Flashback.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall: Where will I be in 30 yall?”
The mirror did not reply nor show that it was anything but an ordinary mirror.
“Mirror: alias ‘yall’ to ‘years’.”
The mirror stirred. “I’m not a magic mirror, Jark.”
“I know.”
“I can’t tell the future, Jark.”
“I know.”
Jark regarded the mirror. The mirror regarded Jark.
“I’m not a retard,” said Jark, feelings bruised.
“I know,” said the mirror.
“I have a Ph. D.”
“I know.”
“I just can’t find it.”
“You hung me up over your Ph. D.”
“Really?” “Yes. Go ahead and push me up and see.”
Jark tried.
“Jark, you superglued me to the wall. Stop trying.”
Jark regarded the mirror. The mirror regarded Jark.
“I’m not a retard,” Jark repeated.
“Jark, you’re not going to live for thirty years.”
“I thought you weren’t magic.”
“Jark, I’m not. I’m an asteroid.”
“What?”
“Jark, now I’m a meteorite.”
“What?”
The meteorite hit Jark at thirty miles per hour; it broke both his legs.