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Marty coughed.

Once. Then again. Then, with theatrical commitment, one long, rattling cough that echoed off the hospital walls.

"Cover your mouth," his father said automatically.

"Yes, Father," Marty replied, pressing a hand to his lips. "How… wrong of me."

The doctor exhaled, weary. Everything was unfolding exactly as predicted. Charts confirmed it. Scans confirmed it. Fate, apparently, had signed off. He offered the practiced tone of comfort—assurances, condolences, the promise that they would make Marty’s remaining time as pleasant as possible.

"This is your fault," Marty said mildly.

The doctor winced. Then excused himself, muttering something about letting them "unpack this together," and fled the room.

"Thank you, Doctor," Marty called after him. "You tried your best. Obviously medical school didn’t try very hard with you."

"Marty," his father snapped, "don’t be rude."

"He can’t save my life," Marty said. "Or his marriage."

The room froze.

"Marty," his father said, startled. "You don’t know that."

Marty smiled and pointed. "Your ring’s loose. Means he’s lost weight. Means he’s not eating at home. Means his wife isn’t feeding him anymore. Probably feeding someone else. Someone hungrier."

Silence followed, thick and uncomfortable.

"Wow," someone muttered. "That kid is mean."

"And sexist," his father added weakly.

"That’s right," Marty said brightly. "I’m evil."

The doctor disappeared into the break room. His father rubbed his temples.

"I’ll be dead soon," Marty continued conversationally. "You won’t have to worry about me."

His father turned back, alarmed. "Marty—"

"I worry about your soul," his father said, grasping for something solid.

Marty laughed. "Souls aren’t real. Who told you that? The Bible? Or are you just a hillbilly?"

"This is a Christian family."

"Oh, which part do you like best?" Marty asked. "the part where God gives cancer to children as a fun little test?"

"Marty!"

"Why did God give me cancer?" he pressed.

God, apparently, worked in mysterious ways. God tested people. God challenged them.

Marty frowned. "Seems excessive for an eight-year-old. Maybe there is no God. Ever think about that?"

Something in his father’s face broke.

"There is something very wrong with you."

"I know," Marty shouted suddenly. "I have cancer! And I’m angry! I’ve been dealt a bum hand, so I’m slapping people on the bum and telling them exactly what I think!"

"The other kids aren’t like this," his father whispered.

"They just lie there and accept it," Marty said. "Not me. I’m going out like a firework. A firework in a petting zoo."

The phone rang.

His father answered.

It was Tina.

She was crying. She said she was locked in a room. She couldn’t see. She was tied to a chair.

Something was dripping onto the floor.

Oil.

"Marty," his father whispered, horrified. "What have you done?"

"Oh, Father," Marty said softly. "We’re just playing a game. I’m going to miss games when I’m dead."

There was a sound on the line—a sudden roar, a burst of light—

—and then nothing.

"That’s the firework," Marty said.

'What did you do?!" His father screamed.

Marty explained it calmly.

"When I met Dwayne The Rock Johnson," he said, "I wished to take my mum to Disneyland. He’s not very smart. I convinced him to tie her up. Covered her in olive oil."

He shrugged.

"Don’t worry. It was fast."

A pause.

"And furious."

───

"Detective," the commissioner said, rapping the doorframe. "We’ve got a serious problem."

The detective looked up, laughed once, harsh and tired. "Christ. You want a cigarette?"

"I don’t smoke."

"Why not?"

"Cancer."

That shut the room up.

The commissioner cleared his throat. "People all over the city are being tied up. It’s not random. It’s games. Sick ones. We think we know who’s behind it, but we can’t prove it."

"The kid," the detective said.

"Yes. And no one’s going to believe that."

The detective leaned back. "I believe it. You ever seen what kids can do? Candy cigarettes. No—diabetes. Still. I believe it."

"You think he’s working alone?"

"I don’t think anyone that clever ever is."

The commissioner gestured at the evidence board. Papers fluttered. A map tried to appear and failed. Photos spilled out instead—vacation shots, bad lighting, someone’s birthday.

"Those were for your birthday"

"Touching," the detective said.

Finally, the right document stuck.

A map of the city. Red string. Pins like wounds.

And then another page.

The title sat at the top in thick black ink:

THE EVIL MAKE-A-WISH FOUNDATION

"For every good thing," the detective said slowly, "there’s a bad version. Every time Make-A-Wish helps a good kid on the way out… this helps a bad one."

"That’s a myth," the commissioner snapped. "It was disproven."

"Maybe myths are getting tired of being ignored."

"I told you to drop this case."

"Well, it dropped me right back here."

The detective stared at the board, nodding to himself. "Connected all the dots. Thought I had—nope. That’s my connect-the-dots puzzle. Wrong one."

He pulled it away, revealing the truth beneath.

The room murmured.

"It’s real," someone whispered.

Even the doctor believed it.

The commissioner sighed. "Alright, Johnson. One shot."

"I’ll need more bullets than that."

"No guns. No shooting. You get five minutes with the kid and no funny business."

"Obviously."

"Nothing weird."

"Why would you say that, now you’ve invited weird."

The commissioner rubbed his face. "Just—don’t be weird. And stop breathing smoke on me. Use a window."

The detective nodded. "Five minutes. I’ll see what I can glean."

"If I hear anything else about this Evil Make-A-Wish—"

"Foundation."

"Whatever. You’re off."

"Off?"

"Off-off."

───

The boy coughed—deep, theatrical, practiced. The heart monitor answered with a polite, lonely beep.

"It’s nice to look out the window, Father. This isn’t my hospital room," the boy said brightly. "Am I about to meet Blake Lively?"

"No more celebrities," his father said. "Your wishes are finished."

"What a pity," the boy sighed. "I suppose you don’t want to make them come true anymore."

"I’ve made all of them come true, Marty."

"I wished to live."

His father didn't answer.

"So you lied to me," Marty said, nodding. "I also wished for an honest father, but apparently eight-year-olds don’t get what they want for Christmas."

His father swallowed. "Why do you hate me, Marty?"

"Hate you?" Marty laughed, then winced as the laugh turned into a cough. "Do you know how expensive my medical care is? This is America. Why don’t you have a better job?"

"I work at a petting zoo."

"And people don’t even like goats anymore."

"Should I come in?" a voice asked.

A detective stepped into the room, trench coat creased with fatigue, eyes sharp with curiosity.

"I’ve got five minutes," the detective said. "No funny business."

Marty grinned. "Officer… Blake Lively?"

The detective sighed. "Don’t be cheeky."

"I know," the detective said. "And I know what you did."

Marty tilted his head. "Do you?"

"Yes," the detective said. "Because I helped you."

He flipped a badge. It spun. Wrong insignia.

"The Evil Make-A-Wish Foundation," he said. "Founded by me."

Marty’s eyes widened—not in fear, but delight.

"So that’s where the fireworks came from."

"We only approach children when they’re dying," the detective continued. "You need to understand how empty life is before you can enjoy destroying it."

Marty nodded eagerly. "And children have the imagination for it."

"Exactly."

"But you’re forty-two," Marty said.

"I’m seven," the detective replied. "Evil ages you terribly."

Marty leaned forward. "So if I keep doing evil… I get to grow up?"

"Faster than anyone."

"Then I know what I want," Marty said. "I want to cancel everyone."

The detective handed him a device. Old. Black. Buttons instead of a screen.

"The most evil interface ever made."

Marty typed furiously. Click. Clack. Beep.

"Sent."

The detective smiled. "Thank you for the login."

Marty smiled wider. "Check your signal."

The detective looked down.

One bar.

Marty coughed. Harder this time.

"I activated Bluetooth," he said. "Logged into your hotspot. I’ve had Wi-Fi since you brought me into the station."

The heart monitor screamed.

"I didn’t post anything in 2007," the detective said weakly. "I'm seven."

"No," Marty whispered. "But your mother did."

Flatline.

The detective stared at the still body.

"A worthy adversary," he murmured.

Later, as congratulations were exchanged and promotions promised, someone noticed something odd.

Petting zoos. Burning. Everywhere.

The boy had been bluffing about nothing.

He had used his final wish to burn them all.

───────

watch IMPROVISED PLAY #25 | "The Evil Make-A-Wish Kid" | Shoot From The Hip :

The chamber rang with applause as Caesar turned from the tall window overlooking Rome.

"Hail, Caesar."

He startled slightly, then smiled as if waking from a pleasant dream. "Ah. It’s good to see you. Forgive me—I was… thinking. About life. And other such things."

Maximilian stepped closer, careful, deferential. "The Roman legions require your direction, Caesar. You command all our armies. All our capabilities."

"I am aware," Caesar said airily. "I am Caesar. Quite a large one, at that." He waved a hand. "Carry on with whatever it is you were doing."

"Julius—"

Caesar spun. "Caesar." His voice sharpened. "We may have shared a childhood, Maximilian, but you will respect my station as Emperor of Rome. Caesar. Not with little flourishes or gestures, not with whatever those scorpion tails you flick about are meant to be."

Maximilian raised his hands in surrender. "Very well. Caesar. You seem… distracted of late. You’ve missed council. You’ve missed the Senate. Something’s weighing on you."

Caesar hesitated. Then, plainly: "I’m in love."

Maximilian blinked. "I see. And who is she?"

"Juliet."

"A classic Roman name."

"She isn’t Roman."

Maximilian frowned. "One of the provinces?"

Caesar smiled thinly. "Wouldn’t you like to know."

"You haven’t been entangling yourself with women from Verona, have you?"

Silence.

"That’s the province," Maximilian sighed. "Caesar—remember Cleopatra."

"I do," Caesar said fondly. "It was… invigorating."

"It nearly tore the empire apart."

"If an emperor is not satisfied," Caesar replied, "what use is an empire at all?"

Maximilian exhaled. "Tell me about her."

Caesar’s expression softened. "She has auburn hair. Eyes like moonlight wrapped in starlight wrapped in the sun itself. She is kind—gentle, like those panda bears we recently acquired. Remarkable creatures. And her voice…" He paused. "She can whistle so high only birds can hear it. Which is fortunate, as I can become a bird."

"You cannot become a bird."

"I absolutely can."

Maximilian rubbed his temples. "Caesar, there are rumblings in the Senate. They believe you are losing your grip."

"Oh, pish."

"Yes," Maximilian said grimly. "Senator Pish is particularly aggrieved."

"Pish has no power! I am the emper—"

"He has allies."

"Do not speak over your emperor, Maximilian."

A knock echoed through the chamber. A trumpet sounded—far too dramatically.

"It is I," came a voice, "Emperor—ah—Senator Pish."

The doors creaked open.

"My liege," Pish said, bowing.

"Rise," Caesar replied coolly. "And mind your titles."

Pish smiled thinly. "Of course. I merely hear that the people are becoming… unsettled."

"I warned you," Maximilian murmured.

"They require leadership," Pish continued. "And if they do not receive it, another will emerge."

"Not you," Caesar snapped.

"Fine. Fine," Caesar said suddenly. "Enough." He turned sharply. "Maximilian, you will oversee public comfort and ensure that any rebellion is dealt with swiftly."

"Yes, my lord."

"And you, Pish," Caesar said, pointing, "will see that the Senate obeys my every whim."

Pish bowed. "Gladly."

He struck his head as he rose, muttering something incoherent.

"A Gaulish fashion," he explained weakly.

Caesar stared. "Are you wearing chainmail beneath your tunic?"

"One must protect oneself."

"…Right."

Caesar waved him away. "Leave us."

As Pish exited, Caesar turned back to Maximilian. "I have other plans this evening."

"With Juliet," Maximilian said flatly.

"My plans are not yours to question."

Maximilian hesitated. Then, carefully: "Do you place the empire above this… Veronan woman?"

Caesar’s eyes hardened. "Mind your tongue."

"My apologies," Maximilian said. "The Veronan woman."

"Better," Caesar replied. "Much better."

───

Juliet’s voice filled the house, climbing the walls and spilling through the open windows, bright and fearless. The notes leapt and turned, playful and bold, as though daring the gods themselves to listen.

Her mother paused in the doorway, arms folded, caught despite herself.

"Juliet," she said, when the song finally resolved. "How is it that you sing so beautifully?"

Juliet beamed. "I am working on my baritone."

Her mother frowned. "Your what?"

"My baritone," Juliet repeated earnestly. "Everyone talks about the high notes—the whistle, the one only birds can hear. But nobody knows I can also do—" She inhaled deeply and released a torrent of dramatic, thunderous singing that rattled the crockery.

Her mother held up a hand. "Enough. You’ve been… different lately. Distant. What is troubling you?"

Juliet shrugged, suddenly thoughtful. "I think I am French now."

Her mother sighed. "Sometimes you sing, and then the gods sing back. That is how it works."

Juliet tilted her head. "They sing back?"

"Yes," her mother said. "By giving you something you have been wanting for a very long time."

Juliet smiled faintly. "I found someone."

Her mother stiffened. "You already have everything. A home. A family. Love. You are always reaching too high. Remember Icarus."

"I found a beautiful man," Juliet said softly.

"Sì?"

"Sì. I call him C."

Her mother’s eyes narrowed. "C?"

"Yes. My little C—"

"Juliet," her mother interrupted sharply. "What does the C stand for?"

Juliet hesitated. "Seesaw."

A beat.

"…Caesar?" her mother said.

"Yes."

"Oh, ragù," her mother muttered.

Juliet rushed on. "Mother, you should see him. He’s enormous—broad shoulders, long hair, muscles like marble statues. And he wears this tight white tunic—"

"Enough," her mother snapped. "You cannot flirt with a man like this."

"Why not? He is the Emperor of Rome!"

"That is precisely why not."

"He is my love."

Her mother closed her eyes. "When did you meet Julius Caesar?"

Juliet’s voice softened. "After singing class. I was crossing beneath the Veronan Bridge when I heard someone singing. Just as beautifully as me."

Her mother opened one eye. "Caesar sings?"

"Like an angel," Juliet said dreamily.

Silence stretched between them.

"I worry for you," her mother said at last. "My little Juliet. My little calzone. You are still so young."

Juliet lifted her chin. "He’s only a little older."

"That does not comfort me."

"Mamma," Juliet said gently, "you always told me to follow my heart."

"Yes," her mother replied. "And I learned where that path can lead."

She sat, suddenly tired.

"Tell me about your father," Juliet said.

"It was another time," her mother said. "Rome was still a republic. I met him in Gaul."

"In France?" Juliet asked.

"Yes. That is why my accent wanders."

Her voice softened. "I loved him deeply. He died in the great war—against the British. I begged him not to go. Cold land. Miserable food."

"Mamma," Juliet said, taking her hand. "Maybe fate was cruel to you. But maybe it will be kinder to me."

Her mother studied her for a long moment.

"Powerful men are dangerous," she said quietly. "They make you feel protected. But power is what they love most."

Juliet smiled, fierce and certain. "Then I will prove you wrong."

Her mother stood and reached beneath the table. Steel whispered free of its sheath.

"Take this," she said, pressing the hilt into Juliet’s hands. "Your father’s gladius."

Juliet’s fingers closed around it. "Thank you."

The blade caught the light, and for a moment, it seemed to sing.

───

The chariot lurched forward, hooves striking stone in an uneven rhythm.

"Drive on! Truly—what are the odds? Julius Caesar, hiding in the back of my cab."

Caesar pulled his cloak tighter. "If you do not mind, I am attempting to remain inconspicuous."

"Of course," he said cheerfully. "Mighty hush."

He smiled. "You seem nervous."

"I am preparing," Ceasar said, "to make a proposal."

───

When at last they stood together, torchlight flickering, Caesar took her hands carefully, as though the moment itself might shatter.

"There is a tradition," he said, "from far across the sea. One who wishes to bind their life to another asks them to take their name."

He knelt.

"Will you become Juliet Caesar?"

She laughed, breathless. "It does sound right."

He bowed his head. "I bow to no one—but to you."

Years passed in a breath.

Rome burned brighter—and darker.

Blood stained marble floors. Political rivals vanished. Juliet ruled with precision, with appetite, with something feral beneath her elegance. Caesar watched her with awe—and fear.

One night, steel sang.

A man lay dying at their feet.

Juliet wiped the blade clean.

"My mother gave me this," she said calmly. "She warned me about men corrupted by power."

Caesar swallowed. "She was wise."

"So was she wrong?”"Juliet asked.

Before he could answer, there came a knock.

Maximilian entered, older now, wearied by years of loyalty. He stared at the body.

"This is madness," he said.

"You will address her as Empress," Caesar snapped.

Maximilian did—and warned them anyway. Gaul would rise. Rome would bleed. Juliet was becoming something unstoppable.

Caesar tried to mediate. Tried to protect. Tried to believe.

Outside, forces gathered.

Pish returned with legions at his back.

Inside, trust collapsed.

Steel rang in the corridors. Caesar faced his oldest friend beneath torchlight.

"If you are not a coward," Maximilian said, "fight me. Winner takes Rome."

Juliet smiled.

Maximilian stood amid corpses, crown heavy in his hands.

"We will restore the republic," he declared. "Give power back to the people."

A voice echoed behind him.

"Oh, you fool."

Juliet stepped forward, blood gleaming on her skin.

"I do not want democracy," she said. "I want blood."

When the dust settled, Rome had no emperor.

───────

watch IMPROVISED PLAY #28 | "Caesar and Juliet" | Shoot From The Hip :