"There's no Johnnie Cochran to get you off, you..."

You definited could dream up some sort of "Tales of the Crypt" or "Twilight Zone" type ending to this, though I would have to believe that even if Terri doesn't continue to deny Michael the gift of death for the rest of his life, the longer she remains alive for now the more people will realize how long she has been court-ordered starved in her hospice bed, and was not as frail as portrayed by Michael and his supporters before the tube was removed.

"Hi Michael, nice to see you. How are my parents? How about my old friends? Hey, I'm getting really hungry...can I catch a bite of that cinnamon bun?

"Anyway, Michael, I'm been talking to God lately, and he thinks I've got a good life down here: Great parents, loving relations, devoted friends, a caring husb...whooooaaaa, those talking points need some work, huh? Anyway, I've decided to stick around, but that means somebody's gotta take my place. (Turns arounds, tosses him something.) Here's some sunscreen, you asshole."

(lightning bolt)

George Felos was so intent on reading the newspaper article about himself and his case, he had opened the front door to Michael Schaivo's house and was halfway down the hall before he realized that the door had not been locked. Or, indeed, closed.

"Michael?"

Felos, feeling uncertain for the first time in his oh-so-certain life, walked towards Michael's bedroom door, and carefully pushed it open.

For a second, he thought he was hallucinating, or perhaps he was indeed seeing "auras" or "souls" or whatever he had written in that silly book to excuse his peculiar drive to eliminate the innocent and vulnerable... but then he took one more step in, and his eyes were drawn upward to the ceiling.

They looked like multicolored balloons, tiny fat translucent sacs dangling just below the ceiling. If Felos squinted, he could see the hundreds of tiny hooks that had been inserted into the ceiling to hold each one. And each balloon had a string, a thin plastic string... or rather that technological wonder of the modern age, a food tube. And if Felos squinted, he could see that from each sac, whether red or yellow or veggie-green or meat-brown or starch-white, dripped a small amount of whatever pureed or liquified foodstuff the sac contained, down the tube, and to the...

Well, not 'to the', thought Felos, who knew more than most the value of using the right words at the right times... Not '-to- the', more like '-into- the'...

...into the enormous, bloated, filled to bursting, filled beyond bursting torso of the late and lamented Mr. Schaivo. Fluids flowed from his mouth and nose in streams; his skin stretched and ruptured; and yet each of the thousand food tubes remained securely planted in his sprawled, distended body.

Felos, somehow, kept a hold of his sanity long enough to begin backing away, thinking of phone calls and ambulances, though all of those were too late, but a press conference perhaps, a solemn vow to find whoever had done this, a single tear...

"Psst."

Felos turned, looked, and his sanity was rent in twain and gone forever.

"Hungry?"

Felos opened his mouth to scream, but the first food tube jammed itself down his throat and began to dribble a liquified version of the best forty-clove garlic chicken anyone could ever taste.

You know, the main gist of the article is wrong: I've already seen it stated by a German I know online that you would not see this happening in Germany. I guess they know it didn't turn out well in the end last time.

Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin

"Michael, I told you to get this over with 15 years ago, how would you like to live this way??, remind the uncompassionate about the golden rule"