Barnaby “Big Spender” Bartholomew was a Consuman of legendary proportions. He’d amassed a fortune amassing fortunes of useless trinkets, gadgets, and gizmos. His sprawling mansion was a testament to his insatiable appetite for consumption, each room overflowing with unopened boxes and unused appliances.
One day, as Barnaby was indulging in his daily ritual of online shopping, a peculiar figure appeared before him. It was Death, draped in a flowing black robe, holding a scythe that gleamed ominously in the dim light.
Barnaby, unfazed by the unexpected visitor, merely adjusted his designer sunglasses and flashed a toothy grin. “Well, well, well,” he quipped, “look who’s decided to grace me with their presence. To what do I owe this dubious honor?”
Death, in a voice as hollow as an empty wallet, replied, “Your time has come, Barnaby Bartholomew. It’s time to settle your final account.”
Barnaby chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Settle my account, you say? Well, surely we can negotiate a discount. After all, I’ve been a loyal customer of life for many years.”
Death raised a bony eyebrow. “A discount? You jest, mortal. Death is non-negotiable.”
Barnaby, undeterred, launched into a passionate sales pitch. He regaled Death with tales of his extravagant purchases, his impressive collection of limited-edition items, and the sheer volume of his online shopping carts. He even offered to throw in a few unused gift cards as a sweetener.
Death listened patiently, a bemused expression on his skeletal face. When Barnaby finally paused for breath, Death spoke.
“Barnaby Bartholomew,” he said, “your devotion to consumption is truly remarkable. But even the most avid shopper must eventually pay their dues.”
Barnaby, his smile faltering, realized that he had met his match. Death was not swayed by his usual tactics. But he had one last trick up his sleeve.
“Very well,” Barnaby conceded, “but before I depart this mortal coil, I have one final request. Allow me to take one last shopping spree, a grand finale to my Consuman legacy.”
Death, intrigued by this unusual proposition, agreed.
Barnaby, his spirits lifted, grabbed his platinum credit card and embarked on a whirlwind tour of the world’s most exclusive boutiques, gadget stores, and gourmet food markets. He purchased everything he had ever desired, from a solid gold toilet seat to a lifetime supply of caviar-infused toothpaste.
As the clock ticked down, Barnaby found himself in a state of ecstatic frenzy, his shopping cart overflowing with luxury goods. He had never felt so alive, so fulfilled.
But as he approached the checkout counter, a wave of nausea washed over him. He realized that he had reached the limit of his credit card, and his final purchase would not be possible.
Barnaby, his dreams of a grand finale shattered, slumped to the floor in despair. Death, who had been observing the spectacle with amusement, approached him.
“It seems, Barnaby Bartholomew,” Death said, “that even the most ardent Consuman must eventually face the limitations of their earthly existence.”
Barnaby, defeated and humbled, nodded in agreement. He had learned a valuable lesson that day: that true wealth lies not in material possessions, but in the experiences we share and the memories we create.
With a sigh, Barnaby handed his credit card to Death, a symbolic gesture of surrender. Death, in a rare act of mercy, decided to grant Barnaby one final wish.
“Barnaby Bartholomew,” Death said, “for your unwavering dedication to consumption, I will allow you to take one item with you to the afterlife. Choose wisely.”
Barnaby, after a moment of contemplation, made his decision. He picked up a small, worn-out teddy bear that he had cherished since childhood. It was the one possession that held true sentimental value, a reminder of a time before he became consumed by consumerism.
With a newfound sense of peace, Barnaby followed Death into the great unknown, his teddy bear clutched tightly in his arms. The Consuman’s final deal had been made, and it was a bargain that transcended the material world.
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