stanley googolo, aged seventy, had decided that, having been given nine to 12 months to live, he would finally live life his way. no more kowtowing to god, country, family. instead it would be stanley, stanley, stanley. if stanley wanted to skip church and visit a strip club, he would. if stanley wanted to take a black marker and draw a goofy mustache on the bust of a long dead politician, he would-assuming there were no surveillance cameras, witnesses or even slightest chance of getting caught. if stanley wanted to kick his feet up at a family gathering and let everyone else do the cooking, handle getting the drinks, and letting the dog in and out, he would. if he felt like it, would do so wearing his little chickpea pajamas and fur lined banana slippers. yes. the whole damn world had better get ready for its new role as stanley's footstool. but first, before tasting freedom, he needed to take his bitter half to her weekly chiropractic adjustment, and then he'd need to take his daughter's car to the mechanic. but once he cleared out the cellar, he'd be free to live his way.
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