The Posthumous Doctrine
Book of Boris — Peace Beyond Fire Arc
If they dig these words up after I’m gone, let them choke on the laugh. I never bowed. I never begged. I squared up with Fate and threw hands with Death.
Don’t read these like sorrow. Read them like brass knuckles on paper. Proof I didn’t walk quiet— I walked loud enough to echo past silence.
This isn’t a funeral hymn. This is graffiti scripture. If my body drops, the doctrine doesn’t. The laugh still wheezes. The fist still swings. The pimp hand still readies.
Because I never wanted crowns, never wanted parades, never wanted riches that rot on the tongue.
I only wanted peace. A white apartment. A love seat. A dog with his freedom. Two cats with their kingdom. And silence no one could take.
So if the grave tried to stop me short, it damn well knew— it had to earn it.
—and somewhere in the distance, you hear El Risitas wheezing, gasping, breathless with laughter. Because even Death and Fate weren’t safe from the punchline.
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