They Paid Me $500 an Hour to Make People Cry at Funerals.

**They Paid Me $500 an Hour to Make People Cry at Funerals.** I’ve always been a pretty sad bastard. I used to play the guitar in a folk band. When the lead singer would sing about a pretty girl, I’d make my guitar sound like crying. When he’d sing about war, I’d make my guitar sound like a sad puppy. I once had a text conversation with a girl. I had no chance with her. But I kept her texting all morning with these sad little stories I came up with. She finally ghosted me. My friends told me I was pathetic. They said that I needed a new hobby. They said that I should quit making guitars cry. I took their advice and got into yoga. It was good for my back. I was still a sad guy. But my sadness was controlled. I could cry on command. It just took a little effort. I’m a yoga instructor now. But I still like to make my back bend cry sometimes. I don’t get many opportunities to. And that’s okay. I’ve found a better way to make people cry. A better way to bend them into tears. I get my students crying during my classes. It’s not uncommon to see someone sobbing on their mat. But usually it’s for a good reason. They’re finally losing weight. Their posture is getting better. Their backs feel healthy for the first time in years. I used to think that only a sad guitar could make people cry. I was wrong. My back bends cry easier. And now I’ve found an even better way. One that always works. I’m not sure how I ended up here. I took an Uber from the yoga studio and gave the pin for my home address. This isn’t the pin for where I’m sitting right now. I’ll never give that pin again. I’m not even sure how I got here. I don’t know the building type. It says “Establishment”. I guess it’s some kind of office building. I’m sitting on a hard, plastic chair. It’s not comfortable. The wall behind me is grey. It has a white strip running along the top. There’s a door to my right. The door is closed. There are two white doors to my left. One of them has a sign on it. The sign says “Knock Only”. I’m in a room with a grey wall and a closed door. That’s it. Nothing else. No chair besides the one I’m sitting in. No table. No window. I’m not in a cell. There’s no metal bars. But I’m not free to leave. Something is going on here. I just don’t know what. An assistant came in and talked to me for about an hour. He wanted to know about my family. About my work. About my hobbies. He asked me if I was okay. I said that I was a little confused and scared. He said that everything would become clear in time. That I had made the right decision by coming here. A light bulb hung from the high, white ceiling. It cast a warm glow over everything. The air was clean and smelled of freshly fallen rain. I’m told that I’ll see a decision-maker soon. Maybe it’s a manager. Maybe it’s a director. I won’t know until they come out. Until then, I’m just sitting on this chair. Waiting. An hour passes and the assistant returns. I ask him if today is Sunday. He says that he doesn’t know. That he isn’t great at keeping track of the days. I ask him to explain what he meant when he said that everything would become clear in time. He smiles and says, “You really are thick aren’t you?” He then walked out the door without turning around. He didn’t answer my question. An hour passes again. I’m getting more anxious. I’ve been here for three hours now. I really need to know what’s going on. The assistant comes back in. He says, “You’ll find out now.” He walks out of the room and then back in again. He tells me to stand up and walk through the right-hand door. I open the door but there’s nothing but more corridor. I have to swing my body around just to see who was on the other side of the door. The assistant was standing just out of my sight. “Why can’t I see the decision-maker yet?” I ask him. “I just told you. You’ll find out now.” I walk down the corridor. It’s long. I have to slow my pace. I don’t want to bump into the wall. The corridor eventually ends. There’s a door at the end that I haven’t seen before. The door opens into a room with three doors. One on each side. One in front of me. The assistant says, “Go on.” I open the door in front of me. There’s a small desk in the room. Behind the desk sits an old woman. She has short white hair. Her blue eyes are beautiful, but they seem cold. She’s wearing a white lab coat. So is the assistant. The old lady is staring at me. She doesn’t seem to have any facial expressions. I ask her if she’s the decision-maker. “I am. And you are...?” I tell her my name. She nods as I talk. She seems interested in me. I’m not sure why. I ask her why I’m here. Why can’t I remember anything? Why can’t I leave? The decision-maker puts her hands on top of the desk and leans forward. She looks at me for a moment and then says, “We can’t let you leave. You’re too valuable to us.” The decision-maker talked to me for the next nine hours. I don’t know how she had that much energy. I was tired by the time she was halfway through explaining everything. “You see,” she said. “We’ve been monitoring you for a long time. Ever since you were a little boy.” She explained how they’d watched me cry during movies and sad stories. She told me that they monitored me as I got older and started to become more introverted. They monitored me as a grown man. They monitored me as a yoga instructor. “Why?” I asked. “Because,” she said. “Your body is unique. Your spine is special. You’ve never had any major injuries. You’ve never done any heavy lifting. Your back is as healthy as they come. And that means your bends are as healthy as they come.” I asked her what she meant. She told me to be patient. “We’ve monitored you for years. And we’ve figured out why your body is the way that it is.” She explained that whenever I was sad as a little boy, she monitored my reactions. She monitored my back. Whenever I cried as an adult, she monitored that too. “Your spine reacts to emotional stimuli. We’ve figured out why. We know exactly how to recreate those stimuli.” She said that they’d monitored my yoga classes. They’d watched me make my students cry during happy moments. They’d monitored my relationships. They’d monitored my hobbies. They’d figured out how to recreate the stimuli that made my spine as healthy as it was. They knew exactly what to do to make my bends healthy. “You see,” she said. “We know exactly why you’re a sad bastard. And we know exactly how to recreate that sadness in other people.” She smiled. I didn’t smile back. “What do you mean?” She said that they’d been monitoring funerals. They knew that people cry naturally at those. But not everyone attends a funeral. They needed a way to make people cry more often. They needed a way to recreate that sadness in more people. “Your spine bends in a specific way whenever you’re sad,” she said. “And we know exactly how to make other spines bend that way.” I asked her what she was talking about. “We can mimic the way your spine bends when it’s healthy. And we can put that spine in other bodies.” She talked to me about surgery. She told me that they could take my healthy spine and put it in someone else’s back. She told me that they could keep me here and keep making my spine healthy whenever they wanted. “I know it sounds crazy,” she said. “But trust me. It works.” I asked her why they wanted to put my healthy spine in other people. “Because,” she said. “Other spines aren’t as healthy as yours. Putting yours in them will make them healthier. And healthier spines live longer.” I asked her if that was all they wanted. She said that it wasn’t. “Your spine can do more than just bend,” she said. “It can twist. And it can rotate.” She explained that they could make my spine twist and rotate in different ways. Ways that no other spine could. “When we mimic your spine in other bodies,” she said. “We can make those bodies do things that other bodies can’t.” I asked her what she meant. She told me that they could make a man run faster than a cheetah. She told me that they could make a woman jump higher than a flea. “Or,” she said. “We can make a body cry whenever we want.” She smiled again. I asked her what she meant. “With your spine,” she said. “We can make other bodies cry during happy moments. During funerals. Whenever we want.” She told me that they could put my healthy spine in someone and make them cry during a wedding. They could put it in someone else and make them cry during a party. “Or,” she said. “We could put it in a corpse. And make the corpse cry during a funeral.”

They Paid Me $500 an Hour to Make People Cry at Funerals.

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