the audience. I had been informed two weeks prior by your wife, Padra Kensingtonshire VI, that she had discovered you were having an affair. With whom, you may ask? Why, none other than Wes Anderson! You were in the middle of taking a swig of your drink, of course, and at hearing this shocking accusation, your drink slips out of your hand and spills all over your coat as the glass shatters on the floor. I have no problem with homosexuality, but infidelity doesn’t sit well with me. So, naturally, I agreed to help Padra take care of the issue. I drive the handle of my fork into your throat with an other worldly amount of force. You desperately feel around for something to fight back with, but it’s no use. The damage is done. You will bleed out on the floor. It’s quite a shame, really, but it had to be done. The crowd, shocked at first, now sits in a stunned silence. I explain to them that you were not truly Kyle. The real Kyle died all those years ago, when I vowed to kill you at the dawn or your thirty-ninth year. Shortly before I had made that vow, I had found out that you had been dead for some time and the Kyle who stood in front of me was actually a demon that had taken your form. It placed certain wards on your earthly body that prevented any harm coming to it for the next 20 years. This demon explained to me that she didn’t have much longer to live. She wanted to experience the feeling of true success in human form. She begged me to kill her after we had reached the pinnacle of our careers and her 20 years had come to an end. I reluctantly agreed, but she assured me that other than in that moment that she revealed herself, I would not even know that it wasn’t you. She had access to all your memories, and was essentially manipulating the strings on the marionette of not only your body, but your soul as well. I would get to spend the next twenty years living out dreams with my best friend. And then, when the clock finally struck midnight (or, 10:32, as that was the exact time that I performed the act) I would get to expel the demon from your hollow shell. So, I told the crowd, and most importantly, your wife, Padra, that we should not mourn your loss. Rather, we should celebrate your life. Because we had actually lost you a very long time ago.