As Tartmouth left the kitchen, he grabbed a beer from the fridge and headed for his recliner. His recliner, a microcosm of his life, sat in the living room. It sported bald spots and broken springs, suggestions of an attempt to support the dead weight of a fruitless existence. It faced Tartmouth’s escape; a television set. His remote, with most of the inscribed numbers worn smooth, lay an arms reach away on an end table. It was a symbol of an unresponsive life trying to find the channel of fulfillment.
A sign above the wide gate fronting the pathway read, "The Valley of Death." He wondered where he was, where the path led, and what the sign meant. He looked for a clue or another path but to no avail. “Have only one option,” he said, and entered through the gate to encounter the yawning path.
Tartmouth opened his eyes. His shirt, pants, and parts of his recliner were damp with perspiration, and his arms lay like heavy weights. His eyes searched the room for nothing in particular, but they fell on a piece of notebook paper. He picked it up.
The note read: “Tartmouth, you pushed my button one to many times.This dream is over.”